The Humbling Hives and Handicap Cart

My lifelong quest to try new things and adventures has yielded some great memories and stories however my latest – Quinoa would seem to place nominally low on the list. I boiled the little faux caviar beads and ate a small bowl for lunch with cottage cheese and sun- dried tomatoes. I decided that chasing them around for a bite proved to be a mouth marathon that I don't want to compete in again and—it's a good thing— because hours later I am covered in hives.
Quinoa!  Well Hell's Bell's – should have known. I am allergic to several grains — Whole wheat, granola, some combo's of niacin, malt. No Colt 45's for me. Wth? Anyway, I took two Benadryl and scratched myself most of the morning.
Mid afternoon I'm on my way to CVS to get more Benadryl. I'm just cruising along and talking to my daughter on the phone when my throat started closing up.
"Gotta let  you go sweetie." I said, trying not to alarm her. I needed to save my last few breaths to grunt out "Food Allergy!" at an unwitting CVS employee in the consultation line.
The startled pharmacist replied, "Get to hospital now."
Well, have I ever told you guys that I'm cheaper than dirt? Yup, my throat is closing and my heart is  pounding — but da'-yumm can I save a buck or two here?
I call my  Doc while driving to ER. Same forced (don't know how many breaths) I have left convo "Food allergy, hives, throat closing – Can I come by and get a shot?"
"Nope, go to hospital or urgent care, might have to trach you for asphyxiation." they tell me.
I pulled into Urgent Care, I was in the back pretty quick. A few minutes later, a steroid shot in the hip and my throat opens immediately. That's disturbing in itself. But thank God I can breathe and I'm on the road to recovery.
I didn't call to tell Don about the episode until I left. I didn't want to disturb him, he was on the way to a friends house to pick up a farm table she gave me. But —  I did have the text ready for the doc to hit send if I started flopping like a fish in his office.
Next morning —The alarm went off and I jumped off bed..uh oh...no legs. I could barely move and have an 8:30 a.m. quote to give. I figured coffee, the rest on the drive and an Ibuprofen would have me moving in no time.
I'm about halfway to the clients door when my left leg gave totally out.  "Improvise Renae." I told myself.
I pulled out the cell phone – faked receiving a call (talk and all) and performed an award winning mock acting job of searching for a signal with hand in the air. This gave me a few extra seconds between step dragging across the yard.
When I finished the bid, I called Urgent Care. "Hey, I had a shot yesterday and today I can't walk." They called in a pain killer that sounded romantic to Publix. I'm in to alternative medicine, no scripts for me unless absolutely necessary—but he tells me I will be able to move again and then I can get to my regular physician.
The 20 steps to the front door of Publix was an obstacle/endurance course that required zig zag jaunts to objects for stability and rest. i.e.  garbage cans, bike racks and vehicle rear veiw mirrors. My version of a slow mo Harlem shuffle.
I got to the entrance and there was this motorized contraption with a basket basking in the sunlight of the foyer. I waited for customers to file by while I tried to read the operating instructions on it's panel. I gingerly touched the levers. Oh hell, first time for everything. I climbed aboard.
I cruise through the store in the handicap cart avoiding free standing displays, Banana's and pyramidal mounds of oranges and apples. I kept my  head down and my eyes averted.  Everyone is looking at me, why am I getting so much attention? I wondered.
Then it dawned on me that I am half the age of most people that drive carts.  And then it dawned on me that I can't say that anymore because they would have to be a centenarian to be twice my age now.
"What happened to you?" pharmacy assistant asked.
"Who knows...allergy one day.. can't walk the next." I replied
"Where'd you get the shot?" she asked
"In the hip." I answered
"Did they rub it out?" she asked
"Nope" I replied.
The busy pharmacist comes over and hands me a print out of high dose Prednisone side effects
Naturally under rare, he has highlighted Steroid-Induced Osteoporosis. It could be worse, another side effect was Avascular Necrosis aka bone death. When I got back into the handicap cart, I bumped the reverse handle....again.  I red faced beeped myself backwards and to the closest register.
The manager (my age) comes to my aid. "Can I help you out with these ma'am?" he asked nicely.
"No thank you..SIR..." Admittedly a bit catty, I replied.
"No, I insist." He continues.
"Ok..let's make a deal. You can help me if YOU drive the cart back in." I told him.
He laughs and agrees. We have a nice little talk in the period of time that the .003 mph handicap cart moved to the car. True to his word, he commandeered the cart when I threw my bags into the seat.
I smiled as the handicap cart disappeared into the automatic doors.
An unexpected emotion surged through me, I put my head on the wheel of the car and shed a few tears of humbleness. Pride is really not an admirable trait.  We robs others of the joy that they receive by helping us.
I love to help others but the tide turned that day and I was on the receiving end. I hid the happy sounding pain killers under the seat of my car, put the car in reverse and started backing out.
I had a momentary start..as I recalled the back up beeper on the handicap cart.  Aww hell Rome wasn't built in a day.

It's Gettin' Coyote Ugly Up in the Mt. Pleasant 'Burbs | Charlestongrit.com | Bold. Smart. Local. Now. | Charleston, SC

It's Gettin' Coyote Ugly Up in the Mt. Pleasant 'Burbs | Charlestongrit.com | Bold. Smart. Local. Now. | Charleston, SC

Coyote Wiley vs Curious George

This blog was done..albeit a few skim overs and ready to submit on Friday morning. My eyes were tired slits when  I got up and walked away from the computer Thursday night without saving it.
I jiggled the mouse the next morning. Oh no! Windows closed down my computer to install ~Important~ updates. Blog is gone. I just got up and left the computer. It pretty much summed up the week I was trying to close out.
As for the blog... In the words of Donna Summer...I don't think that I can take it 'cause it took so long to bake it / And I'll never have that recipe again, oh, no.
But...I will try.
I knew that I had overbooked myself last week. It was going to be a miracle — Moses proportion, to get done what was on my plate this week. As it usually does if I have a big day planned, my internal problem solving alarm clock rang early. Two consecutive mornings at 3 a.m. exactly. Uh oh...this is NOT going to be good. My reasoning skills among others evaporate with lack of sleep.
I closed my eyes and tried to go back to sleep while my brain mentally planned the course of the day out.  I glared at the clock, it's 4 a.m and Don is faring much better than me, obvious by his nasal baritone.
4:58 -4:59- 5:00 a.m.... I watch the minutes tick off on the bedside table and cut the alarm off seconds before it would have sounded.
Minutes later I am at the kitchen sink trying to figure out the sequence of putting my percolator (which i have had for ten years) together. I glanced up and out of the window and noticed a shadow pacing the pond.  The quacking little Aflac ducks were swimming to the silhouette on the bank across the pond as fast as they could.
As stated in the Miley Cyrus/Duck story last week, the domesticated aviary community beside my pond is castrated, docile and oblivious to fear. To the ducks, dogs are friends who usually accompany their owners bringing buckets of cracked corn, bags of bread and as we have witnessed.. mom's dinner out of the pockets of Tween boys.
Only, this morning....there are no owners bearing gifts and the dog is a coyote.
The ducks were within 20 feet of the bank when I realized that I must intervene. I glanced down..pink Curious George pajama's. Oh hell,  no time to change.
I flew out of the patio door in as much blind naiveté as the ducks. I waved my arms furiously while shouting to the coyote as I headed toward it. Great, now the ducks are coming to me.  I glanced back at my house, realizing that there is as much distance between me and the coyote and me and the back door... and to boot — I am now standing between a hungry coyote and it's breakfast.
The coyote is much bigger than he looked from my window and damn healthy looking too.  He is not pacing anymore or backing down for that matter.
I cannot believe that I am outside in my pajama's staring down a coyote. Don is in bed, hell so is the neighborhood.
I tried to remember National Geographic channels advice on encountering wildlife? The hair stood up on my arms.
Do I continue the stare down? Make myself appear larger? Lay down and wet myself?  I forget.
The coyote lowers it's head and gives me a good look over as if questioning whether he could take me. For once I am glad I am still toting around the extra five Christmas pounds.
He gave me this steely eyed stare and then sauntered off into the wood line. Daylight edged over the trees and a neighbor across the pond waves a thumbs up at me. I feel a little guilty because I really don't think I ~wanted~ to save the duck —maybe I just didn't want to see it die in front of me. I mean this is really what happens behind the scenes in the brush, at dawn, at dusk and while we sleep anyway isn't it?
Don and I talked about the intervention over coffee. We both agreed that nature would and has indeed taken care of itself without us for a long time. In the normal course of things, maybe one duck would die... but the next one would know the difference between a coyote and a dog and wouldn't go near the bank when one came up. True, but...these poor ducks are nature neutered. It may have been easier to close the blinds if I had not watched them rely on the hands of the community to carve out an existence.
I told a friend later about the morning's wildlife adventure.
"I don't remember coyotes, bears and aardvarks in the coastal peninsula when we were growing up." I told her.
She doubled over. When she could talk, she told me "We don't have Aardvarks..we have Armadillo's."
"Ok...those too."                                                                                          

Duck Duck Goose Miley Cyrus = .... Anyone? Anyone? | Charlestongrit.com | Bold. Smart. Local. Now. | Charleston, SC

Duck Duck Goose Miley Cyrus = .... Anyone? Anyone? | Charlestongrit.com | Bold. Smart. Local. Now. | Charleston, SC

Miley Cyrus Don't Break My Heart, My Twerky Jerky Heart

Ok, so what do Miley Cyrus and ducks have in common? After observing people versus my pond this week, I conclude "AFLAC-ing  lot"
I have a large pond just feet from my patio. What should be a relaxing time watching nature and wildlife has turned into a man-made fiasco right in front of my eyes.
It started about 6 weeks ago. A white duck that looks exactly like the Aflac duck has landed into a gag of Canada geese and adapted an identity crisis. He has a particular favorite pack of seven that he hangs with. They respect him, they love him and they let him guide them (seriously) all over that pond during the day.
But, when night falls they fly to their sleeping quarters and guess who stays in the pond by himself?
Nature knows itself. If it quacks like a duck and acts like a duck..you know the rest. But NO!, let's not let nature work it out the way it has since creation. In come the saviors, that's right us...humans. The duck can't possibly live on it's own could it? Let's rent a duck for a friend!  So now I get to witness a duck release program.
That's right, a little Aflack duck is dropped off to be his friend. Someone to play with during the day and the evenings when the geese fly away. Something just doesn't feel right about it.
But, Mr. Aflac seems to love his new little white duck. They swim side by side all over the pond and he stopped his incessant honking for the geese to come back. For three days they brought the little duck to the pond. Mr. Aflac was sooooo happy!
And then today. No release. He quacked and quacked and walked to the area where they would bring his friend and then sat ever so quietly and with his head tucked. He didn’t' resume his call for the geese, my first time to witness depressed duck behavior! Don't get me wrong, I am sure the big hearted people who released the duck had good intentions.
The snowball effect is evident in the behavior of the geese and breakdown of the eco system of the pond. I watch the flock being fed pounds of food every day, each thinking they are solely keeping them alive. I have personally seen 4-5 quart sized buckets of cracked corn fed to them every day by one sweet neighbor, the next comes with her empty ice cream quart container and feeds them unknowing they have just eaten and yet another bucket in the afternoon and all of this is in addition to numerous bags of old bread.
You can hardly see the pond water for the muck because what they would naturally eat turns to algae. This flock of geese has crapped enough to put a hole in the ozone layer over my house.
First there were 7 geese. Last week there were over 50. Flyovers have left us grumbling as we get into our cars in the morning. Goose poop is no joke.  Driveways are littered with excrement and feathers. Flocks of black birds have descended to eat the leftovers and caw incessantly. And let’s don’t forget, it is a pond. People fish , they lose their line and tackle. I have seen two geese with lures attached to their webbing.
I pulled my blinds and headed to the computer with my coffee. I can only bear to watch the geese in the morning now when they glide across the new blue horizon and touch down in the pond. Everything beyond that point is orchestrated.
I wiggled my mouse to wake up my computer. Miley Cyrus was all over the headlines.  After hours of reviews and remarks, I fell prey to this headline. Miley shocks the world with her twerking performance on VMA.  It took ten minutes for me to get the nerve to do a Google search on twerking. Afterwards I silently prayed that my computer would never be confiscated and it found on my search drive.
I took a walk with Snowy and realized I couldn't look up at the clear blue skies to enjoy the morning for avoiding the geese poop on the ground. We created the problem ourselves,  so should we put on a shocked face when the source fed in excess creates poop?  Immediately Miley Cyrus popped into my mind. Miley Cyrus, what went wrong here. Let's go back a few years. 2006 to be exact. Hannah Montanna.
No, let's go back a little farther and show our innate ability to actually breed the illness. Billy Ray Cyrus...Achy Breaky Heart. A mullet to remember.  ~Don't break my heart my achy breaky heart~ Lord, I still cringe when I hear the song and every man I know that had a mullet is trying to forget about it.
We opened our wallets and drove that ridiculous song to damn near an anthem in the US. We made a rich man out of Billy Ray Cyrus from Flatwoods, Kentucky. I have absolutely nothing against wealth, but I like to think I know the difference between a fad and talent.
But darnit, I did it again. When my granddaughters were little, I bought them Miley Cyrus clothes, pens, pocket books, accessories and bookbags. I have twinges of guilt about that today.
Now I stick with classic character gifts, i.e. My LIttle Kitty, Spiderman. Their true worth doesn't come from what others think about them, the cheers of the crowd, clothes, make up, money. And…. you don't get that nasty taste in your mouth when you open a closet to the leftover lunchboxes and junk from the Brittany, Lindsay and Miley era.
My poor duck is on skid row. Because we thought it was pretty, we fed it and we told it we would provide love and then we took it away. The Canada geese may not fly away this winter. Why should they. Maybe we could open our garages to keep them warm as well as feed them.  Hmmm...I see similarities here.
Excess,  Billy Ray Cyrus cancelled a last minute interview with Piers Morgan to defend Miley Cyrus. I could understand that,  whew that’s a hard act for a daddy to follow. Or maybe there is a duet in the wings.... Don't twerk my heart, my twerky jerky heart.

Crib Sheets: It's Back To School... Super '70s Style | Charlestongrit.com | Bold. Smart. Local. Now. | Charleston, SC

Crib Sheets: It's Back To School... Super '70s Style | Charlestongrit.com | Bold. Smart. Local. Now. | Charleston, SC

Back to School 70's Style

Back to school. What can I blog about the annual pilgrimage? Coming up with zilch all last week. I have been so long removed from those days, that the well was dry.
Enter...Music.  I was browsing through Spotify looking for new stuff, realizing a few minutes in that this would be comparable to a whale picking out one fish for dinner in a sea of swarming krill.
I landed on the vast, but recognizable category of the 70's. For the next hour, I sang every word to every song.  Ahhh.. the 70's, that hangover decade following the 60's Hippie peace and love, sleep in and smoke out era.
It's all well and good that we were a decade behind because country girls didn't make very good hippies.
First, not enough people knew what it was to be a hippie in our little town, so you couldn't really rebel because no one knew what you were doing anyway.
Second, There were only two channels that came in through the ~antenna~ at my house, one for the news and the other for Gunsmoke or Hee Haw.  Happy Rain was the closest thing to a hippie around there.
Oh, we gave it a shot.  We colored peace signs on our book covers and wore bell bottoms, hip huggers and halter tops to the dismay of the church ladies.
We thought we were ~Far Out~ and knew it all, then a stray would move to town from Californi or somewhere off and show us something that we were missing. Maybe recite some Poe.
I started thinking about how stress free school clothes shopping was for our parents. The guys usually got two new pair of Levi's, which they scrubbed up as soon as they could to get the new blue out, a new pair of sneaks, no need for shirts, they wore their coveted concert shirts until they were threadbare.
Us girls were happy with some new clogs, earrings and belts to accessorize the embroidered jeans we had been working on all summer. If our jeans were beyond repair, we made blue jean pocketbooks out of them. Basically, the style was to not look like you were wearing anything new.
Maxi's, mini's, embroidered and painted jeans, chevron shirts and dresses, floppy hats, bell bottoms, hip huggers, sizzler dresses (oh my) and clogs rounded out the apparel.
We didn't need to re-hash our summer vacations or camps with friends because our summers were always spent together. I am going to guess that our generation coined the phrase ~Hanging Out~
And hang out we did...In parks, by the river banks, floating the Edisto, fishing in gator ponds until it got to hot to fish and then peeling off clothes and swimming when we could see the gator on the other side of pond.
We drowned ourselves in baby oil and iodine and lay on shiny aluminum blankets to tan...eeek!  For thrills we'd get hold of some Boone's Farm Strawberry Wine and play cow pattie bingo or cruise the town limit signs.
I crank the volume on the Spotify 70's radio station, Seals & Croft singing ~Summer Breeze~
No, I don't think I would go so far as to call the 70's ~The Good Ole Days~  but judging from the pinched faces of the parents I have seen in retail stores with grumpy kids and long list in hand. They weren't all that bad.