Papa November

After not being able to breathe through my nose for roughly five years I decided it was probably time to check into the possibility that I had allergies. I got an allergy test the other day to determine exactly what it was that was giving me a headache and causing my sinus cavity to swell shut. The test consists of 60 known allergens being pricked into the skin of the forearms. If you are allergic to any of them it forms a little raised bump. I was a little nervous about how it was going so I peaked over at the other patients arm. He had a few little red bumps. I looked down at my own. I had several golf ball sized lumps with a beautiful red rash connecting all of the other dots. I was allergic to 38 of the 60 allergens. I could tell the doctor was impressed even though he tried to hide it. After the doctor left the room I turned to the other guy and screamed “Loser!” Nobody beats my histamine response, nobody!

It turns out that cow hair is my kryptonite. That was the biggest, itchiest bump. Luckily I have structured my life in such a way as to avoid almost any contact with cows. Unfortunately I’m also allergic to cedar. That doesn’t work out so well for a cedar trader. It’s not like I’m out in a cedar mill chopping wood, but I handle samples and my car is always coated in cedar dust. To be fair, I am also allergic to oak, alder, pine, fir, most weeds found in the Pacific Northwest, most grasses in the known world, a wide assortment of molds (good thing it is so hot and dry in Washington or that could have been trouble), feathers, cats (I told you I wasn’t faking it Michelle!), dust mites (are some people’s bodies totally cool with dust mites?), and people that don’t wash their hands after using the bathroom. That last one wasn’t actually tested for, but I would love to have a medical excuse not to shake hands with certain people. I spent a good part of a day at my last job trying to avoid a departing coworker who was walking around saying his goodbyes. He was a known bathroom offender and even his retirement couldn’t make me shake those hands.

When I lived in Houston I developed a rash that wouldn’t go away. The doctor told me that I was allergic to Texas and should leave the state. That sounded plausible to me since it is obvious that mankind should not live in the mess of burning heat, humidity, and petrochemical exhaust that is Houston. It is also possible that the doctor didn’t like me and wanted me to leave town since it turned out that it wasn’t an allergic reaction at all but…scabies! You probably know it better by its street name sarcoptes scabiei var. hominis. There is nothing like a parasitic infection to take you down a notch. Of course, when you live in the kind of neighborhood where bums try to stab you with scissors and you are routinely chased by mangy wild dogs there aren’t many notches left to go. Even without the scabies it’s pretty clear you won’t be invited to the mayors house for tea anytime soon. My scabies treatment consisted of rubbing a foul smelling pesticide all over my body and standing naked in the closet until it dried (the closet part wasn’t on the label but I thought my roommate Rob might object to me de-scabieing in the kitchen).

My options for treating my allergies seem to be taking over the counter decongestants, getting a shot every week for the next 3 years (this is known as option “living hell”) , or living in a bubble inside of my house which has been sealed in a larger bubble and relocated to the desert. I think I’ll just stick to breathing through my mouth. Though, I have to admit that the bubble house option is kind of appealing. I would never have to worry about the bathroom-handed again. An even better solution would be to enclose the hygiene impaired in their own bubbles with “unclean” stenciled on the sides. They would just roll around like giant filthy hamsters; their contaminated hands unable to touch doorknobs or my stapler again. And when they retire you could just wave goodbye and roll them out the door.