What Makes Me Laugh

My mother had three cures for all of my childhood illnesses. I either opened up for antibiotics, downed pepto bismol, or rubbed Vick’s vaporub (otherwise known as mentholatum ointment) on my chest if I was sick. If those didn’t work, the threat of washing massive amounts of dishes seemed to do the trick.

At the first sign of a sore throat, she’d make me gargle with salt water, then wrangle a wool sock around my neck, clasping it with a heavy safety pin, to keep the Vick’s from drying out. I can’t say that I was a devotee of these methods as a child, but it’s funny, I abide by them now, and they do seem to help.

Doug’s family’s version of the wool-sock-around-the-neck trick includes a cold wet sock underneath a larger wool sock, and no Vick’s VapoRub. I thought this was shocking until I read in my gym’s newsletter that naturopaths recommend you wear cold wet wool socks to bed if you have a sore throat. I mean, who comes up with these ideas? I can just hear some guy saying, “Yeah, I passed out drunk and my socks were all wet and I woke up and my sore throat was gone! It must have been the socks.”

When I came back from Vegas, I caught a bad cold, which quickly turned into a nagging, hacking cough. When I shared my frustration with eau de VapoRub on facebook, a few people wrote in about the magic of garlic (chop up raw garlic and take 3-5 times a day for 5 days), and ginger infusions. My cousin has often recommended a boiled lemon ginger reduction for colds. Then, there are other people who promise complete recovery with vitamins and herbs. Echinacea, goldenseal, D3, tinctures, elderberry, Vitamin C, Zinc, you name it, it’s a cure for someone.

I’ve come to believe that all of our cures have at least some element of the placebo effect. We need something, anything, even if it’s swallowing the most unbelievable gross tasting tincture, to believe that we’re receiving the medicine we need. But I could be wrong, so share your dead-fire-sure cure for the common cold in the comments section. Maybe I’ll try it next time.

As for my cold/cough? I ended up at the doctor’s office this week wondering why my cough wouldn’t disappear, and she sent me home with the real cure for my upper respiratory tract infection: antibiotics and codeine. My mom was right once again.

"Auntie" Janelle with Luke

My friend Crystal delivered a healthy baby boy this weekend. I’m very proud to be an honorary “auntie” to Luke and happy for Crystal and Ryan, who survived a not-so-easy delivery. 

Ryan sent news that the baby was on its way on Saturday morning with this text message:

“At the hospital. 5 cm and counting.”

This prompted the following conversation between me and Doug:

Me: “Crystal’s at the hospital. Ryan says she is 5 cm. Do you know what that means?”

Doug: “Hmm. Not sure.”

We agreed that delivering a baby can take a really long time, so I was trying to get some sense of what 5 centimeters meant in relation to when we should leave our house and travel to the hospital.

I sent a text message back to Ryan:

“Ok! Great news. When should we come over?”

Ryan’s text: “Not sure.”

Another, “not sure”.  Now, I was stuck with the metric system as an indicator, and I probably couldn’t come close to accurately measuring out 5 centimeters with two fingers. I agree that the metric system is far superior to our inches and feet, but it’s still unfamiliar territory. Mostly it just sounded small to me, especially since the one metaphor I’m familiar with about delivery is something about pushing a watermelon out of something the size of a lemon. 

Just as I was about to get out the ruler and check, Ryan sent another text:

“This evening would be better. Maybe even tonight or in the morning. We are looking at 5 hours minimum. I will keep you posted.”

So, I did some laundry, then cleaned the house, and then heard another beep from my phone. Ryan again.

“Gettin close. 8-9 cm at last check.”

Ok, now I did take out my ruler. Huh. It still didn’t look like a baby would fit through that small of a space, but I guessed it was good progress.

Just as we had hunkered down on the couch to watch the Celtics play for the evening, I got another text from Ryan:

“Still no baby but fully dialated. Should be soon. Tell Doug to drink a beer for me. I need one.”

I imagine that a lot of fathers wish hospitals kept refrigerators full of beer in the delivery room. Doug wanted to be helpful, so we cracked one open in honor of Ryan and watched the rest of the game.

I was worried that there was no celebratory text on my phone the next morning, so I called the hospital and they said Crystal delivered a baby boy early that morning. Ryan had been too exhausted to send news (and I didn’t blame him). We went over to visit the beautiful boy, and a bonus of his birth is that I’m now reacquainted with the metric system.  

The happy family

Thanks to Ken for commenting on my Fline Swu post and clearing up the mystery about the mispronunciation of Swine Flu on SNL in 1976:

” SNL veteran Jane Curtain was doing the SNL news satire, and she briefly bobbled the “Swine Flu Shot” story, saying ‘F-Swine Flu’… or Fline Swu!

A good and funny recovery.”

Dan Aykroyd catches Chevy Chase "innoculating" Dyan Cannon for swine flu

In trying to find the original skit about “fline swu” on SNL in 1975-76 I did find an episode with Dyan Cannon, Chevy Chase, and Dan Aykroyd that uses swine flu in the plot. It aired on May 15, 1976 at the end of the first season of Saturday Night Live. Thanks to the website, SNL Transcripts for publishing a transcript.

In this skit, Dyan plays a wife with her lover, Chevy Chase, caught in an amorous act on her couch  by Dan Aykroyd, the husband. Chevy Chase uses his fake job as a swine flu innoculator as an excuse for the embrace. I’ve highlighted the relevant parts about swine flu in this partial transcript of  the episode:  

Husband: Hey, wait, wait, wait, please! I just want a simple explanation here, okay? 

Lover: Sure thing, yes. 

Husband: Uh, now, let’s just all relax here, because this is – 

Wife: Darling, he’s a medical student! 

Lover: — entirely an innocent mistake, I am a medical student. And medical school being expensive, as it is, I had to, uh.. as it were, I got to go wash cars, deliver lamps, anything to pay for it. 

Husband: Uh-huh, uh-huh.. 

Lover: And, of course, you know the president has called for a massive, uh.. innoculation, because of the swine flu, uh, all over the country, and I had to volunteer and I’m supposed to innoculate the entire neighborhood. In fact, I don’t have much time, I’d better get out there and innoculate. 

Husband: Uh, yeah, yeah. Swine flu, but, uh – 

Wife: Yes, darling, and there’s a lot of it going around. 

Lover: Oh, boy.. 

Husband: Well, uh, I don’t understand how you ended up top of my wife, that’s all. I mean, uh.. 

Lover: Well, I have been working so hard at this, I must have passed out, I’m really sorry – 

Wife: That’s right, honey! We were innoculating when you came in! 

Lover: That is true. That is the truth, that is the honest truth. 

Husband: Okay, I see. I’m sorry I got a little upset. I mean, the swine flu thing is important, I guess. It’s just got us all a little crazy! 

[ they all laugh together at the silliness of their situation ] 

Lover: Well, yeah, you’re a very understanding man, and I thank you, and I guess I’d better be on my way. [ shakes husband's hand ] Thank you very much. Goodbye, Angie. [ kisses her on the lips, then turns to leave ] 

Husband: [ catching on ] Wait a minute! What’s this business with Angie! How do you know her name! 

Lover: Let me see those eyes.. [ grabs Husband's eyes ] 

Husband: [ alarmed ] What’s wrong with my eyes? 

Lover: Let me see those eyes. 

Wife: [ also grabs her husband's eyes ] Oh, my God, darling! 

Lover: You’re a little dilated here. 

Wife: Oh, darling! 

Lover: I think you’d better sit down here. 

[ Husband is seated on the couch ] 

Wife: The eyes underneath, they don’t look so good. Maybe I should get some hot water? 

Husband: [ frantic ] What’s wrong? What’s wrong?! 

Lover: You’re perspiring a little bit, and I think your pulse is just a ltitle bit high. You might just have a touch of the swine flu. 

Husband: The swine flu?! I’ve got it?! 

Lover: You might have it. 

Husband: Swine flu? I’ve got it? 

Lover: He could use an innoculation. 

Wife: An innoculation! 

Lover: Now, look, I’ve got plenty of vaccine in my truck. You wait here, and I’ll get it. We’ll take care of this right away. 

Husband: [ excited ] The swine flu! I’ve got it! 

Lover: You’ll be alright, you just wait here, I’ll get that vaccine [ exits house ] 

Husband: I’m one of the first waves to get it! 

Wife: I think it’s gonna be alright. 

Husband: I’ve been thinking about it all day, I’ve been so worried it all day, you know, thinking about it. But I guess I was lucky to walk in here, with the presidential innoculator in my own home! That’s luck!That’s real luck! 

Wife: Yes.. yes. 

[ sound of a car driving away ] 

Husband: So, uh.. he’ll just give me a shot, and, uh.. [ a beat ] I don’t think he’s coming back.. somehow. 

Wife: Who? 

Husband: The innoculator! 

Wife: The what? 

Husband: The medical student, with the car wash, who-who-who delivers lamps! Who-who, uh.. 

Wife: What lamp? We’ve had that lamp for twelve years. Come on, darling – supper is ready. [ exits into kitchen ] 

Husband: [ momentarily confused ] Supper! Yeah. I should eat something. I’ve got an appetite, that’s a good sign! Maybe, maybe I don’t have it! Maybe I don’t got that old swine! [ happy; relieved ] Yeah! [ stands triumphantly ]

I spent several hours on the Internet tonight trying to track down a video clip or transcript of a Saturday Night Live skit about Fline Swu (or Swine Flu) from 1975. Doug swears that’s where the nickname for Swine Flu  came from and I’m dying to see the original skit. I tried searching every which way and it doesn’t seem to exist online or maybe at all. Sometimes Google doesn’t have all the answers.

In the process, however, I found this gem: a public service announcement from the 1970’s about the Swine Flu. The second part, where the man kisses everyone in the family and his mother’s friend dies as a result is funny because the background narrator is speaking as if she’s selling a household cleaning product instead of a vaccine for a virus. Slate Magazine explained this week that if you did get the vaccine in 1976 and didn’t die from an allergic reaction to it, you probably do have some immunity to this virus, but keep washing your hands anyway.

Cocoa the rescuer

All has been forgiven. At 3 a.m. on Sunday Cocoa woke me up again, but this time it was because I really wasn’t breathing. This is almost too bizarre to be true after writing my last post, but I developed a severe allergic reaction to a prescription this weekend and when Cocoa woke me up I was in the midst of anaphylactic shock. I know the signs and symptoms of an allergy attack because I’m severely allergic to peanuts. It causes an immediate sense of dread and anxiety, then itching, nausea and hives, and then cardiovascular collapse (if it’s not treated right away). In short it’s not recommended, and I’m not sure I would have been so lucky if Cocoa hadn’t woken me up when she did. 

Afterwards, during a trip to the emergency room, where they pack you full of adrenalin, steroids, and Benadryl to treat the shock, Doug got to watch me shake, sweat, turn red as a beet, turn white as a the sheet, and finally stumble out of there after four hours feeling like I had had a good beating. 

Turns out that wasn’t the last of it.  The medicine I took (one pill) will stay in the system for 250 hours so I had to go back for another round of steroids last night. Doug patiently watched my pulse and blood pressure rise and fall and I told him about the meditation I learned from the book, “Eat, Pray, Love” where you try to smile in your liver. It worked. I brought my heart rate down by 10 points doing it.

Anyway, I think I’m on the mend even if it will be a tough week and the only thing that I can think of to laugh about right now is western medicine. If it doesn’t cure you, it will surely kill you. Also that to a person, my family members all said, “Now you have something to write about on your blog!” 

Do you know what a Neti Pot is? It might be Stuff White People Like and therefore foreign to anyone who wouldn’t shell out $30 for a ceramic pot that you can fill with salt water and use to pour through your nose. It’s for the yoga-obsessed hippie in all of us, and though it makes me feel better I am plenty prepared to laugh at myself for using one. Although when you have a sinus infection, laughing isn’t something you do very often. 

One experience I never imagined having in my life is having someone else’s finger completely inside my nostril. You know that saying, “You can pick your friends. You can pick your nose, but you can’t pick your friend’s nose?” Well, it needs a little updating now. You can pick your friends. You can pick your massage therapist, and she can pick your nose for you. 

Tonight, I had my seventh Rolfing session and areas of my head were massaged that I’m still not sure should be massaged by someone other than myself. Not only did my nose get a good poking, but my gums were rubbed and my pallet “stretched” all in the name of fixing my aching back.

I signed up for 10 sessions of Rolfing in January not really knowing what “Rolfing” was, except that it had done wonders for the bodies of two friends of mine. They didn’t warn me about the nose massage, but that probably wouldn’t have deterred me. I’m into alternative medicine. I’ve tried chiropractic, acupuncture, naturopathic, homeopathic, Reiki, and now “nose massage.” 

When my friends ask me what Rolfing is, I describe it this way, “It’s a form of deep tissue massage that’s like a cross between chiropractic and massage therapy. From what I’ve heard Rolfing is a little like acupressure. It hurts like hell sometimes, and it has significantly improved my posture and eased the pain in my back and legs.” Now that description is not even close to the official definition, but it’s the way I describe what I’ve been through to the average person about being “Rolfed.”

Why is it called Rolfing? Unfortunately, Rolf was the last name of the therapy’s founder — Ida Rolf. It’s too bad her last name wasn’t something a little less likely to make you think of vomiting, but nonetheless, I am grateful to her for inventing a therapy that makes my body feel so good. 

What I don’t tell people in casual conversations, and what my friends failed to tell me before I started, is that Rolfing will really stretch your boundaries. For starters, in order to evaluate your body’s structural “challenges” your therapist may need to watch you walk around in your underwear for five minutes. Now, unless you strip for a living, it’s a little disconcerting to have a complete stranger stare at your half-naked body while you walk.  I’m telling you, only the possibility of back pain relief could make me do it.

What’s odd about Rolfing (among other things) is that in order to get cured of pain you have to experience some pain. When I described it as a “form of deep tissue massage” I meant “deep” and not in the places you are normally massaged. Imagine someone grabbing a fistful of neck skin like it’s the head of a chicken about ready to be cut off and then massaging what’s underneath. And in session 7, prepare to experience the rubber-gloved mouth massage, and finger-condomed (K-Y jellied) nose massage.  My nose job almost didn’t happen because my nostrils are fairly small and even a lubricated pinky finger looked unlikely to fit. But after a bit of work on her part, it did, and my sinuses are still clear.

My therapist revealed that a big point of discussion among Rolfing therapists is what kind of lubricant to use during the nose job. This is all well and good, but if I had one piece of advice to give you when you choose a Rolfing therapist, it wouldn’t be to ask what lubricant will be used during the nose job. It would be to ask what her ring size is!

Each year about October, the light starts to fade in Montana and darkness drifts into our mornings and evenings like an unwelcome snake. Frankly, it makes me a little crazy to go to work and come home in the dark. By the time Christmas rolls around I’m eating enough sugar to make me susceptible to adult-onset diabetes and am crying at Hallmark commercials.  This syndrome unfortunately has a name and it’s called SAD — which stands for Seasonal Affective Disorder. It makes you depressed for about six months out of the year.

Now,I’m not sure whether the acronym SAD happened by accident, or was a deliberate play on words by some witty psychiatrist, but it’s not helpful. If you had a learning disability, would you want to have to tell your teacher, “I’m sorry Mrs. Smith, but I have STUPID”? Or if you were impotent would you want your doctor to prescribe Viagra for FLACCID? No, I don’t think so. It’s bad enough to be depressed, but to have to tell everyone, “I’ve got SAD,” is both humiliating and bad grammar.