Superhero!

It’s been almost month since my last post, which left me dressed in virginal white and still scratching. While that whole skin thing has yet to be resolved (stay tuned) I thought I’d share a side effect of my 9-month itch distraction. As my 17 loyal readers know, October finds us in Key West, for a wonderful weeklong party called Fantasy Fest. This year was no exception and we were excited about the theme "Superheroes, Villians and Beyond". Except we almost didn’t make it. I have always been the chief trip coordinator and navigator, and I’ve been off my game. I blame the contact dermatitis for my lack of focus and attention to detail. (OK, no reminders about Belgium either, thank you very much.) We reserved the accommodations last January. I shopped flights until July, when I finally pulled the trigger on cheap flights departing out of Midway…that was my first mistake. For the play-by-play I’m turning my blog over to occasional guest contributor, Dan.

To say Paula has been off her game is, well, analogies escape me. Paula has been nuts. Buggy. Scratching in her sleep. Mildly crazy. Able to turn any conversation into a discussion of her skin. “Hey, our neighbors bought a new toaster because they got a bagel stuck in theirs and it almost started on fire!” “Speaking of being on fire, have you seen the backs of my legs? And DON’T get me started about the small of my back.” You get the idea. 

Fantasy Fest 2013—and the strong steroids promised by her specialist--offered an oasis from the itching, and a chance for us to cut loose with good friends and relax. And relaxed is just how the trip started.

A 3:30 am cab ride to the bus stop came off without a hitch. We should have 20 minutes before the bus was ready to leave for Midway in Chicago—but wait. The driver was closing the doors as we pulled up. Exasperated, he opened them to stow our multiple large suitcases. Making light of the situation, I asked, since we were leaving early, what time we’d make it to Midway. To quote Don Henley, he looked at me like cows at a passing train and spat “This bus doesn’t go to Midway. It hasn’t for two years.” Stunned, I pointed out that the schedule we’d printed the week before showed that yes indeed it went to Midway, at which point he waved me off and said to talk to his boss.

I’ll leave most details out, but the previous two weeks at work for me had included two meetings with an industrial psychologist, a meeting with another co-worker that didn’t go well, and two clustering sessions for our management employees. This on top of the aforementioned skin issue. And did I mention I was really horny? “Which reminds me how my skin resembles the skin of the Great Horny Toad of Southwestern Arizona. My God, if that burns as much as mine…” You get the idea. And you know this skin thing started in February? Nuff said.

All of this came to a head at a bus stop at 3:45am on the way to the one week a year I Live For. I asked for a number to call a supervisor. The driver supplied one. The first three seconds of the call went well, until I asked about the discrepancy between the printed schedule and the reality on the ground. “Well we haven’t updated our website in two years,” was his reply (Wisconsin Coach Lines). Like the Eighth Air Force in WWII, the F-bombs began to rain. At the end of my one sided tirade, we were herded onto the bus with a promise of a shuttle from O’Hare to Midway. And that’s when Ms. Itchy looked at the airline boarding passes. Yeah, our 9:30 boarding time had been moved up to 7:20…

We arrived at O’Hare just before 6. Our Hobbit of a driver told us the shuttle would be there in about 15 minutes. It was a time for action. Eddie Murphy’s Reggie Hammond character in “48 Hours” had a line that, cleaned up, goes “Lack of (lovin’) makes you brave.” I bolted from the bus and sprinted for the terminal, asking where the cab stand was. We were pointed toward non-functioning escalators, which, with two rolling suitcases each were a challenge. Between her sobs, Paula’s cardio training paid off, and we thumped our way to the absolutely empty cab stand at one of the busiest airports in the world. Stunned, yelling, the young attendant asked if we were OK. “We are so very far from OK…” was my reply. She called for the Emergency Cab. From a pocket of some unseen clown, a Scion XB was deployed and screamed up to the stand.

Having done my time in a Toaster, I know the ins and outs of an XB. But the power of Reggie was strong. We filled the interior with suitcases and before we climbed in to this clowniest of clown cars, I told my new BFF Aziz “You need to get us to Midway As Fast As Possible.”

“What time is your flight?”

“7:20”

“I’ll try.”

Aziz strapped in and lit the candle of that base-Camry-motored car, and took off. I know at times we went slower than 85, but I mostly hid behind the headrest not wanting to see. Horns blared. Brights flashed. We slid from lane to lane. Suddenly we were at the Midway terminal. Aziz got a $20 tip for a $50 ride and we sprinted for the terminal. Ours were the last bags checked on to the plane, and we got into separate security lines. Mine went faster, and I ran to the gate.

“How many minutes until this door closes?” “12” “My wife is stuck in security—she’ll be right here.” “The door closes in 12 minutes.” Look of unspeakable horror. Attendants retreat from the door. Paula arrives five minutes later. We are the last two passengers who board, and we are waved onto the plane without comment. 

The rest of the trip was without incident. We arrived in Key West and caught a cab to our rental house.  Happily, the steroids worked and the itch vanished for the week. And in the future, no matter how distracted I am, I won’t forget that it’s worth the extra money to fly out of the closest airport and paper work must be reviewed for most current details at least 24 hours in advance. And if you are ever in Chicago, in a hurry, look for Scion XB taxi. Because not all superheros wear capes, some drive a taxi.


Music that resonates:
The Boys are Back in Town - The Busboys

Whitey Tighties

(Part 2 of the Itchy and Scratchy Show)

I’ve always thought I was allergic to exercise. Turns out that may not be too far from the mark, as I appear to have developed a sensitivity due to the accoutrements of exercise. At least that is the latest theory.

Last Friday I was able to see the “A-Team” of doctors who diagnose mysteriously itchy skin. Dan and I drove to Madison early in the morning hopeful that some answer would be forthcoming. Dan, by the way, has become my official note taker at these appointments, making sure all the critical details are carefully recorded for later review.

The first doctor who came in was a resident. He took a detailed history, asking questions, and the answers I provided caused him to ask even more questions. After a good 30 minutes of this he asked to see the problem areas. Face and neck involved? Yes. Back, arms, breasts, stomach, butt, thighs, calves…oh, but look, palms and feet are not involved. Hmmm, interesting. He excused himself to get the specialist.

The next doctor came in. She started with the responses I had given the resident. The history of the situation was critical and she was interested to hear in what order my skin had bloomed. She asked a lot of questions about the effectiveness of the various creams and lotions prescribed. What had helped the most? The least? And then an even deeper dive. What kind of environment do I work in? What do I wear to work? What do I wear to the gym? Am I better over the weekend? And on.

Finally, I was getting the time and attention to my condition I had hoped for. She announced that the next best step is patch testing, about 60 variants of substances that might be causing the problem, but with my skin in it’s current condition that was not an immediate option. A strategy was needed to clear up my back.

She asked me to wear a shield under all my clothes -- white cotton or white silk. This layer would provide a barrier from the current suspected irritant, my sports bras and dyes in my clothing. I haven’t worn a white cotton t-shirt since I was 12. I have friends (bless them) whose only undergarment is a tank top. This is not an option for me. I’m “Rubenesque” and body parts need to be held in place. I was never good at science, but I understand Newton’s first law of motion, and the more troubling effects of gravity. The practical implications for me are as follows: if I started jogging without a bra I’d likely lose an eye, and then immediately experience the cruel pull of gravity closing the distance between my untethered body and the ground (I saw my Grandma once, in the bathtub, and I’ll never erase that image from my mind).

Under armour.

Fast forward, I am now the proud owner of white cotton tees, white granny panties and some white muscle shirts. I’m on a serious hunt for white cotton bras, both daywear and sports (ladies, suggestions most welcome), and I’m pretty sure I’ve devised a strategy to keep on exercising without the offending garment causing problems. White cotton, a few new creams and a few weeks of Phototherapy should have my back clear enough to patch test.

But back to Dan, ever attentive during this entire visit. He asked the final pertinent questions, “Doctor, we will be in Key West in two weeks – will ocean water or a pool be a problem? How about sun exposure?” The doctor responded that hot tubs, pools or the ocean would not be a problem. She then added that I should get as much sun as possible without burning. She said this three times. Dan, studious like he never was in school made direct eye contact,  nodded and made the appropriate detailed notes.

On our way out to the car both Dan and I felt hopeful. Finally, someone who can help us get to the bottom of this. I asked Dan if he had captured all the key points. He turned to me and said “What I heard was that the doctor wants you to be topless as much as possible in Key West. That you are under Doctor’s orders to report to a white plastic lounge chair on the Southernmost Beach for massive doses of vitamin D daily, and I need to apply liberal doses of sun screen on a regular basis. These are orders from a specialist. ”

What’s next? A new note taker!