Popping balloons

I admit it, I’m not a telephone person. One of the reasons my job suits me well is that I don’t have to talk to people a lot: a quick note here, a short call there, but most of the time, it’s just me and the words on the page.

So I had to wipe an appalling amount of sweat off my palms this morning to call Alaska Airlines and try to calmly explain that their balloon display is a problem while my hands shook. I explained it to a patient Alice of Alaska twice, and then she asked to put me on hold. It was a long wait, as I anticipated. She returned, and let me know that my best option was to print out the boarding passes online, and then go around the middle part of the airport to avoid the balloons, and proceed straight to security. Unless I needed to check bags. Did I need to check bags? Um, yes.

Oh. Undaunted, Alice put me on hold again. When she returned, she announced that she had called the gate itself, and was assured that all the balloons were already gone, it must have only been for a few days. I thanked her, and asked her to pass my concerns on. She sounded relieved that I hadn’t said the word “lawyer” or “sue,” but I somehow doubt she’s going to take up my crusade.

So I cuddled up with my computer and drafted a follow-up letter, the old-fashioned kind with a stamp that am popping in today’s mail to the Alaska folks. While I was at it, I sent off an electronic note to Trader Joe’s, which they assure me will be read by a real person.

My brother, livid at the thought of losing his mechanic to latex allergy (An aside: I’m still having trouble with why mechanics need latex gloves—do engines carry HIV? Can they catch it from infected mechanics? Or is soap too expensive?), hollers that I should hire a lawyer, but the nervous toll of one phone call is enough for me. For now. We’ll see if I’ve popped any balloons today.

The Grinch strikes back

No, I’m not angry because of all the other drivers out there, clogging the roads so that it takes me an hour and a half to go 15 miles. No, I’m not ticked that someone dropped the ball in organizing an event and now I have to reconstruct an entire month’s work. Even the solicitor who abjectly ignored the “NO SOLICITING” sign hasn’t ruffled my feathers that much. And I’m only mildly fuming because my mother has decided not to move after all, despite all the effort that so many people have put into the move.

Nope, I’m angry because I picked up the paper to see this:

MIKE SIEGEL / THE SEATTLE TIMES

Yes, that is the checkin counter that I will be using in ten days, and yes, those are hundreds of latex balloons arching gracefully over it. They might as well herald the arrival of this new era of flight by building a shrine to it, with no ramps for wheelchairs.

I’m angry because I’m so very tired of having to explain my latex sensitivity over and over to people who ineveitably respond, “Oh, gee, I didn’t know it was that bad!” or “Oh, I’m sorry, I forgot you had that allergy” or “The Health Department says we have to wear these gloves.” I’m tired of walking into Trader Joe’s and having to turn tail and leave. I’m weary of having to leave kids’ birthday parties. And if that’s not enough, now I need to take on the airlines just so I can check my bags in a public space. This action will open myself to the derisive attitudes of the uneducated, the same ones who make snide remarks about peanut-free school busses.

I take some solace that I am not alone in all this. There is ample precendent set by those brave women who champion for their kids to be able to attend school safely, and a handful of them, met online, are cheering me on. So watch out: I’m drafting letters, gathering phone numbers and then I’m going to go tilt at balloons.

The Balloon Grich

I didn’t blog yesterday; I was too busy brooding over how horrible my life was. Living with allergies can be particularly trying, from everyday annoyances to Big Deals.

I am extremely sensitive to latex. I can’t say I’m allergic, because I don’t fall over on the ground, gasping for breath when exposed. But I do experience relatively minor reactions, such as uticaria on my finger joints, a metallic taste in my mouth, and some difficulty breathing. Most importantly, every exposure sets me up for the next one to be worse.

Obviously, I have to work to keep latex out of my life as much as possible: gone are condoms and the diaphragm (replaced by two kids), my medical charts have day-glo pink stickers on them, our Band-Aids are special purchases (though the wrappers still have latex in them?!), and I’m the mean Mommy who says, “no, thank you” when someone offers my kid a balloon.

Yesterday, however, things spiraled out of control. Our contractor, a normally really smart guy, textured the new wall between the boys’ room with some nasty stuff and slapped on a coat of extra-stinky primer. When I came home, the solvent smell wasn’t great, but I thought it would be okay. We did pull the boys out of their rooms, with the living room and hallway resembling flophouses. By morning, my nose hurt badly, and I could feel my nose constricting. My plan for putting a coat of low VOC paint on the walls completely evaporated when I realized that I couldn’t even go in the room.

I ended up placing a panicked call to the contractor, asking him to come do the painting for me—ASAP, and throwing all the doors and windows wide open so I could breathe in my own home. That wouldn’t have been too horrible, but the kids were home for yet another snow day, which meant A) it was really cold outside, and B) the kids were unhappy, since not only wasn’t there enough snow to really play in, but the house was so cold they had to wear their hats indoors. No to mention Mommy's grumpy mood. I lit a fire, but 53 degrees is cold.

By evening, things had improved considerably: my hero at the paint store not only had low-VOC paint to sell me, he custom tinted it on the spot (one usually must pre-order such things). My heart lighter, I set to work making my first-ever homemade Dal Makhani. (It’s not too bad, though I have to admit it’s better today.) By 4:30, the paint was on, so I could close the doors and windows and let the crackling fire and the bubbling Dal warm things up quickly.

*****

When I read this morning’s headlines of tornadoes and suicide bombers, I realize my problems don’t amount to a hill of beans; when I talked to my Dear Friend this morning, I realized that I may have had one bad day, but she’s had a couple of rough weeks. I’ll pick up Stand Partner and bring her home today. No, I can’t go in the freshly painted room quite yet, but I did put in the new light switch on the unpainted side, and I’ll pick up the carpet this afternoon.