Itty, bitty mite facts #2

The bad news:

"Dust mites cause several forms of allergic diseases, including hay fever, asthma and eczema and are known to aggravate atopic dermatitis. Mites are usually found in warm and humid locations, including beds. It is thought that inhalation of mites during sleep* exposes the human body to some antigens that eventually induce hypersensitivity reaction. Dust mite allergens are thought to be among the heaviest dust allergens."

--wikipedia/mite

[Emphasis added by KB.]


The good news:

Ten minutes in a household clothes dryer at lethal temperatures [near 105 °C (221 °F)] has been shown to be sufficient to kill all the dust mites in bedding.

--wikipedia/house dust mite

*One last little not-related-to-dust-mites-but-pretty-close story. This is not for the squeamish, but if you clicked on a post about dust mites, and you read the above info and you're still reading, I don't think that you are too squeamish.

A year or so ago, my then-18-year-old nephew S woke up with a hellacious ear ache. I think that it woke him up in the night, which, with S, is saying something, since he sleeps like the dead. Actually, his mother thinks that there are dead people who would be easier to wake up than her son S. I think that there may have even been a little bit of blood trickling from his ear. He was in so much pain that his mom took him to the ER right away. The ER doctor examined S's ear and diagnosed the problem as a bug (or spider) bite on his eardrum. Very painful, the doctor says, but not much we can do about it, and sent S home with pain relievers.

Strange fact #1: This was the second time in S's 18 short years on earth that this has happened to him.

Disturbing fact #1: The ER doctor told S and his mom, "When insects and spiders crawl into our ears while we sleep, if we move around or do something that scares them, they sometimes bite whatever is handy." My sister, S's mom, blinked hard and said,

"When they crawl into our ears while we're asleep? Not if..." To which the doctor responded, "Oh, yeah. Things crawl into our ears and mouth all the time when we're asleep."

S, his mom, and I now all sleep with ear plugs in and surgical tape across our mouths.

Men Are From Bruno Mars, Women Are From Venus Williams

I admit that I don't keep up with contemporary music much. I hear it only when I'm out in public somewhere where they play music in the background, when I'm riding in someone else's car, when a Young Person is riding in my car and hijacks the sound system, and so forth. My nieces and nephews used to keep me up on the latest music, but most of them haven't needed me to drive them anywhere in a long time.

It seems like I hear this song, Grenade, sung by Bruno Mars, a lot. I've heard it all over the place, so I guess it's a popular song. I also don't know whether young Mr. Mars is wildly popular right now or if he's on the B team. I don't mean to offend any of his fans by saying that, I'm just trying to establish how truly out of touch I am with contemporary music (actually, with contemporary culture in general).

Every time I hear Grenade, I am always struck by its lyrics. As “research” for this post, I watched the video on Youtube. I will give you this, Bruno Mars not only has a beautiful, smooth singing voice, but he's also quite easy on the eyes.

I realize that Grenade is a “my woman done me wrong” song. According to the lyrics, he really did get a bad one. But every time I hear the song, the “heartless bitch” theme takes a back seat to the other theme: that the bravest, most significant, most manly act that a man can do for the woman he loves is to take a bullet for her.  Grenade video

Years ago, a good friend of mine remarked that her husband has told her many times that, if she or any of their children were ever in danger—for example, being held at gunpoint—it was his duty to jump in front of them and give his life for theirs. He took this duty quite seriously, and he was prepared to make that sacrifice without hesitation. My friend told me, “This from the man who will sit, watching TV, while I have to make five trips, struggling in with the groceries! You know, I'd rather have the help with the groceries and take care of myself if I'm ever being held at gunpoint.”

She also pointed out that he gets the best part of the deal. The “bullet day” is probably never going to come. But the groceries are always going to need to be brought in. So, which is the bigger sacrifice?

The thing is, I think that some men do have this romantic notion that saying that they would take a bullet for their beloved is this huge gesture that demonstrates the depth and breadth of their love. Just like saying they'd give her the moon and the stars. Well, for one thing, there's saying, and then there's doing. And, as my friend pointed out, for most couples, this is a gesture that is never going to have to be acted upon.

Some people postulate that men are actually the romantics, whereas women are the practical ones. I think it may be true. I think that many women value the practical action over the romantic notion. I don't mean that men are being disingenuous in making their sweeping romantic gestures. I think that their hearts are really in it, and I think that they feel deflated when their wife or girlfriend responds with a practical suggestion to one of their quite sincere, brave, and romantic offers. Both are speaking languages of love. The problem is, they're speaking their own love language to a person whose ears are deaf to it. Women would probably do better to offer more romantic responses to their men's Great Gestures, and men would probably do better if, rather than talking about the moon and the stars, they unloaded the dishwasher without being asked.

What men say (Grenade lyrics):

            What women think:

...I'd catch a grenade for ya

Would you make dinner or wash the dishes for me?

Throw my hand on a blade for ya

Could you give me a hand with these groceries?

I'd jump in front of a train for ya

How about fixing the sink drain like you said you would?

You know I'd do anything for ya

Anything? How do you feel about vacuuming?

I would go through all this pain

Skip the pain. Listen to me—not the TV—for just one hour.

Take a bullet straight through my brain

Ick. And you think that changing the baby's diaper is disgusting?

Yes I would die for you, baby

You don't have to die, but if you lived for me

But you won't do the same

I will do the same.

I would go through all this pain

You want pain? Let's clean out the garage.

Yes, I would die for you, baby

If you are willing to give your life for me,

Are you willing to live your life for me?

But you won't do the same

           And I'd love to do the same.

Who Knew They Had Balls? Resistentialism & the Need for Constant Vigilance

I saw this product in a store the other day, and I thought that it explains a lot in regard to the theory that inanimate objects are out to get us. The theory, called Resistentialism, is one to which I have subscribed for most of my life.

Wikipedia describes it thusly:

Resistentialism is a jocular theory to describe "seemingly spiteful behavior manifested by inanimate objects."^[1] For example, objects that cause problems (like lost keys or a fleeing bouncy ball) exhibit a high degree of malice toward humans and lend support to resistentialist beliefs. In other words, a war is being fought between humans and inanimate objects, and all the little annoyances objects give people throughout the day are battles between the two. The term was coined by humorist Paul Jenningsin a piece titled "Report on Resistentialism", published in The Spectator in 1948^[2] and reprinted in The New York Times.^[3] The movement is a spoof of existentialism in general, and Jean-Paul Sartre in particular (Jennings identifies the inventor of Resistentialism as Pierre-Marie Ventre). The slogan of Resistentialism is "Les choses sont contre nous" -- "Things are against us".

It does not surprise me that things are out to get us. What does surprise me is that there are so many people who do not believe it. My dad didn't. Nor do a couple of my brothers (although my mom, my sister, and my brother M are in the know). Over time, I discovered that there are lots of people out there who think that inanimate objects are, in fact, inanimate and do not plot our downfall, in spite of the overwhelming amount of evidence to the contrary. My sister-in-law, SW (who is married to my brother R, who is not a believer), knows good and well that things are, indeed, out to get us. I'm glad that at least one of them gets it, as she can then try to defend her poor, misguided husband from the onslaught of attacks from "things."

But my brother is not the only one who doesn't believe. Ironically, when I googled "things are out to get us" (because I can never remember the word for this phenomenon), more than half of the results were for-real professional psychological resources to "help" me overcome my fear that inanimate objects have a life of their own and that they hatch malevolent schemes against us. They have obviously gotten the psychiatric world into their corner: a powerful move on their part, considering that mental health professionals can join the inanimate objects and the other human nonbelievers in convincing us that this notion that things are out to get us is "all in our heads." A little therapy, a few meds, a little reprogramming, and you'll be good as new. But many of us have escaped this societal brainwashing, and we are ever vigilant to protect ourselves and others from this threat.

Back to the picture. This gives me hope that my species is not so clueless as it seems. Maybe we have turned a corner, and now we are not just acting defensively but have taken an offensive stand. It looks like we are out to get the inanimate objects before they can get to us. Certainly, harvesting their balls--and then displaying them on store shelves like the heads of our enemies on a pike at the main gate into the city--should be a move in the right direction. It not only humiliates them but it also keeps them from procreating. That's what they get for "disappearing" our socks--only one of a pair--for generations.

I hope to see more products like this in the stores and "advertised on TV!" in the future. Maybe this will finally put a stop to chair legs that grab our bare toes, keys that creep off into dark corners when we know that we "left them right here," and TV remote controllers that do the same thing as keys, except that they prefer nice, soft hiding places, deep between the cushions of the living room furniture. Do you think it a coincidence that toilets back up on Thanksgiving Day when you have a houseful of guests? No, they know that you will have to pay about $750 an hour for a plumber who will come out on a holiday—but they’ve got you by the…where they want you: completely subjugated to them. Is it happenstance that your computer gets the blue screen of death with the most recent changes to your doctoral thesis on its hard drive? (You knew you should have backed it up to a jump drive, but you couldn’t find one handy, and you thought, “No big deal, I’ll do it in the morning.”) This computer had always acted in a trustworthy manner before and had never given you any reason to think that it was unreliable. That’s how they do it, you see. They’re very sneaky. In fact, computers and other digital technologies have their own section in the Inanimate Objects’ Manual of How to Screw With People’s Minds.


I have all sorts of stories of being vexed by machines and other things. I once almost smashed a recalcitrant VCR with a hammer. Now, admittedly, I shouldn’t have been working on a VCR with a hammer to begin with, but it had come to that. Fortunately, just before I took the hammer to it to “fix” it for good, I recalled that it wasn’t my VCR, but one I’d borrowed from a friend. I was so angry at it that I literally had to leave the room. Speaking of hammers, I once pounded the fuel filter casing off of the carburetor of my old Ford by using the wrench—with which I was trying to remove the filter in the traditional way—as a surrogate hammer. Another time, I almost launched a hammer through a large picture window because whatever project I was working on was not cooperating with me. I was standing on the back of the couch, which I’d pulled out several feet away from the wall (what on earth *was* I doing? I have no recollection now, but it involved using a hammer on the wall above the window.) The materials required by this project were not only not cooperating, but they were taunting me. In a rage, I pulled the hammer back over my shoulder, took aim at the big window, and, just as I prepared to fling it, I had a rare moment of clarity that allowed me to assess the satisfaction:consequences ratio of this act. It was a rental house. It belonged to my brother’s boss who was renting it to him at a very low cost. My brother R, had graciously allowed me to move in with him when I was in a housing crisis.  R would be dismayed to come home to find the living room furniture in disarray, the picture window with a large hole in it, and me, balled up on the floor, weeping uncontrollably, and saying something like, “They’re out to get me, they’re out to get me, they’re out….” My quick mental analysis worked. I put the hammer down, went to my bedroom, and proceeded to throw all of the lightweight things I could find at the wall. It wasn't as satisfying, but it also didn't have negative consequences.


Now you can see why I think that this is a very real threat to the human race and not just some sort of psychological issue. Please, friends. Be ever watchful. Warn others. Carry a hammer.

Itty Bitty Mite Facts #1

Okay, I admit it. I'm a little bit obsessed with mites. I wrote about them in the very long post, "The Itch List" (summer 2011), but I continue to think about mites a lot, whereas I don't think about mosquitoes and poison ivy all of the time. Mites just fascinate me. We and all of our stuff are just crawling with the little buggers, and there's not much we can do about it.

But, in keeping with the size of my subject, I'm trying to keep this post extremely short. So, with no further ado, here's Mite Fact #1. Yes, there will be more. If the subject of dust (or other types of) mites makes you squeamish, it will be easy to avoid these posts because they'll all have the words "Mite Facts" in the title.

"We may not realize it, but each one of us is a walking ecosystem. Minuscule, eight-legged Demodex mites nestle head down inside the follicles of the eyelashes, feasting unnoticed on skin cells. Microscopic bacteria live on the tongue, teeth, and skin and in the intestine*. Dormant viruses like herpes simplex may loiter for years inside nerve cells."   

--from discovermagazine.com

Evelyn Bryan Johnson, Aviation Pioneer, Dies at 102

Just saw this in the Knoxville News Sentinel. If you don't live in East Tennessee, you have probably never heard of Evelyn Bryan Johnson, but she was truly an aviation pioneer. If it had wings or rotors, Evelyn could fly it. She was especially committed to making aviation accessible and safe for everyone involved in it. This quote from the linked article pretty much says it all, "She is said to have logged more flight hours, trained more pilots and given more Federal Aviation Administration exams than any other pilot on the planet."

I feel very honored that I received my private pilot's license from Evelyn. Through a fluke of the weather, I had to fly to the Morristown airport to do my flight exam and check ride. Morristown was Evelyn's flight base and where she worked as the airport manager and as an FAA examiner. I had heard of her before and was in awe of her but had never met her before. My awe at having her as my flight examiner made me all the more nervous about the test! I passed with "flying" colors, and Evelyn was so kind to me. That's the only time I ever met her, but I will never forget it. She was an amazing lady. At the age of 97, Evelyn lost her left leg in a car accident. She later returned to work as the airport manager. She was truly an inspiration to everyone who knew her, and to those in the aviation world in particular.

If you're interested, you can read more about Evelyn in the linked obit/article below, and in the links that are given in that article as well.

 

http://www.knoxnews.com/news/2012/may/11/aviation-legend-evelyn-bryan-johnson-dies-102/

Dear Janelle (#2)

May 3, 2012

Dear Janelle,

You have been "gone to California" (my new euphemism for "dead") for exactly two weeks now.

It is really weird to be writing an obituary for someone whom I don’t actually believe is dead. It’s fun to think about you and to remember so many good times and funny stories about you. To think about what was important to you and how much you genuinely cared about people and issues that mattered to you. So many of our memories of you revolve around laughter and singing. You’d like that, I know.

But the reason that we’re all thinking about you is that we don’t have you with us anymore, and we’re trying to encapsulate your life in a few hundred words or so. Not a single one of us has actually come to terms with that yet. You had such a joie de vivre, such childlike wonder at the world around you, you were so *alive* that none of us can imagine you not alive. "Janelle" and "dead" just don’t belong in the same sentence. It’s an oxymoron. The very essence of "Janelle" is "alive."

So, I sit here, writing your obituary, waiting for your return from California.

In fact, Rusty and I have been exchanging e-mails as we edit your obit. A question came up about exactly when you moved to the East Coast. My recollection is that you first moved to Atlanta and then migrated to Tennessee, where the Boy was. So, we’ve been trying to decide at least a year when that happened, if we can’t conjure up the exact date. As I wrote my last e-mail to Rusty on this subject, I thought, "Well, let's just settle this by asking Janelle. She'll remember exactly when she moved out here."

Sigh.

Dave D. says, "You never get over it; you just get used to it."

Dear Janelle

May 1, 2012

Dear Janelle,

I know that, wherever you are, you are happy. You went out like everyone would like to go out. It was peaceful and painless. We all agree that it was absolutely the best thing for you, and the way you would have wanted to go.

For the rest of us, though, it has been very hard. In my opinion, a person should not just leave like that. Without saying goodbye or telling anyone. It was quite a shock. It’s rude, even. Actually, you did it like the way you went to bed during parties. You just quietly slipped away because you didn’t want the fun to stop just because you were going to go to sleep.

But still.

I mean, we weren’t done with you yet. I had things to talk to you about. No, not anything specific that I can think of right now. I mean, in the future. We had all kinds of stuff to talk about. And laugh about. And make fun of. And cool words to marvel over. Plus, we hadn’t finished figuring Mikey out yet.

And what are the Burkes--especially the Knoxville Burkes-–supposed to do now? You know how disorganized and incompetent we are. We can each barely take care of ourselves. We certainly can’t take care of ourselves and mom and each other. I can do the communication part, like I’ve always done. "Hey, everyone, next Thursday is the anniversary of mom and dad’s anniversary. Mom would probably like to go out to dinner and/or get a phone call or something that day."

But you were always the one who organized the actual plan. If it hadn’t been for you, we would have never gotten the folks’ 50^th anniversary celebration off the ground. We would have started too late, for one thing–if at all. We Burkes are not planners-ahead, as you well know. In fact, we’re not even that good at planning when the moment is absolutely upon us. You know how you always hated all of the standing around in the driveway, with everyone saying, "I don’t know. Where do you want to go?" You’d finally get mad enough that, in spite of your resolve not to be the one to make the decision, you would say, "Okay, dammit, we’ll go to Sullivan’s." (Or wherever.)

You were the Burke Herder. We couldn’t plan our way out of a paper bag, and you know it. You have really left us in the lurch. I mean, honestly. It’s been close to two weeks since you died, and you know what? I haven’t called my mother even once! I keep meaning to, but then I forget.

You don’t just go and die and leave a bunch of Burkes behind to plan a funeral. Good grief! We have no idea what we’re doing! If it weren’t for Patti, Michael and Maryl would’ve never even gotten out to California. Thankfully, one of your friends has the planning gene and used it on our behalf. But I already tried to talk her into taking over the care and feeding of my mother, and she didn’t take the bait.

When I look around your house, I see all of the things you left undone. Because you were coming right back and would attend to them then. You were apparently sorting all of the most recent mail and bills on the dining room table that y’all rarely ever used (for dining, that is). You had more flowers to plant.

You didn’t like the idea of leaving a mess behind when you died. You had told me–jokingly–many times that that’s why you hadn’t committed suicide after you and John C. got divorced. You couldn’t think of a non-messy way to do it (to do it right, that is), and that meant that some poor soul would have to come along after you and clean up the mess. So, what the hell, you decided. Might as well live.

Well, this time, you didn’t decide to live. You decided to leave. (Did you even know?) And here we are. Bereft.

Hummmppphhh. (As you would have said.)