mama cass’s melancholia

The editors behind me are going mad for rickrolling (which made it into the Metro last week) and trying to convince themselves it’s a good idea to have an actual rickroll on the homepage to support the article. Way to catch up to last month, guys.

We’re supposed to be taking off from Terminal 5 later this week, and I’m coming down with the mandatory pre-holiday cold. Starting to wonder if our occasional extensively planned, budgeted, and clung-to weekend holidays are dooooooooooomed.

I’ve also had most of my hair cut off. For the trauma and liberation of cleaving away the long curly hair that too easily becomes part of a woman’s identity, I’ll refer you to the Rotund, who also underwent the big chop last week. I wonder what possessed me to get a cut that requires I break out the straighteners every time I wash it or risk the Lyle Lovett effect. Still, when I’ve got straight long bangs falling in my eyes, I look like someone else, someone fast and sly who probably jogs.

Someone who could pick the lock of her boss’s storage locker in under 20 seconds.

(In my defence, he did leave his virus-infected laptop in there, giving me instructions to get it reformatted, but no key.)

So that’s me now, and fairly accurate. Plus, my head is lighter without the hippy-mop-cum-Victorian-corkscrew-curls, and I don’t need a bagful of products just to get a shower at the gym...which was 90% of the reason for shifting that heavy mess, actually.

Life at the moment is slow chaos. The sole benefit is that I’ve been writing again, and it’s coming out easily. It helps that I’ve liberated a handful of characters from a long piece that had less chance of working with every revision, and they’re leaping along like Harry Harlow’s control group in a new environment.

At least I’m making fictional people happy, right?

I put in my notice, which turned into an argument (“it can still work” / “no, it can’t” wash rinse repeat)...how can I yell and curse at someone who’s already not happy with me and still not be fired? So I’ve agreed to give it a month, because...just because it’s easier. Like most of my major decisions, it comes down to did my best, now can’t be arsed. Or perhaps I’ve just given in to the overriding meme of my life, that those I try to warn will agree with me after the disaster but never beforehand.

There’s probably a myth like that. Maybe Greek? Nah, Russian. Definitely a Russian outlook.

never trust anything that insists it lives on sunbeams and happy thoughts

Now is the season that air becomes the enemy. For me, that’s all seasons (thanks, London, for your fug of car exhaust, friendly black mold and generational layers of dust), but the spring months are the ones in which everyone else get miserable, and I am smug. See, I want to gloat, I always feel this way, you weaklings!

Why I should gloat over that, I’m not sure. Chronic allergies must damage the satisfaction synapses (along with those responsible for recognising that english sausages are more like damp fibreglass insulation than edible goodness). Somehow, it feels like that afternoon six months into a new gym routine when you’ve doubled your weight load on every machine and notice the bunny next to you, gelatinous layers of make-up on a face like a slapped ass, struggling to lift five kilos. You know, that second of pride in your progress compared to another, before you choke on her cloud of “If You Like Giorgio, You’ll Love Eu Du Cat Piss” knock-off and the red rage begins...

There’s surely a word in German for this feeling.

USA Today has caught up this month with a 2002 study in Hypochondriac Monthly on ragweed sufferers. From the Blinding Obvious channel, it suggests that allergy sufferers may also feel malaise and even depression. Really, Captain Hero? Someone who’s struggling to breathe, not sleeping well, itchy in membranes that can’t be scratched, and generally under the weather for weeks or months on end might not be a perky polly?

No, I’m not still bitter that in two years, a practice of GPs didn’t connect asthma and breathing difficulties to ‘maybe we should test her for allergies?’, instead insisting Prozac and her bitter cousins were the only possible solution.

Really, I’m not.

It’s just one of the many reasons for trusting my own research in recent medical trials over what some last-in-her-class in a white coat trots out in a 2-minute consultation.

Digress. Possibly as a combination of daffodils and flowering trees popping out and the miserable weather, everyone I encounter is a cranky fucker.

(Except one woman I tangentially work with, the one who happily acts as product guinea pig for her lifestyle articles—how is she so cheerful all the time? It’s just awesome. Of course, people probably think I’m cheerful all the time, given that my job description could be more usefully condensed as ‘smile while executive wankers treat you like a combination babysitter/punching bag,’ so maybe she’s got an extensive graveyard of Sims resembling co-workers on her home computer, too.)

The last few years, I’ve heard again and again in the spring: I don’t usually get allergies, but this year the pollen’s making me want to fling myself in front of the next bendy bus to cross my path, and I’m taking you with me! It makes me wonder...are the plants forming ecoterrorist circles? Do they have secret chlorophyll labs (in rectangular cells, of course, not blobby circular ones) where they’re dicing and splicing their own DNA into airborne gametes of mass destruction? Insult our Mother Gaia with your blasphemous Terminal 5 and Hummer farts, will you?

Or, it could be the bees. Doesn’t that make sense—more pollen, fewer humans venturing outside with their tasty confusing sweat? Don’t underestimate the hive mind—it cured cancer back in 1952, but then little Billy Schwartz just had to thwack that wasp nest into his neighbour’s pool for the fun of watching them drown, didn’t he? The bees would never share after that assault on their freedom.

No matter what the cause of our long national nightmare, here’s some advice to the lightweights experiencing their first allergy season:

• Benadryl and Advil is a combination that guarantees a good night’s sleep, as well as wiping away your memory of the past few days.
• Don’t drink! An immune system already in revolt over a cupful of pollen hammering around its bloodstream will not take kindly to the addition of yeast, sulphides, hops and alcohol. It will make you pay. Pretend to like vegetable juices (a good starting point: carrot and apple juice) and lecture other drinkers to fill the gap.
• Keep exercising, if only gently and inside an air-conditioned gym. Any endorphins will help fight off the ennui, and it seems to suppress the autoimmune misery for hours afterward.
• Lower your expectations. Life will suck for the next few weeks. Be aware of upcoming stress points, cut corners, watch a lot of unchallenging tv (M*A*S*H and Columbo reruns, ideally).
• Remember: your immune system is tied up fighting harmless pollen, and will put all other requests in a queue. Pimples will become semi-permanent beauty marks, bruises will linger yellowly, cold or flu bugs will take longer to shake. Neosporin is your friend, as is Vitamin C, which is (according to many snake oil homeopathic healing sites) a natural antihistamine.

i reject your worthless rag, madam

Just came home to discover this on the mail pile--a St Pat's day card, the thickness of which proved too tempting to either the mailman or one of the other flat-dwellers. I peeked in to discover, as expected, the comic strips and clippings from the local rag still intact, but also--Pres Grant clearly visible, but left behind.

Damn. The US really is heading into the economic horse latitudes when someone in Cricklewood can't be bothered nicking a fifty-dollar note.