Desolation

Dharma Bums by Jack Kerouac is one of those books that I pick up time and again, and each time, there is a new kernel of truth in it for me to enjoy. I have worn my copy completely out, and it no longer has a front or back cover. This week I picked up this book while I was preparing to leave my New Mexico mountain for the Midwest. I am taking the two littlest kids with me, and I will be flying out and visiting family and friends from Chicago to Appalachia.  When I picked up my sad little naked book, the first thing I saw were the closing paragraphs. And once again, this little book made me realize something that I’d been ignoring in my frenzied and anxious preparations.

"I don't know when we'll meet again or what'll happen in the future, but Desolation, Desolation, I owe so much to Desolation, thank you forever for guiding me to the place where I learned all. Now comes the sadness of coming back to cities and I've grown two months older and there's all that humanity of bars and burlesque shows and gritty love, all upsidedown in the void God bless them, but Japhy you and me forever we know, O ever youthful, O ever weeping." Down on the lake rosy reflections of celestial vapor appeared and I said, "God, I love you" and looked up to the sky and really meant it. "I have fallen in love with you, God. Take care of us all, one way or the other."

To the children and the innocent it's all the same.” – Jack Kerouac (Dharma Bums)

I am leaving my mountaintop. Albeit for just over two weeks, but I’m leaving my chickens and my dogs, The Hubby and Mr. Drama, the sunshine, the firewood, the clothesline, the deck, the stars, the moon, and the howling coyotes. 

The last time I did this, I felt like a fish out of water. I had planned a trip to Chicago, and I flew out of Albuquerque, into O’Hare, took the train out of O’Hare, and an hour later, I was standing on Michigan Avenue. Men with briefcases and women with stiletto heels were darting around me as I meandered meekly down the street, soaking in the humidity like a dry sponge. I looked into the windows of Fur Dealers and Jewelry Stores looming several stories above the street in glittering buildings, and my head swirled.

I found my way to my hotel room, hopped in the shower, and then spent the next hour digging the high desert sand out of my toenails and applying a lovely coat of polish. In retrospect, I think I was trying to give myself a bit of camouflage.  I was convincing the world (and myself), “See, I’m not a sun-drenched, earth-baked, mountain mama. I am metropolitan.” And I have the toenails to back that claim up.

At the same time, there was a heaviness and a sadness, as I looked out my hotel window at the lake front apartments with tiny balconies from which to view the water.  It was almost surreal as I realized that everyone can’t have a wild world to explore everyday. They can’t walk out their front door and find themselves surrounded on every side by raw unbridled nature. Even in the cornfields and lawns of the suburban Midwest, everything you see has been touched and sculpted by man. Men have even decided which spaces to designate “Green” and have planted trees to signify such.

Here, I can walk out my backdoor and pick up a big hunk of petrified wood, a geode, obsidian from ancient lava flows, or a dinosaur fossil, none of which have probably been touched by another set of human hands. The only signs of humanity are the numerous arrowheads and pottery pieces left by ancient native people.

Most people would look around my home, discover that there isn’t a franchised business for 20 miles, the only signs of life are cacti and rattlesnakes, I don’t have a maintained road or trash collection, and call this desolation. And I owe so much to that desolation. I owe that feeling of freedom, of quiet, and of connection with nature. I don’t think I could quantify what I have learned any more than Kerouac did sixty years ago, but I can express my gratitude as I head back into civilization with my hands tucked in my pockets to hide the dirt under my fingernails.

It’s been a crazy day, so what’s for dinner, mama?

Today was particularly eventful in our household. We’ve been having poultry predicaments for a few days. This resulted in us moving our meat birds (set for slaughter soon) up to the front of our house, directly outside my bedroom window, and eventually to a friend’s coop.  The reason we moved them was because our egg layers are showing signs of illness, and we’ve decided to treat the whole egg-laying flock with antibiotics for a couple of weeks. We didn’t want to give the meat birds antibiotics so close to slaughter, especially since they are new to the flock and show no signs of illness.  We had to buy eggs today **gasp** because we can’t eat our hens’ eggs for around three weeks.

So, we’ve been dealing with sick chickens, and one of our dogs has been faking an injury for several days because I hurt her feelings (that might be another blog post in itself). Overall, though, we felt like we had things under control.

This morning started out rather uneventfully. My second-grader, Mr. Drama, left to ride to school with the neighbors. I hung a load of laundry on the line and drove Cowboy to preschool. Then, as Sergeant Princess and I head back in the door, we are followed by Opal, the hound dog pictured in the last post.  I turned around, and there she stood, staring blankly off into the distance covered in dirt and blood. She reminded me of the baby rabbit we found injured on the road a couple months ago, which we tried in vain to save.  I looked her over, and it was clear that a wild animal had attacked her, and she needed veterinary care. While she wasn’t critically wounded, I worried about all the infectious microbes she may have been gifted along with those bites. The morning was a frenzy of logistics in trying to get an immobile and wounded 6-inch tall, 55-pound dog into a minivan and to the vet’s office. Roxie valiantly refused to leave her companion’s side, which is very sweet, when you are not trying to figure out how to get a 6-inch tall, 55-pound dog into a minivan without furthering injury and while wrangling an oblivious toddler. The added complication of repeatedly removing a spry and agitated shepherd from the van was a bit more than my patience could bear at that moment.

Luckily, Opal was not severely injured. The doc looked her over and determined that she had been bitten by coyotes, first in her (ahem) lady parts and then by another coyote in her side as she fell over. The most care the vet gave her today was irrigating her lower eyelid which had been packed full of soil during the scuffle. He believes that her extremely loud bellow was the key to her survival. He actually thinks that terrible hound sound sent the coyotes running like a couple of thieves bolting at the sound of a car alarm. She is just stunned, and the vet aided her emotional shock with a healthy dose of narcotic pain relievers and a dash of antibiotics and said, “See you in the morning.” The afternoon was spent checking on all the sick and wounded animals and working through the list of things I had intended to complete during the morning hours.  Before I knew it, Mr. Drama was home from school, and I hadn’t really thought of dinner.

I seriously contemplated the box of packaged beans and rice hidden away in the cupboard, but I thought I could do better in less time. (It would take 25 minutes to cook up anyway).

Here’s the spaghetti dish I came up with instead:

Diced garlic, onions, mushrooms, and zucchini, sautéed with olive oil, rosemary, thyme and wilted basil.

Wilted basil sounds like some fancy culinary thing, but the truth is, I had great intentions to start my own herb garden, and purchased a basil plant, which I have wholeheartedly neglected. It is dying a slow sad death, and wilted basil is what it has left to offer me.

After I sautéed the veggies until nice and soft, I added a can of organic stewed tomatoes with Italian seasonings. After learning about why commercial tomatoes taste so bad, we purchased a boatload of canned organic tomato products from Costco to use when farmer’s market tomatoes are not an option.

I added a bit more rosemary and thyme and allowed it all to simmer for about 15 minutes, while I cooked the pasta.

Though we really like to start from scratch with most things, we haven’t purchased a pasta maker (YET). So, we settle for Organic Spelt pasta. This stuff is great, and the ingredients?—Organic spelt flour and water. Yep. ZERO sodium, and 9 grams of protein per serving.

I tossed the cooked pasta with the veggie mixture, added a bit of parmesan cheese, and voila: another additive free, nutritious vegetarian meal that enticed my children to eat three bowls each. Total cost was probably about $6 for the family, and prep time was less than 30 minutes.

Around the House

I thought it might be fun to take everyone on a virtual tour around our house to give those who haven’t visited us an idea of some of the things that we do to promote sustainability. Most of these things we’ve done for free, or almost free, with only a couple of major purchases.

The first major purchase we made was an investment in solar panels. We had them installed in February, and we haven’t had an electric bill since. In fact, since we are still “on-the-grid,” we are a solar energy producer, and we get a check from the electric company every month. The largest check was around $120.  When you factor in the loan payment to the solar company, we have a net cost of about $10/month average for electricity.  Sorry, I’m not brave enough to climb up on the roof during the little ones’ nap, so I don’t have a picture of the panels, but this is a picture of our new electrical box system. 

And this is the component that we can watch tick backwards as we produce more kilowatt hours than we use. It’s all a bit industrial looking, but there is nothing better than listening to the whirl of that inverter while I’m hanging clothes out on the line.

I haven’t really used our dryer since May. I refer to it as the “diaper fluffer” because I like to toss our cloth diapers in the dryer for about 10 minutes, so they aren’t too stiff after hanging on the line. I wash diapers twice a week.

The second real cost we incurred was a chainsaw, which was The Hubby’s Father’s Day gift. It is the gift that keeps on giving!  Here is the firewood he’s collected and chopped since then.

Our goal is to rely solely on firewood collected from downed trees on our property and on adjacent properties. We have permission from the owners to remove downed trees. It is actually quite beneficial to remove lots of fallen trees because it reduces the risk of a quickly spreading wildfire.  We had the propane tank filled, but I hope not to use any at all this year.

This is our wood stove (with a lovely piece of The Hubby’s recycled can chicken art on top).  The wood stove is actually much kinder to my skin and everyone’s sinuses than the furnace. We have a couple of tea kettles on top, which we keep filled with water and a few drops of essential oil (I love tea tree oil), to keep the air moist all winter long.

And here is the piece we found from a thrift store that welcomes the ladies (and gentleman) home.

That’s the door of the chicken coop, and below are pictures of the inside, the chicken run, coop foundation, and exterior. The Hubby constructed the entire coop from materials we already had lying around, except for the poured concrete floor. Coyotes will dig under a coop to get to the chickens, but with rebar through the vents and concrete and stone foundation, our ladies are safe and sound all night long.

The stone stairs The Hubby constructed with stones found on our property, fortified with a little more cement.

In return, they earn their keep with faithfully provided eggs. This is one of our four laying boxes today.

Here are a few of the Cornish Crosses that The Hubby purchased from a kid who raised them for the fair. They are pretty terrible birds to have around, but I hope they’ll be delicious. The Hubby and Company will be sending them off to “Freezer Camp” after a backyard ceremony sometime in October.

Just in case any predators dare challenge the chicken fortress, though, we have Roxie, the fearless mutt who will take on anything, except a bobcat apparently. For that battle, she called in the reserves (aka The Hubby), who learned that he needed to keep an arsenal handy to throw at any stubborn predators ready to attack. The current arsenal consists mostly of strategically placed horse shoes (also found on our property).

Roxie’s other back-up is the not-so-fearless Opal. Really, though, what would a homestead be without one worthless old hound dog?

There are lots of other great things I’d love to show, like the piñon trees that are just beginning to open their cones and share their nuts, and the prickly pear, whose fruit we plan to use for jelly and wine this year. Perhaps there will be a Part Two to this post, if anyone is interested. (Are you interested?)

It’s a wonderful wide world out there, and when you’re working with your surroundings rather than against them, it’s amazingly simple to feed (and provide heat) for a family of five for (almost) free.

Hope

From Part One: Life

By Emily Dickinson

HOPE is the thing with feathers           

That perches in the soul,           

And sings the tune without the words,           

And never stops at all,           

 

And sweetest in the gale is heard;                   

And sore must be the storm           

That could abash the little bird           

That kept so many warm.           

 

I’ve heard it in the chillest land,           

And on the strangest sea;                   

Yet, never, in extremity,           

It asked a crumb of me.

 ----------------------------

When dealing with a stubbornly elusive disease that has no name and no seeming boundaries, there are moments when a person doubts her own strength and fortitude. Can I really get up and do this again tomorrow? Am I ready for the next symptom to emerge, whatever it may be? But as night turns to day and my own little chickadees begin chirping for breakfast, as sure as the rising sun, my feet find the floor, my hands find the skillet, and I begin another day as Mom. I manage to get up, get dressed, and do what needs to be done. I am not a strong person. I am not especially resilient. Even so, I still manage the day to day, while continually searching for meaning, reason, and answers.  Honestly, there are times when I don’t know how or even why I do it, but I still do.

And then, there are days like Friday. I went to an appointment with Doctor #7, only to be told that the latest round of bazillions of expensive tests reveal that I am the healthiest 32-year-old woman on the planet. Even as she’s telling me this, she and The Hubby are watching hives forming across my chest, which I can’t see.  I’m running a low-grade fever, and I can barely muster the energy to complete my thoughts verbally. How can any of this make sense? She tells me that she isn’t giving up, and I shouldn’t either. She’s going to find a doctor who can figure this out (which she assures me will not happen in New Mexico), and asks me to schedule an appointment in three months. Three months, really? Okay. I can do this for three more months. I guess.

The Hubby took me out to lunch to process the appointment. She assured me that I do not have cancer. There is absolutely no way that my labs could be that perfect if I had cancer. I have something to celebrate the day after my 32^nd birthday. I go home, pour a glass of wine, and get the table ready for dinner.

At 6 pm (on a Friday), the phone rings and it is Dr. #7. She’s found a study that she wants me to participate in at the National Institutes of Health. [sorry, this is a bit technical but important.]   They’re studying physical urticaria. Urticaria is a fancy term for hives, and physical urticaria describes hives caused by external stimuli (touch, cold, exercise, etc.). The study began to investigate a disease called Familial Cold Auto-inflammatory Syndrome (FCAS). FCAS involves an auto-inflammatory response that causes fever, fatigue, joint and eye pain following urticaria caused by exposure to cold. They’ve isolated a gene mutation that causes FCAS, and the protein that is resultantly over-produced. There is a medication that can stop this overproduction and prevent the auto-inflammatory response. They’re trying to discern whether this same gene mutation is also responsible for other types of physical urticaria. If so, this medication should prevent the symptoms.

I am truly stunned. I had begun the weekend coming to terms with yet another fruitless round of lab results and three more months of waiting without a diagnosis, this time without so much as another test to run or an idea of what to do next. A few hours later, I am looking at a list of symptoms that closely mirror mine and an eager team of researchers who are seeking out people just like me.  If I am accepted into the study, all of the testing conducted by the researchers will be free of charge, and I will receive recommendations for treatment from the most avant garde researchers in the United States.

This is the thing with feathers that perches in the soul. This is the thing that lifts me up when I doubt my strength. This is hope. It is not resiliency, strength, or fearlessness that propels me through difficult moments. Hope is the beacon that wakes me in the morning and reminds me that I’ve been gifted another day to live and a beautiful family eager to share my future. 

There are still many unkowns. It is quite possible that this path leads to yet another dead end, but I’ve been reminded that there are always new paths to try, even if no one knows about them yet. Hope is the thing that leads pioneers into the unknown. Though I’ve been a reluctant pioneer in this voyage, I am still heralded on each and every day in my unending quest for better health and clean laundry by that feathered thing called hope. And to think, it’s never asked a crumb of me.

The Feminist in the Cherry Print Apron

I am a Feminist. Not a pants-suit wearing, ‘breaking down the boys club’ Feminist, but a  ‘Let’s tear down the current social structure and start the whole thing over again’ Feminist. I graduated from a conservative liberal arts college, where I was the annoying chick who raised her hand in classes to remind the frat boys that it is actually a felony to have sex with a really drunk girl. (I’m still not sure how I managed to make this a relevant comment in every non-Women’s Studies class I took.) From there, I jumped headlong into a career of social justice advocacy, spreading the crazy notion that every woman has the right to be happy, safe, and comfortable in her home and community.

And yet, here I am – a mother of three in her early Thirties, staying at home to cook meals, tend chickens, and hang dry laundry. Any day now, a cherry print apron I ordered last week will arrive. By all appearances, I could be the best friend of my grandmother in 1955 pre-Second Wave America, standing by her man because that’s the only choice she had. How is this a Feminist lifestyle? If Jerry Falwell could agree with a Feminist about one thing, it would be that it isn’t. Most would either say that I talk the talk but don’t walk the walk, or that I’ve forgotten my ideals altogether and conformed to societal norms of what a woman should do.

This begs the question—what does it mean to be a Feminist? Feminists vary widely in their political views, believe it or not.  Feminism means different things to different people.  There are a couple things that most Feminists would claim inform their worldview, though. First, the personal is political. Second, one should always consider the dominant social paradigm with a critical eye. It is with this lens that I view my role as a mother.

I do not believe (obviously) that Feminism has destroyed the American family, as many assert. It is not Feminism that has disconnected us from our loved ones. The fact that women can work outside the home and divorce abusive or unfaithful spouses does not destroy family values. The evidence suggests that greater gender equality directly correlates with stronger, more stable societies, and the happiest societies are the most equitable.

Americans have grown increasingly disconnected from our families as our daily lives have become a race to make more money, be more materially successful, and demonstrate our success by having our children excel in 15 extra-curricular activities. We are so busy being humans doing that we no longer allow ourselves to just be human beings.  How can we connect in a genuine way with those around us if we are too busy trying to stay on top? 

Shortly before becoming a first time mother, I heard an anonymous person at a conference say, “Consumerism is a distraction from a void created by itself.” This statement has lingered in my consciousness as I’ve grown into a woman and a mother.  Consumerist society is a snake eating its own tail, and we all lurk somewhere in its belly thinking of nothing other than how big our own portion will be in comparison to the others around us. We never stop to analyze whether we should really be in this mess, what it’s doing to us, or how we might find our way out.

As I’ve developed my parenting style, I’ve come to realize that this is really the most important lesson I can teach my children about living in this world, in this culture, here and now. I do not want them to believe the futile battleground of consumerist America should dictate their own personal goals or ideals. I don’t want my children to believe that the value of their lives is measurable by the value of their shoes. I want them to value others and themselves for the quality of their soul, for their willingness and ability to love, give, create, think critically, and contribute substantively to the world around them. If I can provide this gift to my children, then I will have done my job as a mother.

And I will have done my job as a Feminist because I will have made the personal political, not just for me but also for my children. My hope is to plant a seed that may germinate into a different understanding of what society should value, and how we, as parents, workers, friends, and community members, should define success.

To impact the worldview of our children, my husband and I strive to create an environment in which we demonstrate directly the Quality and value of using our energy and resources to act in ways that are advantageous to our family and our world. So, I’ve hung up my social worker sweater in favor of a cherry print apron. Instead of teaching strangers the practice of non-violent conflict resolution, I’m teaching my children that butchering a chicken in the backyard can be an act of loving-kindness, and how our daily actions can impact the world around us, for better or for worse.

Sniffle-icious

My three-year old Cowboy began preschool last Tuesday, which officially means he’s a Preschooler, rather than a toddler. It also means that he promptly brought home and delivered a nasty germ to the rest of the family. He attended four days of school last week and has missed three days so far this week.

Cowboy, Sergeant Princess, and I have all been stricken by a nagging fever, headaches, and our noses have been turned into extremely productive mucous factories. We are taking it one day at a time, but as the mother of a tiny eighteen month old, who always dangles on the cusp of that slippery “Failure to Thrive” ledge, a day without appetites is a day without weight gain. So, with nagging mommy worry, I set off to find creative dinner ideas to trick picky toddlers, who now have no appetites, into eating a fairly nutritious dinner —all with a whole foods goal and very little energy.

Yesterday, the Hubby stopped by the natural food store for our weekly produce shopping trip, so I had a fridge full of fresh fruits and veggies at my disposal. I was also in the process of making a homemade batch of crock pot yogurt, so he also picked up a starter quart of store bought organic yogurt. Planning this meal, I am aware of three important facts.

1.) A piping hot meal won’t do much to bring down fevers. So, the cooler the meal the better.

2.) With the snotty noses and no real sense of smell to aid them, the only flavor they respond well to is sweetness.

3.) My energy level is in the dumps.

With all of this in mind, I decided that a fruit salad would be just the thing to stimulate the kids’ appetite.

I started prep during naptime by cooking up some quinoa, using normal instructions, and making some spiced walnuts. I used the Betty Crocker recipe for the walnuts, except I drastically reduced the sugar. I used about a cup of walnuts, ¼ cup of cane sugar, ½ teaspoon each of cinnamon, nutmeg, and allspice. I tossed the walnuts first with a single egg white and then with the sugar mixture, then baked on a greased cookie sheet for about 20 minutes.

During nap, I also took my plain yogurt, added a tablespoon agave nectar, a few drops of vanilla, two tablespoons brown sugar, and a bit of cinnamon. Mixed together, it makes a really delicious yogurt sauce. I placed the quinoa and the yogurt dip in the fridge to cool, laid the walnuts on some wax paper to cool, and couched it until the kids woke up from their naps.

I did the next step during the kids’ snacktime, when I’m already in the kitchen without much to do. I just diced up a peach, nectarine, apple, a bunch of grapes, and about 10 strawberries. They are in the fridge chilling until dinnertime. When it comes time to serve dinner, all I’ll need to do is dice up some banana (which I didn’t add early to avoid browning), add the quinoa, and top with the yogurt sauce and walnuts.

The kids will think they’ve had dessert for dinner (I was accused of such by my 7-year-old with a different dinner this week), but we’re looking at a total of ¼ cup of cane sugar, 2 tablespoons brown sugar, and less than a tablespoon of agave nectar spread across the entire family’s meal. We’re also looking at three or four different sources of protein in this meal – yogurt, walnut, quinoa, and (if you count it) the egg white, and all the nutritional benefits of having six different types of fruit in a single bowl. All of this is also gluten-free AND vegetarian! Total prep time was about 15 minutes; total cook time was about 20 minutes each for the quinoa and the walnuts.

Boxing the Shadows

I mentioned my health problems in my first blog, and I promise you that I haven’t begun writing to the world only to find an audience for my own incessant complaints. However, my health issues have really been a huge impetus for many of the changes I will be writing about, so I think it’s relevant to provide that background. If you care enough to read this post, you’re probably waiting for the BIG diagnosis. What is It? What do you have? --- “Fancy-Unpronounceable-Latin-Term-inoma?” or “Arrogant-Doctor’s-Name-itis?” Why do you need the name? Because that is how we, as humans, understand our world. We need to name things, then lump them into groups, so that we can deal with them in the same way we deal with all the other things in that group. God forbid something doesn’t fit into one of our nice, neat little groups, and we’re required to stretch the usage of our total brain capacity from 10% to 11%.

If I told you I have cancer, it doesn’t matter whether it’s in my Abdullah oblongata or my pinkie toe. Your brain will still tell you the same thing—“she has a potentially life threatening disease that can spread. She needs chemotherapy, radiation, and/or surgery.” If I told you I have dermatitis, you’d think, “Ah. A skin problem. She needs special creams and to stay away from toxins, stress, and allergens.” If I told you I have anaphylaxis, you’d think, “An infrequent, but serious allergic reaction. If she stays away from the allergen, she’ll be perfectly normal and fine.”—This isn’t because You, the individual, want to minimize my health concern, it’s because you as a human have a human brain, and that’s how human brains process and understand the huge amounts of information they take in every single day.

And guess what? Doctors have human brains, too. Doctors look at an array of symptoms, cognitively sort through the data they studied in medical school, and magically (at least it seems that way to us- the uneducated patients) pull out the correct diagnosis. If some of the symptoms don’t fit into the diagnosis drawn from their hat, maybe the ill-fitting symptoms aren’t real, or are unrelated, or are being exaggerated. It isn’t because they’re bad at being doctors. It’s because they’re good at being human beings. That’s why, when presented with my symptoms, Doctor #2 said, “Sometimes, as doctors, when we don’t understand something, we just hope it will go away.” He didn’t really mean, ‘as doctors,’ he meant, ‘as humans.’ Regardless of the semantics, though, I went away-- on to Doctor #3 and Doctor #4.

Yet, I still have to get up and look in the mirror every day. I can’t just hope I go away. I am a human, too, and I struggle daily to deal with the fact that my health problems don’t fit simply and neatly into any obvious diagnosis. I often think I’m just crazy, even though my symptoms are very visible, predictable, and observable. I’ve been told by specialists that I’m not what medical professionals term the “worried well,” but I still worry well.

I have something going on—an unnamed and misunderstood array of symptoms that are very real. I might have all of the things listed above—cancer, dermatitis, and anaphylaxis. I at least have the last two, and a few more “itises and isms” to go along with those. However, the reason that I experience all of those things is yet to be determined. So, I spend much of my time playing what I’ve affectionately termed “Lab Test Whack-a-Mole,” trying to find the underlying cause of all of my daily challenges.

For the time being, I’ve been left to fend for myself against that unnamed and uncategorized thing that drives my poor human mind mad. Since I’ve been left to box the shadows, I might as well illuminate the rest of my world in the ways I know how.

So, while I wait for the answer to come down from on high (or at least from a lab tech’s microscope), I’ve decided to eliminate as many “what-if’s” as possible. One of the places I’ve focused my energy is on eliminating as many chemicals from my life as possible. I’ve found that my skin is much kinder to me when I eat more whole foods, and the more fundamental and additive-free the soaps, lotions, and fabrics I place on my body. And it is also so much cheaper! A little olive oil and beeswax is so much kinder to my blistered and peeling lips than a petroleum-based commercial preparation, which leaves me to wonder what it might have been doing to my skin all this time. It wasn’t until my skin fought back that I ever considered, “Why in the world am I slathering petroleum on my lips anyway?”

And this is how itchy skin, fatigue, migraines, vision changes, a fire engine red face, and a multitude of other bizarre distortions of my body’s normal processes just might change my life – for the better!