Beware of the Bees

I thought that only 8-year-olds got bee stings. Like it was a rite-of-passage for adults to not have to worry about the little buzzing buggers anymore. I was dead wrong. In the past 16 months, I have been stung twice. Both time, on the foot. And I'm embarrassed about it, considering it seems like such a kiddie thing to have happen; apparently I'm not strong enough to defend myself against one of God's tiniest creatures. On the other hand, as much as it angers me, I suppose it is the bee's purpose to find unsuspecting feet like mine to dive into, latch on, and inject its poison through a small but serious poke. Yet, there is advice, isn't there, about how to avoid bee stings? If you don't bother the bee, then it won't bother you. It can "smell" fear so remain calm. The bee has it's job and you have yours, so just be careful not to cross each other.

So, how do I continue to be a victim? Well, I suppose it's my fault because I keep stepping on the bee. Maybe I should be apologizing for stomping all over him/her. The first of my two foot-stings was while I was happily prancing along the beach at Cinque Terre in Italy. After a long, exhausting, rather sweaty hike with my group of friends, I was relieved by the cooling waters of the Mediterranean. Unfortunately I hadn't brought along a pair of flip-flops on this day trip but figured I'd be okay walking down to the water (after all, I do this on the Oregon coast). But walking towards the water, and finding it rather cold, I turned back after a brief photo-op, and trapped an unsuspecting bee under my right 4th toe. I squished him about halfway to his death, but he stabbed me before I had enough reason to release him from the grip of my toes.

In this case, it had been about ten years since I'd had a bee sting of any kind, so I was a little unaware of the implications. I simply washed it off in the cold water to take the sting away, and stuck it back in my shoe. I was surprised at the aching, stinging sensation that continued, so I examined it further and did some make-shift surgery in the sand, squeezing the toe. Though the stinger came out, bees clearly leave enough poisonous residue to last about a week. Over the next several days I noticed swelling, itching, burning, and way more swelling. And of course I was in Europe, traveling with a suitcase that didn't contain any of the necessary home remedies or over-the-counter products to relieve the pain of a bee sting. I bummed band-aids off my travel mates and wrapped the toe so that it was small enough to fit in my shoe. But eventually I realized that this toe was only going to get more infected if it wasn't treated properly. Luckily, Italy isn't foreign to "Apothecaries" and some friends joined me in Venice to search out some generic form of Benadryl cream. One friend, studying pre-med, convinced me she had found the equivalent, but we decided to double-check this with the pharmacist on duty. We imitated a buzzing bee, did hand motions to signal a sting, and pointed to the product. He didn't understand. He pulled out an English-Italian dictionary, I found the word bee, and he laughed. "No, no" he said, "Thees izz for, ugh, thee" and then he pointed to his rear-end. Oh, sure, hemorrhoid cream. He walked over to the shelf and pulled out another product. Your basic hydrocortisone cream, and I quietly paid him and thanked him, and left the store. I guess a bee sting is better than the other possible ailments.

The rest of the trip I was squeezing cream onto my toe and popping benadryl tablets before bedtime. My poor roommate would always be in the middle of a conversation with me before bedtime when she would find me conked out with my bandaged, creamed toe in the air. Others were a little grossed out by constant hand-to-foot treatments and accused me of not washing my hands often enough. Had I been at home, I would have been a little more careful, but desperate times call for desperate measures.

By the time I returned home from Europe, the sting was much improved, the swelling had gone way down, and there was almost no sign of the bee's entrance into my toe, except for a few pictures of my cortisone-cream application. However, three days ago, when another bee found itself underneath my left foot, I knew immediately what had taken place. Somehow, he found his way into my shoe this time, I stepped down and thought it was a twig, so I lifted my foot out to shake it free, and that's when the bee and I came face to face. He was hanging from my foot, and I shook him and shook him and he continued to hang on for dear life, to give me all the poison that was possible. Dreadful thing. I stumbled across the grass and vowed to do it the right way this time. Tweezers, baking soda, benadryl cream...check. And yet even with the correct procedures and medications, three days later, my foot is still slightly swollen and rashy, and at night when I'm half-asleep and reach down to itch it, oh how it burns.

Beware of the bees. They mean business.

Ooh a Facial!

So did you notice that By Martha Grace got a little face-lift? (Go ahead, "ooh" and "ahh" and say how darling she looks!) And she’s just a couple months old with only the stress of ten or so posts under her belt. But change is always a good thing. In fact, I found another blogspot user (with the help of my blog-friendly mother) called “Cutest Blog on the Block” and snagged a new background that’s a little more colorful, a little more snazzy, a little more me! Considering it was so easy to change up the background as well, I may change it up multiple times before you even get back to read!

After all, it’s a lot easier (and less damaging) than a real-life face-lift. The closest I’ve come to one of those is a facial, but it may be better to call it a pore-clogger. Though I was with a good friend during my facial and definitely sent into major relax mode, with the facial itself I was not too impressed. At first, it felt soothing to have cooling lotions and minor scrubs spread across my skin; by the third round of this though, without ever wiping my skin clean, I started to wonder how much was accumulating under the surface. When my “facialist” finally cleaned off my face, she turned on a bright light, slapped a cool strip over both my eyelids, and brought out some pokey tool that started pricking around my face. After much consideration, I realized she was in fact seeking out the blemished spots of my face with her tool, digging under the surface with much determination; and I was always told that “popping your pimples” was bad for your skin! Perhaps this facialist knew something that all the other skin experts didn’t? Nope, probably not. After the poking she went back to plastering my face with thick creams and blowing steam right up my nose so that whatever she had smeared could seep in even farther. Then she left me alone for about 15 minutes to “mask.” I started getting irritated because it felt like she had been gone forever; I couldn’t move because my hands and feet were stuck inside heavy plastic warming-mittens, or something like that. Finally, when she returned, my brand new face was revealed. It felt a little smoother to the touch, but those blemished areas she had only irritated into further splotchiness.

So then I received a call from a Mary Kay lady this past week; two times actually but both times I allowed her to leave me a voicemail. She wanted to send me a complimentary pampering package. I’m sure most women would be thrilled at this opportunity, but all I could consider was that the last time I had been pampered, it took me three weeks to get my skin back to normal. Thus, the results weren’t worth the experience, and parts of the experience weren’t particularly comfortable anyway. From now on, I will save my facials/face-lift experiences for the blog.

Update on Phoebe (because I know you're dying to hear :D)

Today I accompanied my dad and Phoebe to the veterinary opthamologist; yes, there are specialty eye doctors for poodles (and other animals, I suppose). I was hoping for some great answer to all of Phoebe’s health problems. Perhaps a declaration that she wasn’t going blind after all and maybe she was just constipated or moody. This was not the case but I did make some very interesting discoveries while there still.

First of all, a veterinary eye doctor’s office is not all that different from the office you and I may visit. There is a waiting room and little patient rooms with examination tables and eye drops and machines. However, they have linoleum floors for…accidents…and also there are no eye charts on the walls. Go figure. Even the smartest of dogs won’t be covering her eye with her paw and reciting letters anytime soon. Another difference I noticed. Most people who go to the eye doctor also don’t have to be muzzled so that they don’t snap at the doctor who is poking and prodding at their eyeball. Although I wouldn’t blame any poor soul for growling a little bit when being bothered by the bright lights and odd instruments.

So, now for Phoebe’s prognosis. The word “blind” was never used in reference to Phoebe though her cataracts were referred to quite often as being problematic and no doubt uncomfortable. As I stated before, Phoebe’s glassy black little eyeballs were examined quite closely and she was muzzled. Apparently ever since her first visit to the eye doctor, a few years ago, she has gained the reputation of needing her mouth clamped shut. They are all terrified of her ferocious face; and who wouldn’t be scared by all that cashmere-like fur? Upon finding that the pressure in her eyes was fine but the cataracts were clearly a problem, the vet began talking surgery. Without much explanation on the nature or implications of this surgery (or other important matters, such as the cost), we were warned that Phoebe wasn’t perhaps the best candidate for cataract surgery. Not due to her age or overall health or the necessity of the surgery. Because of her temperament. I repeat, as the doctor said, “Phoebe isn’t the best candidate for cataract surgery because of her temperament” and then she made a couple jokes about making sure everyone’s fingers were intact after surgery and during post-care. In other words, they don’t like my poodle’s personality! Highly offensive. But I have a feeling that people don’t like Phoebe for very similar reasons that they feel confused about how much they like me and my parents and maybe even my sister. I feel bad that we brought this poor little creature into our family of bad personalities.

Maybe the entire vet staff is more keen on the temperament of the other animals around the clinic. Like the hound who is howling two doors down. Or the cat in the cardboard box with renal failure. (Okay that one I feel bad about because the owner was crying and it made me thankful that Phoebe was just blind and not much worse.) There was another dog laying in its bed in the waiting room just before we were called back. In the examination room I said to my dad, “Did you see that dog out there in its bed; it sure didn’t look well.” My dad asked, “What looked wrong with it?” And I said, “It just looked weak and sickly” and he replied, “Oh no, it was just a Chihuahua.” Good one. Wait a second, is this the disagreeable temperament people are talking about? Because Phoebe definitely barked at the sick Chihuahua when it first walked…er, was carried in on its deathbed. Poor animals; I really do feel for all the owners of sick pets because it’s not always easy to deal.

The final concern about Phoebe was that she may have diabetes; our first clue into this is her incessant water drinking and panting thereafter. So they wanted to do a blood work explaining it would be easy to tell immediately if that was her problem. Well, Phoebe’s health is apparently never black and white. Her glucose levels were a little high but not irrationally high. Still, they thought it may be a concern to look further into. Thus, it would be really helpful for us to catch a urine sample. I repeat those exact words from the doctor’s mouth: “Try to catch a urine sample.” I wanted to ask if there was a specific procedure for this task. I’ll probably leave that up to the poodle’s master.

Anyway, it became quite clear that the veterinarian had a complex about how much Phoebe’s temperament affected their relationship. The final time she entered the room she commented on the fact that Phoebe was avoiding eye contact with her. I wanted to yell, “That’s because she is blind now!” But I figured this was politically incorrect or something, considering the B-word hadn’t been used a single time in the examination room, and the woman in the room with the Dr. on her badge made a very distasteful joke about my dog’s temperament/eyesight.

Dog clinics are clearly quite the hang-out. Phoebe was panting pretty hard the whole time we were waiting; she stopped only when she heard the bark of another dog or the clink of a chain-leash on the floor outside our room. But she was given a treat before we departed and once back in the car, she settled again very calmly into the crook of my arm for the drive home. In the meantime, send up a prayer for my precious-crazy-little-idiot-dog and her cataracts and blindness or possible diabetes and obvious bad personality.

Our Sister Phoebe

I am a HUGE dog lover. My dog is (one of) my best friends for sure :D My favorite thing about the beach is the dogs; the best television commercials use dogs; books or movies about dogs make me cry way harder than any other sob story. In my lifetime so far, I have had two dogs as pets. The first was Duncan, a mutt mix of Sheltie and Cocker Spaniel. He was a sheepdog and my earliest memories are of him herding my sister and me from one end of the house to the other. He was a medium-sized dog and had a lot of fur that shed, and smelled rather oily especially in the wintertime. He was part indoor and part outdoor dog…if it was too hot or too cold we brought him inside to sleep. One time Duncan bit me in the arm; I was playing with his tail and so I deserved it. Otherwise he was so friendly; he would open his mouth and pant and I would see him smiling. I cried so hard as a 6 year old when we had to leave him behind for 2 years while we were in Michigan; I remember sitting on the steps outside and making him sit in front of me, crying in his fur and telling him how much I loved and would miss him. And we came back for him! And he was with us another couple of years. But when we moved to a new house, it was too hard to handle and a few months later, he got some strange blood disease and was gone one day when I got home from school. Now that’s a sob story.
So a few years later we got a new dog. TaDa! Enter the new love of my life: Phoebe Byrne, white miniature poodle.

There is no way you can ignore that face or say it ain’t adorable. Her little face with those puffy bangs and soft floppy ears is just too much for me to resist. The black eyes, black nose, black mouth are so distinct against her cream fur. We say to her: oh Phoebe never forgets to put on her black lipstick every morning!

Phoebe has had her fair share of…well, medical problems. Poor thing broke her right hind leg when she was only about 12 weeks old, after jumping off my dad’s lap. It was in a cast for a good long time and when that was off, it turned out she had some hip problems. So she had hip surgery, still just a puppy. Then the eye problems began…some glaucoma and the possibility of cataracts. Her medical bills were way beyond any my sister or me have ever had. The poor poodle takes drops in her eyes multiple times a day.

She is such a joyful dog though and loves to play with her tennis balls and squeaky toys and plastic bones that she gnaws at and shapes into scary pointy dagger-like objects. No joke. She is cuddly sometimes. Just a couple months ago she finally figured out how to jump up on the couch…if there’s food to be had. She is a terrible begger, but what else is a dog to do? She likes to find the sun spots around the house and “tan” her white fur. She has other adorable mannerisms, as all dogs do, that are unique to her. My favorite is when she lays down and drops her head all the way down to the floor; she looks like two or three little piles of snow starting with her head, then her body, and her little tail.

I was away for the weekend but when I came back my parents told me that they were worried she was going blind. She went to the vet and the fears were confirmed: she has cataracts in both eyes and can barely see a thing. I cried and cried when I realized what was happening to my lover poodle. She is 7 years old and like a little old woman now. Poor thing has to sniff her way around the house and has run into chair legs and walls and tripped over shoes on the floor multiple times. It’s so hard to watch because she used to have the run of the house and now depends on us a lot more than she used to. I think it’s freaking her out a little bit, and I can tell she feels insecure about moving from place to place. It mainly takes her longer to find her usual lounging spots; she listens carefully to the sound of our voices calling her, and walks with her nose close to the ground.

Phoebe has a couple spots in the house where she likes to take naps, mostly in corners and behind chairs or under tables. We like to call these her “prayer corners” because she stays there for hours at a time with her eyes closed and her head bowed. And so even though I’ve heard that dogs can handle blindness and learn to depend on their other senses more, I am heading to my own prayer corner (or wherever) to pray that her sight will improve at least a little bit in one of her eyes. Any little bit would help; I want my sprite little dog back, playing with her toys, running up and down the stairs, etc. We named her Phoebe because Romans 16 says, "I commend to you our sister Phoebe...I ask you to receive her in the Lord in a way worthy of the saints and to give her any help she may need from you, for she has been a great help to many people, including me." I know she’s just a dog, but she has become such a part of our family, and we're going to help her, eyesight or not! She is practically our other sister. She is devastatingly cute, her personality fits our family so closely. But for all the times I got mad at her for not wanting to sit on my lap, I now just get excited every time she finds her way back to me.

Happy Birthday Martha (Wright Johnson)

In a recent job interview, the interviewer ended by saying to me, “Well, I have to admit, when I saw your name was Martha, I assumed you would be older.” This wasn’t anything I’ve never heard before so I blurted my default response: “Yes, I was named after my grandmother.” Time after time I am reminded that I must “grow into” my name, for some reason. Because I was named Martha in 1987 when other babies were being named Jessica and Megan and Rachel (my sister’s name). And yet I’m proud of my name because 70-some years ago, my grandmother was born on August 4 (today) and given the name Martha as well. I often wonder if she had to “grow into” her name as well, or if it’s a sign of the times. But either way, I know she has had a life of growing…growing in trusting her Savior, his plan for her life and her family, and the hope that she will spend eternity with him.

The amount I have learned from my grandmother (whom I call Grandmommy) is uncountable. She is a woman of many passions and talents and skills. She has a love for music, beauty and style, food and family, a sharp mind and a creative spirit; perhaps more than that, I learned from her what it means to work hard, to be a servant, and to live a life of faith. My grandmother is the most devoted pray-er I know; she prays for me and her other family and friends daily (maybe even 2 or 3 times a day!) because she believes that it works! And I can attest to the fact that others are blessed by her faithful prayers and she sees the fruition of her prayful trusting in God. I can almost hear her saying herself: “In my desperation I prayed, and the Lord listened; he saved me from all my troubles. For the angel of the Lord is a guard; he surrounds and defends all who fear him. Taste and see that the Lord is good. Oh, the joys of those who take refuge in Him” (Psalm 34: 6-8).

I have watched and observed and talked to my grandmother so many times about the ups and downs of life, the joys and trials, the turns that life takes. Yet I know that she believes that God blesses his children and is faithful to guide them no matter what happens. She also understands how we are all created differently, with a specific purpose in mind for our work, our talents, our passions. As an encourager, she would speak just as Paul did and believe this truth deep down in her heart: “And I am certain that God, who began the good work within you, will continue his work until it is finally finished on the day when Christ Jesus returns” (Philippians 1:6).

I am fairly certain that my grandmother isn’t thrilled by the fact that she shares a birthday with Barack Obama. But this doesn’t have to be the biggest worry of her life. After all, she knows that God is faithful to protect his children. She knows there is nothing to fear because our Savior lives and holds his world and his children in his hands. “Do not be afraid, for I have ransomed you. I have called you by name; you are mine. When you go through deep waters, I will be with you. When you go through rivers of difficulty, you will not drown. When you walk through the fire of oppression, you will not be burned up; the flames will not consume you. For I am the Lord, your God, the Holy One of Israel, Your Savior…Others were given in exchange for you. I traded their lives for yours because you are precious to me. You are honored, and I love you” (Isaiah 43:1-4).

My grandmother is a testimony to the fact that the oftentimes jolting nature of life doesn't have to overcome you, especially not when you have the hope of eternity. So maybe I have growing yet to do, in trusting and believing as fully as my grandmother does. To grow into the name Martha, not because it’s from a decade other than my own, but because of its other faithful namesake. To remember that my Creator knows me by name, that He is growing me more into the person I was created to be (regardless of my name), that he loves me through this whole process, and that he places people in my life to encourage me. Happy Birthday Grandmommy! As a grandmother, wife, mother, sister, daughter, aunt, friend, and faithful child of God, you are a blessing that God has put in my life to be an example, constantly trusting in his purpose and plan, and letting God guide and develop you into the Martha that he created you to be.

Love, Martha (Grace Byrne)

Beating the Heat

I have lived in Oregon long enough (my whole life save 2 years) to know that it gets hot here sometimes. Really hot. While the rest of the nation thinks we're the rainy/cloudy/overcast state, they don't understand the heatwave oppressing us this week! I know, a week of this should be bearable. After all I've been to Texas and could never live in the 100+ weather day after day for an entire season. But the nerd that I am decided to check Weather.com to see what the rest of America is dealing with this week, and I feel satisfied to claim the right as victim. Today, Dallas, TX only has a high of 84 and is overcast, Los Angeles is in the mid-80s as is Miami and they are experiencing some light showers, and New York is experiencing the type of fog that we haven't seen since February I'm sure. The only other places around the country dealing with the same degree of heat as Oregon is Arizona (go figure) and Las Vegas (sin city I suppose). So first of all, I want a new reputation: I don't want people saying that Oregon is rainy and gross because we now have ourselves a spot on the map. The weather map at least.

Anyway, I find myself in somewhat of a panic when the news comes on every other hour, warning us about the warming temperatures. They have at least some advice to keep Oregonians (especially in the metro area) safe and cool. Well, I have some, too! Maybe not as serious as a cooling center for seniors or the top 10 waterworks in the city. But this is what has worked for me.

Only 7 months ago I was trapped in my house due to snow and ice. Now, I'm trapped because it's too hot to move. And I'm unemployed. Our house doesn't have AC, but we do have a daylight basement that keeps fairly cool. Still, this is what I've done to keep from constantly sweating, and thus whining:

**Position myself laying flat on my back, on a couch, with two fans on either side of me, blowing towards each other. Goosebumps/chills actually make you cooler!
**Drink lots of water obviously, with FROZEN LEMONS!
**Eat several pieces of FROZEN key lime pie
**Find something to watch on TV, like a movie. Especially something you can get totally lost in so you don't focus on the heat. For example, I wouldn't normally recommend Lifetime TV but the stories are so dramatic that I watched a whole 2 hour movie about a stalker and barely noticed the sweat dripping off my forehead.
**Jump in the shower once every hour.

And some things that I've learned make you even warmer, so you should avoid:
**Don't do laundry
**Don't dance, even if Ellen is and it looks like fun
**Don't blow-dry your hair
**Don't watch the news because it freaks you out, into a hot flash even
**Don't cuddle with your animals; they wear wool coats.

And otherwise, let's pray this doesn't last much longer. My idea of summer isn't so unbearable.

The Wedding Dress

***It's an honor to share something very near and dear to my heart; a piece I wrote for school, but that connects deeply with my family. It's very un-creatively entitled "The Wedding Dress" and is a short piece about a dress that stands the test of time, connecting between three generations of women at the start of the adventure of married life! True story :D *** (Maybe I'll find some pictures later to give you all a visual!)

The Wedding Dress

Martha, 1952: After modeling the designer gown in a 1952 Rhodes Department Store fashion show, I place the $500 wedding gown on lay-away, making monthly payments until I am paid in full; I refuse for this fashion show to be the last time I wear the dress. Made of ivory Skinner satin, the weighty gown shines from every angle down the aisle. A sheer lace starts at the high simple neck, then ruches over the satin sweetheart bodice, creating delicate horizontal folds; French Chantilly lace creates a peplum around the V-shaped waist before cascading around the sides and down the back, along the cathedral length train. Fit for a February wedding, the dress has long lacy sleeves that point to a V over my delicate hands.

Throughout life, my hands are always busy. Busy with my five children and fourteen grandchildren. Busy working inside and outside my home. Busy at other tasks I love, and some done out of necessity. At least I have had a partner in my husband for over fifty years. We find hope through hardship with parents, siblings, our own children; striving and thriving in variation. Life brings aches and pains, but always moves onward.

Rebecca, 1981: My mother pulls the gown out of its garment bag in the closet for another February wedding—my own. The dress fits but needs minor updating for a 1980s wedding, nearly thirty years after its first trip down the aisle. We trim off the point on the sleeves and hem them into a simple long sleeve. I envision some beadwork to accent the flowers on the neck and bodice. The rest of the dress remains the same; the lace is a delicate sheath with roses shaped by the ultra-fine netting. I am proud to wear my mother’s dress, but do so also because it’s available and it fits. I imagine this will be the gown’s final wear, as styles continue to change. After my wedding, the dress is stowed safely back in the closet, to continue being a remnant of two histories.

My life resembles my parents, but not a direct reflection by any means. For me, life unfolds with joy and struggle as well. How else would it be complete? I navigate alongside my best friends: my hard-working and supportive husband for nearly thirty years, and my two daughters, a mixture of both their parents’ ambition, character and heart. We work hard and play hard. Adventure and trial intermingle, but we always look toward a triumphant love.

Rachel, 2009: Standing in front of the mirror at the bridal boutique, with the dress clipped tightly behind my back to fit, my mother and I admire the cascading lace around my petite figure. Unfortunately this dress, my favorite so far, is $1000 over budget. But there is a dress in the back of my mind: an ivory gown made of satin and lace of much better quality, and in the same flattering style. We leave and stop at my grandmother’s house to try on the dress that my mother and grandmother both wore. It fits almost perfectly, only an inch or so big in places. Fifty years old and much of the dress is back in style; with a little restructuring it will look brand new, but vintage. The satin and lace are still in perfect condition, safe from discoloration. The plans are made and the two of them (much more skilled at sewing) carefully take apart and re-piece parts of the bodice and the waist, removing the sleeves and shortening the train, for my own wedding in May.

I try on my grandmother and mother’s dress again; though altered, the dress is still the same. I stand in front of the former models of this gown and await their response.

“I think it looks better now than when I wore it,” says my grandmother. I beam, my mother tears up, and my grandmother looks proud of all that has passed, all that has changed, and all that is yet to look forward to. Thirty, then fifty, then more years of marriage; hard work, struggle, and success; children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren. A wedding dress endures the test of age and change.