Gilroy is where The Outlets are in the SF Bay Area. It takes me over an hour to get there. It's also where my Allergist/ENT is. The exit to get to his office is even the same as the one for the outlets.
Why am I braving all this?
My throat is sore. My face has been swollen since Monday night. I'm losing my voice -- and I've got a five-hour radio shift tonight.
That's why I'm braving all this.
Dr. Burt isn't just any Allergist/ENT; he specializes in people who do voice work. I got his name from the Music Department at San Jose State University, where they train opera students. The difference between Dr. Burt and any other ENT becomes downright blatant at times like these. Any other ENT would tell me to "take this, cough like hell, don't talk till Monday, and you'll be fine."
Dr. Burt knows better than to do that. My only source of income when I'm not working a day job is using my voice, and he understands this. Instead, Dr. Burt will say, "Take this, this, and this, and you'll have a voice by this afternoon. It won't be a great voice, but it'll be passable." He'll also give me meds so I don't cough, knowing how coughing trashes one's voice. He participates in local musical theatre (he's a baritone), so he knows firsthand what does and doesn't work.
I still remember sitting at Noah's Bagels one Sunday around 11am when I had to go on air at 6pm. Noah's and my at-the-time drugstore of choice were both across the street from the condo where I lived, so I'd picked up my meds he'd prescribed and had just popped them while sipping coffee. All of a sudden everything started opening up. BOOM! I had known there were such doctors when I was a kid and used to watch Johnny Carson as he talked about the doctor who painted his vocal cords so he could talk. Dr. Burt is that kind of guy.
I called around 9:30am. I knew I was sick because I woke up Way Too EarlyTM. This is clearly something I picked up at the radio station; no surprise, as it's easy for germs to spread when all the news anchors use the same mike. All it takes is for one of us to get sick before it spreads to everyone.
Last night was a strain for me because I was sick. I had dinner at Warren's parents' house. I brought my own pomegranate-marinated chicken breasts because his mother was making a roast beef with mushrooms (to which I am very allergic). Warren's sister (who wasn't there; she lives in Hawaii) and I seem to be a study in opposites. Last night I learned her favorite dish is "rice with almonds and raisins." With me, if you want to keep me from eating something, all you have to do is put raisins into it. I hate raisins! I ate a little bit of her sweet potatoes; they were nicely baked and fluffy inside and, thankfully, free from that icky, gooey, sugary stuff so many folks like to add. I like my sweet potatoes plain or with a little rosemary; his family always does them plain, so I was happy.
I skipped dessert, which, as I expected, was something his father "bought with his own two hands" from the grocery store. It was an okay-looking German Chocolate Cake, but given my hypogloycemia and my diet, I wanted to save my calories for something I really wanted. For whatever reason I've been craving peanut butter (but not in a sandwich), and that wasn't it.
We spent a lot of time talking about Fuzzball and their late cats, Angel and Smokey. Warren's family is into pedigreed Persian cats. Smokey was the one he grew up with and the smarter of the two. Angel was born just after Smokey died; she passed away shortly before I met Warren. His mother also talked about Lady, his brother's late Great Dane. Lady was supposed to have been a police dog, but she was too friendly. One time his brother dropped off Lady at their house, and his mother, without thinking, started yelling in Polish at the dog to "go lie down under the kitchen table and stay there." The dog obeyed and was thereall night! They later found out the dog had originally been trained in Poland and imported to the U.S.!
I've told Warren the day our mothers meet it's even odds they'll be going back and forth in Polish. Mom knows "bakery" and "church" Polish from having grown up in a mostly-Polish neighborhood and from going to a Polish church.
His mother gave me some insight as to why Warren won't let me cook for him. Apparently one of his former fiancees cooked something for him, but he didn't like it and wouldn't eat it. (She also hadn't bothered to bounce the ingredients off him before making it.) The fiancee got all bent out of shape over this instead of just filing it away and saying, "Okay, this doesn't work for him." It's also why he doesn't want me to get a puppy. The same fiancee got bent out of shape when the puppy took to him a little more than her. My attitude is, "These things happen." Dad bought Monty for Mom, but Monty liked Dad better. IMHO, if a dog likes someone, go with it.
Oh well...maybe I ought to consome some hot tea...coffee...whatever.