Lately, I've had a plugged-up ear that's been driving me crazy; it came with a spate of dizzy-spells, a touch of queasiness and a pervasive, all-around crankiness. When I finally got around to seeing a doc, she prescribed heavy-duty antihistamines for my Etruscan Tube Dysfunction.
Wasn't sure I'd heard it quite right but it did explain my sudden interest in root vegetables and seared meat. I also had an inclination to lounge on the settee during dinner, secretly hoping my sweetie would feed me small bites and grapes while toga-clad musicians strummed lyres and tootled double-barreled flutes in the background. Roasted wild boar for Thanksgiving, why not? If it was good enough for the Etruscans, should be good enough for us.
But then, what about this "tube" business? Had I just narrowly missed switching my wardrobe to include tube-tops and tube-socks (not a sight for the faint of heart on either account), signing up for tube-a-thons down the raging Russian River, shifting to a diet of sausage, carrots, bread sticks? Penne pasta would count, yes, but what about burritos? I could only hope.
I mentioned my concerns to the doc, who at first looked quizzical, then perplexed and finally laughed outright.
"No, no," she said, "Eustachian Tube Dysfunction, the tube that runs from your ears down into the back of your throat."
So. Great. Now I'm Etruscan and I'm going deaf.