Some of you were wondering what happened with that whole missing gallbladder thing. Okay, one of you was, which is more than enough for me to spill my guts. So to speak. Anyway, after the test, I went back to work, probably getting radioactive cooties all over my desk, and an hour later I got a phone call. If you get a phone call from a doctor that quickly, it’s usually not a good sign. My GP’s office informed me that I was to see a specialist and they’d set up the appointment and everything. “Uh, for what?” I asked. And they said “The hospital didn’t tell you?”
Well, of course not. I asked why I was seeing a specialist and the nurse lady said it was because my gallbladder was dead. Look, I realize we’re not talking about hearts or brains or you know, popular organs here, but I still don’t think you should just tell a person a part of their body is dead just willy nilly over the phone. So I was rather shocked, since my doctor was sure they’d find nothing wrong (and he was partly right as they did find nothing), that there was actually something wrong. I told them that the doctor hadn’t even seen my gallbladder and the nurse said “oh” and covered the mouth piece and I heard muffled talking in the background. “She says they didn’t see it?” This did nothing to reassure me.
“Oh a non-visual gallbladder still means it’s not working,” the nurse said. “Your appointment’s on Friday!”
And she went off to get her latte. This test and phone call took place on Monday. Which meant I had until Friday to Google “Non-visual gallbladder”. I don’t recommend doing this. Pretty much everyone recommends NOT doing this, but I am both a masochist and an obsessive researcher, which makes for a good librarian but kind of a nutball otherwise. I found out that gallbladders aren’t visual on scans sometimes because they’ve shrunk all up and stuff. I bet my award-winning liver is just so embarrassed to have that pathetic gallbladder nearby.
I found plenty of tales of people who got their gallbladders out, and their entire lives were ruined forever and ever. Many warned “Do not let them take your gallbladder!” and I pictured Mel Gibson shouting it in a fake Scottish accent. But the thing is, if the organ’s not working, leaving it in your body isn’t exactly going to do you a lot of good either. Because I read, you might want to put that sandwich down, that gallbladders can rot and get gangrene. Delightful!
So I told people about my dead gallbladder and people were about as enthused as if I’d told them about my dead goldfish. “Ah, happens all the time!” they said. “I know like my sister, aunt, dog, etc had theirs out! Why some people just go get it taken out for giggles! Nothing to worry about.” So I spent the week being annoyed at the people who said this was the end of the world, and annoyed at the people who completely dismissed it. I finally went to the doctor on Friday, and mostly spoke to the nurse, who seems like a nice lady. She told me her husband, the doctor, took out her gallbladder. That must have been interesting. I let my husband work on my car all the time, but I’m not sure I’d let him work on my body. What if he put something back wrong? Awk-ward.
I’ve learned so much about gallbladders. I liken our knowledge of our bodily anatomy to our knowledge of foreign geography. There are many organs in the body that we don’t know the name of, the location of, the purpose of, or that they even exist until there is an attack. Sort of like how we never knew anything about the Middle East till we starting bombing them. I had no idea where my gallbladder was, or my liver for that matter. I’m pretty sure the only organs people know much about are the brain, heart, and lungs, since it’s kind of hard to live without any of them, and you don’t need a road map to find them.
The doctor gave me a pamphlet about my surgery that had a picture of this weirdly happy lady on the cover. There were gross pictures inside it of the gallbladder and the liver, and other pictures detailing the surgery. It’s called Laproscopic, meaning they poke four holes in you like a potato before you put it in the microwave, and then they stick a camera in one of the holes, and their operating instruments in the other holes. I have no idea how they do this, or who first thought up the idea, or how they first tried it out. Did some aspiring doctor just feel like poking holes in his cat one day as a kid? No idea.
So they cut your gallbladder off and seal it and then just whoosh, pull it out through one of the holes in a baggie. I’m not even kidding. They stick it in a baggie, like you might bring your sandwich in (I told you to put your food down). And after that, they re-rout your liver to take a right at the intestines and bang, you’re good to go. Recovery from this takes no time at all! Saying they don’t screw it up somehow! Anyway, it has to be done cause that’s why I’m so sick. So naturally the first time they could get me in to do the surgery was in two weeks, which I’m told is actually very fast for doctors. If it blows up (I’ve heard it can) then I might get in faster.
So I’ve made it one week, and am looking forward to preop and more tests, and then the actual surgery next Thursday. You can bet I’ll have a report, saying I survive and all. I have missed a lot of work, so asked the doctors if I could have a note for work. They said they couldn’t write a note for nothing, cause I hadn’t had the surgery yet, their logic being that I was having the surgery for absolutely no reason, and would only need time off to recover from the not-needed surgery. Apparently. At least my Thing Two was concerned about me.
“How long will you be in the hospital, Mommy?” she asked.
“Oh, I’ll probably get out the same day,” I reassured her.
“Then I don’t get to have fun spending the night at Grammy’s, like when you had Pneumonia?”
Thanks, Thing Two.
One pill makes you larger
And one pill makes you small
And the ones that mother gives you
Don’t do anything at all
Go ask Alice, when she’s ten feet tall
I originally started this blog because I felt my life was much like Alice’s. I never knew whether I was coming or going and nothing ever made sense. Such is life. But add a few chemicals to the mix and boy do you get fun, fun, fun! Soon you are chasing a rabbit down a hole. Or is it chasing you?
And if you go chasing rabbits
And you know you’re going to fall
Tell ’em a hookah smoking caterpillar
Has given you the call
To call Alice, when she was just small
I have been on antidepressants since I was a teenager. I once tried to get off of them and decided, bad idea. People have all sorts of opinions on this subject, but I’m not arguing that. I’m just talking about what’s happening with me, cause that’s what I care about, me. So anyway, if you’ve been reading, I have been going through some medication changes that have affected me just a tad.
When the men on the chessboard get up
And tell you where to go
And you’ve just had some kind of mushroom
And your mind is moving low
Go ask Alice, I think she’ll know
I was put on abilify to help with the other two, and then I was taken off of that cause weight, and then I was put on this one called cytomel (they all sound like alien planets) and then off of that, and then back on that, and just now I had a new shrink tell me that I should go back ON abilify because hey the weight gain will plateau. Or something. He had a thick accent, so I’m not entirely sure what he said. At this point, all doctors sound like these guys to me.
This was the on-call doctor after hours, who told me to tell my shrink that I should like, be on this pill. But now I can’t remember why I got on the first pill to begin with – lack of energy? Feeling all mixed up? Wait, that’s how I feel now. And the whole “it won’t be that bad, trust us” is a load of crap. I’m starting not to trust these people. Is it really paranoia if you’re dealing with shrinks who apparently must be nuts themselves in order to get a license? I don’t think so.
When logic and proportion have fallen sloppy dead
And the white knight is talking backwards
And the red queen’s off with her head
Remember what the dormouse said
Feed your head,
Feed your head
all pictures from Lenny’s Alice in Wonderland site
Lately I have been experiencing the Sad Ponys. I don’t like to talk about this much, because let’s face it, Sad Pony is a real downer. But sometimes his weight is really, really heavy and I need help getting his big pony butt off of me.
Part of my problem is with my medication. Now I’m not one of those people that fears aspirin and thinks Big Pharma is planning a major takeover with doctors around the globe and that if you have depression all you should do is take vitamins and hop on a couch. But I will say that getting the correct meds and the correct dosage can feel much like a nasty trip down the rabbit hole.
Recently I was put on Abilify. They have commercials about it all the time, just like they do for every other medicine, as if we average schmoes can decide if we need a new heart medication even if the side effects are dry eye and death. I always figured that’s why we went to doctors, you know, so those peeps with all that education would tell us what medicine we need. But sometimes they don’t know so they just kind of throw stuff at us cause, doctors.
So I was a bit skeptical about taking this stuff, but I did because lately I’ve had the depression that makes you tired all the time and reduces your emotions to “don’t care”, “really don’t care”, and “fuck off”. So I took it. And it was so far out. It worked. I started having this energy I haven’t had in so long I’d forgotten what it felt like. At work I got some actual work accomplished. I didn’t have to go to bed as soon as I got home from work. Of course I kind of couldn’t go to bed because I was so freaking wired, but that was a small price to pay for experiencing energy and actual emotion. I played a moving song and actually cried because it was so beautiful and I was feeling something.
So when I went to see my shrink I was expecting an attagirl and a prescription and a bye-bye, cause my shrink doesn’t exactly talk to me or look at me for very long, which is generally fine with me. But this time he was very alarmed. ZOMG. I had gained ten pounds in two weeks! Hadn’t I noticed? Well, no, not actually. I experience a fun thing called bloating a lot of the time so I just figured it was that. And anyway, it wasn’t technically 10 pounds because he didn’t realize I gain and lose five pounds like every morning and if he’d weighed me then he’d realize I’d only gained like six pounds. Or so. And also once I told him to check his chart he realized it had been a month, not two weeks, since he’d seen me.
I don’t have a great deal of faith in this shrink. For one thing, he didn’t know when my last visit was. For another, I don’t think he knows who I am. I’m pretty sure he couldn’t pick me out in a line up. In other words, my shrink is an asshat, but that’s not generally a problem cause all I need him to do is sign off on my meds. But this time he took me off, because weight gain is a major problem. I told him I had so much energy, though. And he said, “Good thing, cause you gain all the weight!”
He is still living today by the grace of God.
So after tsking a while about THE WEIGHT he decided to take me off that one and immediately put me on another medication that was “pretty much the same thing.” You know, don’t worry your pretty little fat head, Alice. So I left and just as I was feeling it couldn’t get worse, I realized I had split my pants in the front. Ah. So yeah, I guess I might have put on a little bit of weight. Yay.
I tried the new med. But I wasn’t doing well on it, judging by the amount of crybaby per day increasing exponentially. Of course, since he took me off one and immediately put me on another, I wasn’t sure if it was this drug or coming off of the other drug or something else all together. I looked up this drug and realized it was a medicine for your thyroid. Which he didn’t actually tell me, cause, well, I’m a woman and a regular person, not a doctor, so who needs to know that he’s messing with my endocrine system, am I right?
So I called the shrink nurse (her name is Boo and no I’m not kidding) and she told me to stop taking it and “see what happens.” I love being experimented on. It’s like when Alice was like, wtf, I’ll just eat this crap and drink this stuff and oh SHIT I am 16 feet tall. But I did it, and well, stuff was still crappy but it was hard to tell the current crap from the other crap. This experiment was not very well done. I think these people need to go back to rats.
My friends said I needed a new shrink. So I tried two others. The first one would not take anyone who had seen another shrink in the same town (there are a total of five in this town, two of them children’s shrinks) in the last year. Well, great, so that’s really helpful. Then I tried the other shrink and surprise, she doesn’t take insurance. Of any kind. These people apparently don’t want to have patients. I guess that makes it easier on them, though I’m not sure how they stay in business.
So I was kind of stuck, and I don’t like feeling stuck, and that made the Sads even worse, and I was having trouble even going to work. But I did yesterday, and I made it through. Not with doctors, or meds, but with a little help from my bloggy friends, Merbear and Twindaddy. These guys stayed with me on the Internet, checking in constantly, and keeping me sane. It’s not like they didn’t have other things they could be doing besides entertaining me, but they did it anyway, because they care about me and they are awesomesauce. We talked about intellectual topics like all the ways to say pee (“piss, number one, urinate, oh what a relief it is, etc.”) I made it through the day because of them. Thanks, guys.
I’m not sure what’s ahead, but I figure eventually I’ll get out of this damn rabbit hole. Because there will be someone to throw me a rope. I’m very lucky for that. But I wanted peeps to know because sometimes I use humor to cover up how I really feel (no shit, right?) and that doesn’t help those who are in the same boat floating on a sea of tears, dealing with the mad hatter and that bitch the Queen of Hearts, and everything else Wonderland tosses at you. We aren’t alone. We aren’t ever alone. There’s always a place at the table. New cup, move down.
Dear Blunt Life Coach,
I have some bad news. I think it’s over between us. Yes, you are ever so hot in that storm trooper armor. And I do love how you are, well, blunt with people. Sometimes they need that. Especially stupid people.
But here’s the thing. Not everyone is stupid! Also, it seems like there should be some way to be assertive, but not mean. Cause while I might be a little on the mad side, Blunt Life Coach, you’re just – well you’re just mean. You’re mean to a good friend of mine especially, twindaddy.
Twindaddy is a good guy. He loves his kids. And that’s cool, not wimpy. He cares about people, especially his friends. That’s not a weakness as you say. It’s a strength. The truth is, Blunt Life Coach, you are a bully. Forgive me while I quote Taylor Swift. It’s from her song “Mean” not “We’re never, ever getting back together” though that one applies too.
I bet you got pushed around
Somebody made you cold
But the cycle ends right now
Cause you don’t know, what you don’t know
What don’t you know? You don’t know that twindaddy grows stronger with the Force. He’s not going to listen to you so much anymore. Oh, you’ll still be there, in the background, snapping at him, putting him down. But he knows better now. And I think he’s strong enough to keep you at bay.
We all have one of you in our heads. That voice that says we’re not good enough, that we’re stupid, that we should just give up. Maybe that voice sounds like a parent, or an ex, or some kid on the playground back in school, or a cat whose body keeps disappearing (I will GET you, Cheshire Cat!) Whoever it sounds like, we can’t let it bring us down. We can’t let it become our voice, so that we put down everyone else. There must be, well, balance to our Force.
So that’s a lot to say, well, we are over. And never, ever gettin’ back togetherrrrr! Stick that song in your head, dear twindaddy, and I’m sure Blunt Life Coach will be heading for the hills. If not, I have another solution. You see, there is a new love in my life. I think you know him.
HK-47 is an awesome boyfriend. I can program him to be my boyfriend, you know. Best of all, he comes with some pretty cool programming of his own. He kills annoying people. I’m thinking, since he’s in a video game, that means he can kill virtual people quite easily. Like you, Blunt Life Coach. So here’s the deal. Leave twindaddy alone, or I’m sending him after you.
See ya, you meanie,
But I won’t do that. Good morning, boys and girls. We’ve got Meatloaf on the menu today, because you can never get enough Meatloaf, can you? I got the Meatloaf idea from twindaddy who got it from Squirrel, who posted it on his Facebook page. “But Alice, I thought you took Squirrel off Facebook,” asks none of you. Well, I did, but no matter how many times you try to deactivate Squirrel, he always comes back more hyper than ever. Sad Pony was totally okay with deactivation since that is his normal state anyway.
But back to Meatloaf. I admit that I like his music, well some of it anyway, because it’s so hyper-dramatic. Like me. He could sing nursery rhymes and make them sound angsty. So that’s why I am using his “I Would Do Anything For Love . . . But I Won’t Do That.” for this post. What won’t he do for love? That is a big question my friends and I have spent debating instead of doing actual work. It’s even discussed on the Internetz, but no one really knows for sure. I think Meatloaf was hedging his bets, in case the girl was into something really far out, I mean far out for Meatloaf. How many times can I say Meatloaf in one blog post? How do you think he got the name Meatloaf? Surely his mother didn’t name him that. So he chose it for himself. Why would you choose to call yourself Meatloaf? I mean, I could see Mac N Cheese, but Meatloaf?
But back to the blog post. Sleep. I would do anything for sleep. Except that. I’m not sure what that is, because when I’m really sleepy, which is most of the time except for night time, I would do just about anything for it. Even for another hour of it. I don’t care. I’m like a drug addict that way. One more hit, just one more hit of the snooze button and I swear that’s it! I’ll totally get up then zzzzzzzzzzzz.
But no, I have to get up, put on clothes, eat something and then get my children to do the same. Instead I end up in their beds because everyone needs snuggle time. So we’ve got the three of us in one bed, piled in like bears, and I’m thinking “I would do anything to stay right here for as long as possible.” But time doth marcheth on, so we have to freaking get up. Now they will have the chance, normally, to get more sleep once they are dropped off at their grandmother’s. But WILL they? No. Because they are children, and children waste summer vacation being awake.
When I spoke about Sad Pony and Squirrel to my counselor (she is totes okay with that because she is used to dealing with insane people all day), she asked me what animal I would like to be and I said house cat. Because house cats get to lie around and sleep all day. And she laughed and said she knew I was going to say that. I can’t imagine why. The great thing about cats, though, is that not only do they sleep wherever and whenever they please, they really don’t give a darn if you like it or not. They do not aim to please, cats, because they are independent, confident, and evil. So you understand why the idea of being reincarnated into a cat is so appealing to me. With my luck, I’d be reincarnated as a cockroach and immediately walk into a roach motel.
But right now I’m still Alice, so I have to find a way to stay awake all day. I have my trusty Coca-Cola. Or coke, as we call it, not pop you crazy Yankees. Yes, I’m drinking tons of coke because coffee isn’t nearly sugar laden enough, even at Starbucks. But I don’t think it’s working. My coworker just left the office and I came very close to blurting out “Good night.” And I’m wondering how comfy keyboards are, because pretty soon my face is going to be on it.
So I would do anything for sleep. Except – remember the rest of that song. Or my name. Or what planet I am on. Sleep. Just one more hour and I’m good. No I do not have a problem. I can totally do this. I can stay awake. I can k;uijaidjinknovpyh8iaowsrd
One of the things I’ve learned from yoga is the importance of posture. Turns out if you slump, this does negative things to your back. So THAT explains Quasimodo. I bet that bell tower he lived in was not ergonomically correct.
I know for sure my desk isn’t. It’s from the 1970s, back when computers still filled up a room and no one dreamed we’d all be working on one that could fit on a desk. So we have these old desks with no pull out tray and somehow my wrists have not taken this very well. Whereas I used to cramp after writing a letter, now I cramp when I type for an extended period of time. This is BAD. I mean, maybe not for some of you who are saying for the love of GAWD pleeze stop with the 50 Shades. But without writing, I think my head might explode.
Back to posture. See, posture affects everything. Bad posture can make it hard to breathe, can mess up your back, your neck, your head, your butt, your legs, and of course your wrists. Carpal tunnel, man, it sucks especially when people leave scalpels in your body. With my luck, that would happen if I had surgery. I’d have a knife in me, or worse, a cell phone and I’d keep getting that doctor’s phone calls and wonder what that strange ringing noise in my stomach was and and I’d finally go totally insane.
So posture is important. This is where yoga comes in – it shows you how to have good posture. In mountain pose, you’re supposed to stand firm – like a mountain. Which is tall and firm. Unless there is, like, an avalanche. This happens to me on the yoga mat sometimes. And obviously posture is important while sticking your butt in the air during Downward Dog. Although turns out this is killer on your wrists. Who knew, what with balancing all your weight on them and all. Yet yoga teachers are OBSESSED with Downward Dog. You have to wonder about yoga teachers sometimes.
So I’m trying to get all ergonomic, as much as I’m able. I stuck my monitor on a phone book to make it more level. And I adjusted my chair, though my chair was probably made in the 80s back when aerobics was king and no one gave a damn about posture as long as you jumped a lot and wore spandex. So my chair sucks too, ergonomically speaking. I’ve been typing nonsense for a while now and guess what? Cramp. What to do, what to do. I KNOW! A video!
This is one of the best videos ever – at least it is when made fun of by the MST3K robots. If you’ve never watched these guys rip bad movies apart, you really should. And they’re even funnier on old shorts from the 40s and 50s. This short is the exciting story of a teacher who spends an entire week teaching posture. The kids who do the best become king, queen, prince, or princess of posture! Don’t knock it, you guyz. I was actually elected Queen of Posture back in 3rd grade and it looks awesome on a college application.
So anyhoo, sit back and enjoy and be happy we are no longer back in the good ole’ days.
“I did absolutely nothing. And it was everything I thought it could be.”
– Peter Gibbons in Office Space
A while back I wrote a little post called Epic Quests and Crap Like That. You might remember it, since it got Freshly Pressed, and also since I’m reminding you of it right now. Also there’s that handy link. But anyhoo, I’ve had a lot of time to think about this quest of mine and whether this is the right path for me.
You see, I’m what people might call a “worrier” or “neurotic” or “a total freakazoid”. I can manage to turn the simplest of tasks into a monumental undertaking. And if there’s a book on this undertaking? Look out, I’ll find it. And I’ll research the poop out of it. Yes I will. I have researched more self-help books than you can count. Books on how to lose weight, exercise, be more spiritual, be more of a freethinker, be less of a worrier (ie freakazoid), be more assertive, make more friends, declutter my living space, parent my children, self-diagnose various diseases I might have, diagnose psychological problems I definitely have, manage my finances, manage my husband, eliminate stress, and, of course, simplify my life.
My latest quest, as you know if you read that post that made me, like, famous for 24 hours or so until people realized who I really was, was to lose weight. This did not go well. I didn’t lose any weight. I sort of came up with some new probably good habits. But no weight loss. So then I wrote my Big Fat Manifesto, in which I griped about how people hate fat people and it’s really not fair when there are so many other reasons to hate people, like that they’re assholes. I conveniently left you a link to that too, because I like it when WordPress asks me permission to link to my own stuff.
Anyway, you’re probably wondering what my new quest is now. In the last post mentioned, I said I wanted to get healthier. I think I might know the way to do it. I’ve been heavily influenced by my reading, as usual. One thing I read was this book called Sloth by Wendy Wasserstein. It’s part of this series on the seven deadly sins, only Wendy actually advocates for sloth. Sure, it’s satirical, but like all satire it holds a grain of truth. Sometimes what we need to do most is absolutely nothing.
I’ve mentioned before that I’m sort of lazy. That’s true and not true. While my body often is not off the couch, my mind is always running. I have the thinnest brain ever, next to Ana Steele. Basically, I am both Sad Pony AND Squirrel, which I guess means I am sort of dating Miss Four Eyes. Awesome. Anyway, this book gives you permission to do nothing, and is written as if it is the next great self-help book. You know what? It think it is.
My favorite movie of all time is called Office Space. It was released in 1999, so you might not remember it, but it is still awesome. When I first watched it, I was working for a boss from Hades, so I really identified with the main character, Peter. He works for this mind numbing corporation. His boss treats him like crap, his girlfriend treats him like crap, his job is killing him slowly, and he thinks each day is the worst day of his life. Until he happens to go to a shrink who puts him under hypnosis before collapsing from a a heart attack. Peter stays in this hypnosis, completely relaxed, without a care in the world. What happens afterward is my favorite part.
Instead of working on the weekend, he sleeps most of the day, ignoring calls from his boss and girlfriend. Finally he gets up, happy and refreshed. When the girlfriend calls again, he picks up the phone, glances at it, presses the off button, and goes about his business. There is something about that scene that resonates with me. Here is a situation that just the day before would have had his stomach in knots, yet now, in his relaxed state, he says pfft, and turns the bitchy girlfriend off.
And that’s not all. He goes to work. The same crap happens, only now he’s relaxed and at ease so none of it gets to him. I want that hypnosis. Of course, in real life, that’s not how hypnosis works. But I think we can still get it, if we let ourselves go, and give ourselves a break. Sometimes, it is so nice to simply just be, and those moments are so few. So that’s what I’m trying to do now. I’m embracing my inner hippie sloth – check out the link for a review on an awful kid’s show. I know, I’m on a roll here!
I’ve started doing Yoga with a DVD. I know, me, of all people. But I like the breathing part. The very best pose is one that looks suspiciously like lying flat on your back, but don’t be fooled! This is Yoga, you guyz, and I am getting all spiritual and calm and crap. There’s a lot of stretching and turning this way and that and sometimes I just stop and go “Pfft, she’s kidding, right? Legs don’t go that way.” But mostly I like it. Who knows? Maybe I might accidentally lose some weight, or possibly my asthma will improve, or at least I’ll get to take naps on a mat like in kindergarten. It’s all good.
So I’m working on just going with the flow. Maybe I’ll eat an apple. Or maybe I’ll have a milkshake. Maybe I’ll go for a walk. Maybe I’ll nap. There are endless possibilities on this new path. Reflecting this change in my quest, you might see changes on this blog. I might post a blog post next week. I might post three. I might post none. I might post two in one day. There might be more one word posts (that got me the most hits in weeks). I might not use so many pictures. I might only use pictures. I might have guest bloggers come do my dirty work. You just never know. Isn’t that exciting? Where are you going? Ah, well.
I’ve been on this weight-loss journey a while, and I figured I should let you know my results. You know, as in how much weight I have lost. Here goes:
Unless you count the random five pound loss, or the fact that, I swear to you, I can step on scales, then wait a second, step on them again, and get different answers. I’m not just talking about one scale either. I think scales are powered by tiny evil fairies. And what the hell with the pants sizes? I wear a size 14. When I try on pants in this size, a few fit, some are loose, and most are tight. The same size. Sometimes even the same size in the same brand. The clothing industry: also powered by evil.
Have I exercised more? I think so. I go up and down on that. When my asthma acts up, I don’t do as much. Asthma makes it even easier to do my favorite activity since becoming a parent: sleep. Sometimes I don’t do as much because I’m just tired and lazy. But other times I manage to at least get myself on the exercise bike I bought. I’m determined not to let that thing become a coat rack. I love the calorie counter on the machine. It tells me I burn 100 calories with about ten minutes of relatively light pedaling. Some people in the reviews said they thought this calorie counter was slightly off. Pooey to you people, mine is just right.
What about nutrition? I do try to eat more fiber. On the other hand, I’ve also eaten out more than I should. I read an article, though, that says this is not my fault. McDonalds has subliminal advertising that tells you to eat their fries and kill your parents. You just play their commercials backwards and you can hear Ronald saying this, plain as day. The fast food industry: clowns = evil.
In all seriousness, there is one thing I do not like about this journey. And that would be the feelings of shame. Shame that you are not as skinny as you should be. Shame that you ate a milkshake. And cookies. And . . . good Lord stop eating already! Shame that you didn’t exercise enough. Shame that your clothes don’t fit. Shame that you, single-handedly, have caused the medical industry to implode because they have to treat your sorry overweight behind. Because, you know, skinny people are never ill.
According to the BMI, which is totes accurate, I am overweight. My GP told me I could stand to lose 30 pounds. My OBGYN told me she thought that was too much. 15 pounds would do, but she wasn’t seriously worried. Even the medical establishment can’t agree on this crap. One day I was lying around feeling blue. Thing One asked me why I was Sad Pony. I told her it was because I hadn’t lost weight. She said, “Aw, Mommy, you’re perfect.” I knew I liked that kid for a reason.
My blood pressure is low. I have perfect cholesterol readings. But according to some, I’m going to drop dead of a heart attack any second because eek – overweight! But while I do not have a perfectly slender figure, I’m not obese. These people are the ones who are looked at with absolute disdain. They are judged by both sides of the political divide as inadequate. Lazy, weak-willed, hideous creatures who should be shuttled off to live under rocks. If they could fit under them.
Does this mean I’m advocating for “fat pride” and think people should just eat twinkies all day long? No. But I don’t understand the shame put on overweight people by our society. Heck, even what is considered overweight has changed drastically over the years. Now the ideal weight for a woman requires that said woman have no behind, no breasts, no curves. A stick figure. Just what every man wants, right?
That’s why I like Sir Mix-a-Lot. Sure, you could say the guy degrades women, but hey, he likes big butts and he cannot lie. I like a man who likes big butts. I happen to have one of those, Sir Mix-a-Lot, and I salute you for your stance. My husband seems happy enough with my behind as well. I am the one that is unhappy.
I put a lot of pressure on myself to lose weight. Determination has helped me get through three degrees, two pregnancies, and several depressive episodes. But here I am slumping. I add work, kids, house, chronic allergies, depression, and reality shows, and man, I feel like I’m carrying a huge weight all the time, and I’m not talking about the weight centered in said behind. I’m talking about the weight on my shoulders. And I’m incredibly fortunate. I have a great support system and I have a job with benefits. I don’t want to think about women who don’t have that, yet hate themselves because of what a number on a scale, or a BMI reading tells them.
After judging Jillian, Devil Trainer from Hell, I decided to be fair and watch an entire episode of Biggest Loser. Is it inspiring that these people lost tons of weight? Sure it is. But is it worth it to do it that way, that drastically? I don’t think so. The hell these people are put through at Camp Snoopy Fat-Butt is not reality (Thank God.) I watched the people stepping on the scale after one week on this ranch. One week. And the expressions of sadness when they only lost eight or nine pounds. WTF? Any reputable medical doctor would say one to two pounds a week is optimal. But these people are dropping over 20 pounds a week. Healthy? I don’t think so.
Yet America cheers them on. Way to go, Fatty! As long as you lose weight, who cares how you do it? Who cares what it does to your metabolism, your heart, your mind? Skinny is king. Even anorexics are looked on with less vitriol than those with a few extra pounds, yet who is the healthiest? Remember the Amazon I talked about at the gym? That lady had probably forty pounds on me easy. Yet she could move like nobody’s business, and left me panting in the dust.
Yoda has a saying, one I love so well. “Size matters not. Look at me. Judge me by my size, do you?” Here’s this freaky little green guy about two feet tall, yet he can lift star ships out of a swamp. Likely no one would ever look at that little runt and think he could do something like that. But the media, and popular culture are like whiney, short-sighted Luke. It’s too big! Luke was tall, handsome, and in great shape. But compared to Yoda, especially, he was a total nit wit. I’m surprised Yoda didn’t dunk him head first in the swamp.
That’s what I’d like to do with popular culture that says those I know who are categorized as obese are not worthy of respect. Who says that they don’t deserve medical care because don’t fit into a certain size. Who makes women my age feel like failures because after making and cooking the bacon and taking care of the kids, we don’t look like the models on T.V. Who makes girls as young as my twelve year old daughter not want to step on the scale.
Is this just an excuse not to lose weight? No. It’s just a frustration. I’m still trying to get healthier, because that is better for me. If pounds come off with it, that would be great. But I’m not beating my head against the wall any longer. It hurts too much, and I have enough on my plate of life to put too much stock in what’s on my dinner plate at the moment. I’m a mom, and I’m tired, and I just want to feel good about myself for who and what I am. And until I feel that way, it doesn’t matter what my size is.
Actual headlines at Cosmopolitan.com today *:
Is the Sex Diet Legit?
It’s Coming: Obama Erotica
Hoo-ha smells that aren’t okay
Let no one say Cosmo does not have their hands on the . . . the throbbing pulse of America! This is um, hard news here, people. Since I am trying to lose weight, I figured I’d better check out that Sex Diet first. I think I could handle that.
And OMG, it is so totally legit because Dr. Oz (he’s a real doctor, supposedly, who used to be on Oprah’s show, not the actual land of Oz, although I did hear he successfully treated members of the Lollipop Guild) said so! See, evil carbs cause you to gain weight (cinnamon rollsssss) because they release feel good chemicals and you want more. Sex releases feel good chemicals too! Do you see the connection? I know, it’s like right there!
So our Cosmo reporter decided to bravely test this diet out (for science!) and reach for a condom instead of cheesecake. I do hope she doesn’t eat the condom. Anyhoo, she decides to do this for five days. On day one, she goes to work and watches a clip of True Blood and is so, um, satisfied, by the hot vampire that she no longer wants a donut! And I’m thinking, I want her job. And the donut.
Day Two she watches more TV, this time some show all about diners (sounds fascinating) and gets a craving for carbs and jumps hubby. Hubby must not be as good as the vampire, because she still goes out and gets chips later. Hmm.
Day Three she hears about cupcakes in the work breakroom and sexts her husband to keep her mind off of the cupcakes. Good plan. My husband would probably be like “wtf I’m trying to work” but hers begrudgingly gives her a little something and the craving is gone. Gone!
Day Four the deli brings her toast with her eggs. Oh, nooos! She jumps her hubby, though, and she forgets about food. I’m starting to think Ana Steele wrote this article.
The last day, she gets such bad cravings they have to use porn to stop them! I bet her husband at least likes the diet. Alas, it doesn’t work. So it seems the sex diet is off. Damn.
I guess she should have checked out some “Obama Erotica” instead. Now I like Obama, but I had never really thought of him quite that way before. Sure, I had that dream about him being my prom date (seriously) but that’s it. Well, guess what book pops to this reporter’s mind you will never guess! 50 Shades! Yes, because apparently this is another fan fiction (about the President?) getting all hot with Michelle in Hawaii. I think this person missed the boat. Clearly Clinton porn would have been more interesting, especially with all the multiple characters and whatnot.
Speaking of porn, I wondered if maybe my hoo-ha was alright, you know, smell wise. According to Cosmo, your hoo-ha (what do they call penises? I have to know.) has all sorts of smells. I’m intrigued. It can smell strong and musky (if you’ve just been to the gym or had sex with Squirrel), or fishy (if you’ve just had sex with ice cream.) Cosmo provides a helpful picture of cooked fish beside this part, so that you will never want to eat it again.
Odor number 3 is “chlorine-like or bleachy” and typically comes from gettin’ a little too personal with your laundry detergent. Or from a man using a condom. Odor four describes yeast infections as smelling like bread and the discharge looking like cottage cheese. Anyone up for some fish with a side of cottage cheese? Odor number five is “tinny” and happens when you stick canned foods in your nether regions. Or when you’re on your period.
And finally, odor number six is “sweet”. Apparently you do what you eat, cause different foods cause different hoo-ha smells (and tastes!) I’ve always wanted my hoo-ha to have a citrus smell, like my kitchen cleaner. So I’ll eat oranges and avoid the asparagus which apparently can give your hoo-ha an unpleasant aroma. If only Ana from 50 Shades would eat some asparagus then have Christian come sniff her hoo-ha. That would be great.
So you see, you can learn so much from Cosmo. Now I’m off to go curb my carb addiction with hubby just as soon as I freshen up my hoo-ha and watch Obama’s hot and heavy State of the Union address.
*You cannot make this shit up.