I want a glass of milk, you bastards!

Sunday, July 24, 2011

It’s hard to believe I’ve been able to survive this week. I think it was one of the hardest weeks of my life (insert dramatic sigh & arm thrown across forehead here). I tried to get rid of everything I’m not supposed to eat for the next six weeks (by eating it all) before I jumped on this 6 week medieval torture train, but I still have half a jar of Nutella in my cabinet, and I swear I can hear it screaming my name at night. “EAT ME, BITCH! GRAB THAT SOUP SPOON AND DIVE IN, YOU CHOCOLATE WHORE! LICK IT LIKE YOU LOVE IT!” It hurts my heart when chocolate yells at me.

Good news is, I’m down 10.5 lbs. And that, my friends, is the ONLY thing keeping me going. Well, that and the discovery of chocolate extract, brown sugar twin, and pumpkin pie spice. If I didn’t have those three, I’d most likely be flavoring everything with beer (and probably Nutella, too) and justifying my actions by saying, “Well, it’s not fucking SALT, is it? That’s right! It’s NOT! Fuck YOU!”

Honestly, it’s the no salt and no dairy that’s killing me. Don’t tell Guinness & Jagermeister, but I think I’m breaking up with them, maybe for good. I admit I miss that head-rushy, stumbling, off-kilter feeling when we’re all three cuddled up on the couch squinting through the double-vision as we bawl through weepy chick-flicks while schkoffing bon-bons at night, but I surely do NOT miss the bloating and gas they leave behind under the covers when they sneak out in the morning. And I haven’t had any heartburn in 9 days. That’s kinda awesome.

Yeah… kinda awesome. Yeah.

Er, just out of curiosity, do they make salt-free, wheat-free, sugar-free beer and/or chocolate? And if so, who do I need to bribe/sleep with/beat up to get some?


Gotta go, gotta go, gotta go right now!

Monday, July 18, 2011

So I started a new diet this weekend. And now I feel the need to buy stock in Depends. Seriously. I drink a lot of water anyway, but this diet has me drinking twice what I normally drink. I’m at work and I’ve had to RUN to the bathroom no less than 5 times so far. It’s that feeling like you might have to go, so you wait a little while, and then you know you have to go, but it’s not too, too bad. And then… then once you get to the toilet you’re about to pee your effin’ pants and can’t get them unzipped fast enough. I’ve had some close calls today, fer sure, man.

Am I the only person that happens to?

For the next six weeks, I’m giving up, salt, fat, and dairy. What this means (and I have to write it down again just to force myself to comprehend the magnitude of what I’ve gotten myself into) is that I can’t have: salt, olive oil, alcohol, bread, pasta, milk, yogurt, cheese, cottage cheese, or eggs. These are the staples of LIFE, fer chrissakes! I mean, an average evening meal for me consists of Guinness, Jagermeister, bread/pasta (or both), cheese, and ice cream of some sort (to cleanse the palate, of course). Am I supposed to subsist on greenery alone?! That’s madness, I tell ya! I must’ve been out of my gourd to do this to myself! In fact, from looking at the other things I can’t have, I’m quite certain I must be cracked.

No diet soda unless it’s no sodium – I can live with that because I can have crystal lite. Canned or frozen meats & other veggies have to be NSA (no sodium added). So far, I’ve only found one place that carries NSA tuna, and one can was $4.29! Highway robbery! And do you know how bland most veggies taste without salt? Ugh! I never realized the amount of flavor a little amount of salt brings out in veggies until I tried them without. I need to make friends with Ms. Dash pronto. I’m three days in, and all I can think about is salt, beer, and cheeeeeeeese, glorious cheeeeese.

If the scales hadn’t shown a loss of 5 lbs this morning, I might be ordering a pizza & a six pack right now.


That sounds reeeeeeally good.

Bah! I don’t know if I can make it six days, much less six weeks!

I like my noodles on the al dente side

Wednesday, June 22, 2011

So my thoughtless, evil sibling calls me up yesteday and leaves me the following voicemail: “Mom’s been rushed to the hospital again. She’s bleeding profusely (he actually used the phrase “bleeding like a mutha-fuckin’ sonofabitch”) from her nose and ears.” Click. The end. No explanation. No follow up.

So naturally, I’m freaking out. I’m thinking, “It’s a toomah!” I’m thinking brain hemorrhage. I’m thinking alien parasites. I’m thinking nanite-sized Hobbits are using their big-ass crusty, hairy feet to turn me mums noggin of al dente spaghetti into soggy pasta pudding. (Sounds like Orc mischief to me!) But mostly I’m thinking, “I don’t wanna drive 4 hours! Waaahhhhh! I’m tired!”

Does that make me a bad daughter? Yeah. I thought so.

By the time I arrived, it was nearly over. She had lost 3 pints of blood (from her nose!) and looked like a homicide victim. Turns out it was a ruptured blood vessel in her nose, and her new arthritis med (which shall remain nameless, but is in the NSAID category) was keeping her blood from clotting. And she was NOT bleeding from her ears. My brother is a squeamish drama-queen.

Aside from losing a new robe & nightgown to unsightly stains which will NEVER come out, the mumster is fit as a fiddle. She even got a nice set of scrubs out of it.

What did I get? Nothing. Nada. An aching back from driving 4 hours there and 4 hours back. Well, that and my mom’s okay. So I guess that’s something. Heh. Bad daughter!

Faces of FIRE!

Sunday, April 17, 2011

Earlier this year, I self-diagnosed myself with Rosacea. I’m sure when I next go to the doctor, she will confirm my expert diagnosis, because I researched the shite out of my symptoms… and if you saw my face without makeup (sometimes even with), you’d have to agree.

It’s not pretty. When it flares up, I look like a pizza-faced tween. In fact, I originally thought I was suffering from adult acne. But all of the products designed to treat acne burned my skin (more than they should have), made my color an even brighter red, and caused the bumps that I thought were pimples to multiply. Soooo not cool.

In researching this condition, I found that there are certain foods, conditions, and products that can trigger flare-ups. Here are some of those things.

Cheese. Just knowing that makes me want to eat a whole block of sharp cheddar – by itself. I hanker for a hunk of, a satisfying chunk of, I hanker for a hunk of cheese! Stinky!

Chocolate. Huh. Expect a flare up, like, now.

Beer. Sigh. I will forever look like I’m going through puberty.

Spicy foods & vanilla. Is vanilla not the polar opposite of spicy foods… AND chocolate?! WTF?

Sun. Wind. Cold. Humidity. When the fuck is it okay to go outside? And who’s gonna tell my boss I have to work from home now because the outside is bad for me?

Hot baths. So are cold showers okay? Nope. THAT can cause a flare up, too. Of course, not being able to bathe pretty much cements the need to work from home.

Excessivley warm environments. Hello? I live in the deep south!

Stress & anxiety. So much for working from home. Or working period.

MENOPAUSE. Can someone please tell me how to avoid THIS?

You can see I’m gonna be a whiny little beyotch about this this is going to be a nightmare for me. Sure, it’s not some terminal illness, but, right now, it feels like a too-mah.

That said, there IS a shining beacon of hope in this otherwise dark and dismal time. There is yet one more thing I must avoid in order to limit flare ups. And that thing is… EXERCISE!!

I have a legitimate, medical reason for not working out now! I have a license to be a fatty-fatty-booma-latty! I can be a card-carrying member of the honkey-tonk ba-donka-donk club – guilt free! My face might look like a Santa suit on fire (after all that chocolate I just ate… along with the beer to wash it down), but I feel like I just hit the jackpot.


Parts is Parts

Friday, April 15, 2011

In talking with my co-workers a couple of weeks ago, I discovered that I have to have my birth certificate in order to get my drivers license switched over to this state. Yes, I’ve been living here for over a year and this is just now coming up. I’m a procrastinator. I’ve admitted as much on my “about me” page. So shut it.

I was worried because I was going to have to ask my mom to send the original to me.

First of all, the sweet, old broad has cataracts and can’t see worth a shit anymore, especially close up and far away. So her finding my actual birth certificate (as opposed to a recipe card, knitting pattern, diagram for world domination, blueprints for the apocalypse, etc.) and getting it into an envelope with the correct address on it was pretty much gonna be a crap shoot.

Second of all, she was sending me my ORIGINAL birth certificate. Like from the year I was born and stuff. Which was during the time of free love and junk. I’m pretty sure they didn’t laminate important documents back then, and if they did, you probably don’t wanna know with what. And, well, I was worried that if the mumster did indeed find the BC, and if she did indeed manage to get into a correctly addressed envelope, was I going to be getting an envelope full of dust? Or potting soil, if it rained? But it all turned out okay. I’ve got the BC and will be getting my license switched over within the next 2 years. Maybe five.

This whole license thing sparked another conversation this evening. I found out that if you’re an organ donor, you don’t have to pay as much for your license. The conversation went nothing something like this.

Me: “Well how much do you have to pay if you’re a donor?”
Co-worker: “I think it’s like $4.”
Me: “So how much is it if you’re not a donor?”
CW: “I think it’s $8.”

And I just sat there for a sec thinking about the price tag on my body.

Me: “So my innards are only worth $4??? WTF? I think they were worth more in SC. I feel very undervalued and do not think I will be sharing my parts with people from a state that thinks I’m more inexpensive than I really am.  Because I’m already pretty fucking cheap.”
CW: “But woudn’t it make you feel good if you were a donor and someone who was blind got your eyes?”
Me: “I’m pretty sure I won’t give a shit if I’m dead. And any blind person who was gifted with my eyes would probably want to stab me. I mean, I know my vision sucks ass, but it’s better than not seeing at all, right? Ungrateful wretches.  And hey, speaking of dead donations, you do have to actually be dead before they start strippin’ you for parts, right?  ‘Cause it would piss me off right good and proper if I was in a car accident and some transplant doctor decided to steal my stuffing while I’m still kickin’.”
CW: “… Ummm…”
Me: “Well, it doesn’t matter. I’ve made my decision. If I can’t enjoy my parts, then NO ONE will. Especially not for four fucking dollars.”

And that’s that. I will not be donating my sauced liver, my smoke-filled lungs, my legally blind eyeballs, my black & empty heart, my sub-par grey matter, or my cellulite-pocked arse to science or to YOU. My parts is my precious!  So back off, Frodo!

Perpendicular Underwater Turns

Wednesday, April 6, 2011

I’m blind as a bat. Well, blinder (shut up grammar nazis) than a bat because they have that whole sonar thing going on, and I don’t. But it would be really cool if I did, don’tcha think? I could hang my head out the window and emit high-pitched screeches (just like I do at work) to find my way ANYwhere! Imagine how annoyed and jealous the other drivers would be! I need to look into that. Must find evolutionary scientist to discuss the possibilities.

Ahem. The point is, I’m legally blind. If I lose my glasses, I can’t do anything

So I got a new pair of specs yesterday. But I have to wear bifocals in order to read (that’s what happens when you’re past forty, kids – see what you have to look forward to!). And my new frames are really cute and awesome, but kinda small and narrow. So that dang line in the bifocals is right in the middle of my eye. Seeing with these glasses is like looking underwater. Driving is a new experience – and not a good one because my history of driving underwater is limited (don’t ask).

My eyeball insurance covers regular bifocals, but not the progressive lenses (which don’t have a line you can see), so I figured I’d give the regular lenses a try. Sometimes the desire to save money influences me to make stupid decisions. Like that time I thought driving a lawn mower to work would save on gas (again, don’t ask).

I ended up forking over another $250 (and that’s with insurance! highway robbery!) for the progressive lenses. And I learned something: If you can’t see the road, your “saving money” philosophy is doomed to fail because you’ll probably run into a tree eventually. And tree repairs are costly, I hear.

So here’s some hump day haiku about driving underwater. And no, I don’t know what’s up with all the haiku lately. I must be going through puberty. Or maybe it’s pre-senile dementia.

blurry street signs make
me turn perpendicular
I don’t think that’s right…

middle of the road
stupid whore honking at me
can’t see the road, bitch!

think i’ll take a swim
in the walmart parking lot
no license needed

Let’s Hug

Sunday, March 8, 2009

I’m pleased to say, the “crud” has nearly been defeated. It was an uphill battle for a while, but those spongy organs lodged in my thorax finally rallied to the cause and evicted Mucus and his minions from my respiratory system. That’s right, my babies. Snotty McPhlegmerson has left the building. And good riddance! Here’s a lame haiku dedicated to the former rattle in my chest.

phlegm covered rattle
residing in heaving chest
not safe for children

Snotty McPhlegmerson

Snotty McPhlegmerson

While I was convalescing, I met someone. I’m not usually into hairy dudes, but this guy makes me laugh, and he loves to feed me, so he was kinda hard to resist. I swear, Weight Watchers, I really tried, but Hungry won me over with his charm… and pizza and hot dogs and ice cream and cookies and cake. It’s a good thing he doesn’t mind when I’m bloated and gassy, because I washed all that shit down with a 12 pack of suds (buuuuurp). Hungry didn’t judge me. He just gave me a high-five for holding my liquor, and not hurling the goodies he shoveled down my gullet. I love that about him. I’ve always dreamed of being involved with someone who can appreciate a little fluff on a gal. I think I’ve found Mr. Right.

He's just so huggable.

He's just so huggable.

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