Yesterday afternoon I got home after a week in Florida with my family. We had a great time and it was mostly drama-free, with a few noted exceptions. The first was car trouble. My youngest sister blew two tires on the highway on the way down, then inexplicably had a dead battery (not left-the-lights-on dead. Dead-dead. Needed a new battery dead) a couple of days later. She ended up shelling out nearly $400 in car repairs. Then Rodolfo's water pump died on his car when we were on our way back, an hour from home. That was also $400. So much for saving money by driving. The second mini-drama was related to my apparently calling my 2 year old niece morbidly obese or something and/or telling a grown man to stop calling a 13 year old boy a douche bag. Those blew over pretty quickly though.
The other little drama was snack-related. I'm sorry, did that last sentence sound as ridiculous to you as it did in my head? SNACK-RELATED DRAMA, you guys. Seriously. Let me take it from the beginning:
As I said, we were driving down. Myself, Caitlyn and Rodolfo in his car (yes, we are still separated, in case you were wondering), my mom, step-dad and oldest nephew in her car, our middle sister, her husband and their son in his car and my youngest sister, her boyfriend and their daughter in his car. 4 cars and 3 toddlers. So I decided to make little snack packs for all the kids. I bought ziploc bags and separated portions of goldfish, crackers, and veggie chips for each kid, then threw in a few packs of gummy snacks and juice boxes for everyone. I even made up a ziploc bag for each of them filled with some crayons and folded up paper so they would all have one more thing to keep them occupied for the long trip.
I'd thought of everything. The drinks were boxed, so no one needed to try to pour juice into a sippy cup in a moving car. The snacks were the least messy I could think of. I even provided activities! I was feeling very smug about the whole thing when I texted my mom and sisters to let them know that I'd provided snacks for all the kids, so they needn't worry about it. Obviously they were all grateful. Who wouldn't be?
The ensuing drama had nothing to do with the car snacks, honestly. Everyone loved my awesome car snacks. I only brought it up so you all know how incredibly efficient I am. Okay. Not really (maybe a little though). My point is that I had provided snacks, and I made everyone aware of that fact beforehand (a full 24 hours in advance, even, which is like an eternity in my procrastinatey family). That being said, when you have a toddler, you tend to plan for every scenario. I fully expected that my sisters would also bring snacks along, because what if my nephew decided he hated everything I brought? What if my niece... I don't know, fed all her snacks to an alligator or something (we actually had an alligator in our backyard and an old man standing at the edge of the swamp/lake just begging to be eaten)?
Anyway. We arrived Monday night and went grocery shopping for the week. It was just us girls at the store, and we decided to give Sammi a break, since she had all the car trouble, and split the bill between myself, my mom and my other sister, April (yeah. I'm just gonna use her name now. NO1CURR). So we went about finding what we thought we would need for the week.
Everyone had certain special things they wanted. I picked up some Kashi cereal bars I like, frozen smoothie mix for Rodolfo, and pickles for my burgers. Sammi wanted Fruit Loops and Ramen noodles. My mom... I don't even know, but I'm sure she picked up one certain thing that wouldn't have necessarily been on anyone else's list. Then there was April. Here is the list of things April needed specifically for herself and her family (I should emphasize that she did share if anyone wanted anything. It's not that she was being selfish in that way. She was just being selfish in the way that she made the rest of us split the cost of her excess):
Double-Stuff Oreos
Family Sized bag of M&Ms
Cheerios
Cinnamon Chex ("I need variety, Jaclyn", she responded pissily when I asked if we really needed 3 different kinds of cereal- "besides, I don't eat Fruit Loops")
Apples and Grapes
Coffeemate
2 boxes of frozen mini-pancakes (because despite the fact that we bought pancake mix, she insisted that her son would only eat the frozen mini ones)
Lysol Wipes (she insisted these were "for the house", even though everyone else thought paper towels were perfectly fine)
My mom and Sammi and I were annoyed, especially since Sammi, despite already being out $280 in car repairs at this point, had to practically be bound and gagged before she would let us pay for her fucking Fruit Loops and Ramen noodles. But it was April's vacation too. We all sort of rolled our eyes and moved on.
This is the point where you understand why I mentioned the car snacks I brought. Because when we got back and unpacked our groceries, everyone also started unpacking their personal stuff too. This is when we saw the stash of snacks that April had brought from home (please note that I don't mean she brought a few of anything. These were all regular sizes boxes of shit):
EL Fudge cookies
Chewy Chips Ahoy cookies
Teddy Grahams- vanilla
Teddy Grahams- chocolate
Wheat Thins
Assorted bag of Starbursts and Skittles (you know, those giant bags you buy to distribute for Halloween)
A full day passed before April became displeased with the "variety" of snacks available to her. I woke up Wednesday morning to see her returning from Target, where she bought:
Target bakery sugar cookies
Target bakery chocolate chip cookies
2 boxes of chocolate chip granola bars
2 family sized boxes of Pop-Tarts
Milano cookies
A giant bag of popcorn
A box of microwave popcorn
5 candy bars (these, she informed everyone, were just for her though- no sharing!)
a cheesecake
3 bags of assorted varieties of potato chips (family sized, of course)
If we had planned to stay for a month, this would still be an absolutely ridiculous amount of snacks. And we did actually buy food too! And soda. Seemingly gallons of it disappeared while we were there. I won't say I didn't eat any snacks or drink any soda. I certainly did, but if I'd had my way, I wouldn't have had all this shit sitting there for me to eat in the first place!
I guess my point is that I hope my sister doesn't get diabetes? Also, my mom reads this blog, so she can confirm that this is absolutely not an exaggeration. I actually wrote down the list of snacks because it was so ridiculous to me that I knew it would be a blog post on the very first night.
Anyway. There's lots of other stuff. I promise some pictures of me swimming with a dolphin and also another post about all the ways in which my dad fails at life (he watched my dog while I was away. Stop thinking "well, that was nice of him"- you haven't heard the story yet).
Showing posts with label nutrition-schmutrition. Show all posts
Showing posts with label nutrition-schmutrition. Show all posts
Tuesday, August 21, 2012
Tales From Vacation- Snack Attack (Which is Admittedly Weird, Especially Since There Was an Alligator)
Friday, June 22, 2012
Gymmy Buffet
I've been trying to lose weight. I believe I've mentioned it before. I've gone back and forth with it, losing and regaining the same 10lbs or so for years, but when I realized that I was just weeks away from my 30th birthday, it occurred to me that I couldn't keep fucking around like that.
I gave myself an extremely short-term goal- I wanted to lose 8 pounds in the 3 weeks I had until I turned 30, so I've been going to the gym a lot. Mostly it's been fine, but I almost stabbed some bitches the other day. Let me set the scene for you:
I showed up on my lunch break, like usual. This means I only had 20 or so minutes to work out. Twenty minutes, when you are working with what I've got, really isn't much time to make an impact. It's certainly not enough time to deal with the level of bullshit I dealt with that day.
I was feeling pretty tired, because I had my shot the night before and it's been wiping me out. Still, I felt the need to do at least a little cardio, so I jumped on a treadmill and figured I could spend 10 minutes there and 10 minutes using a few of the weight machines.
While I walked on the treadmill, I noticed a couple of things. First, there was a small group of girls wandering around with one of the trainers. They giggled and chatted and had him take pictures of them while the stood on the windowsill near the treadmills in yoga poses. It was strange, but they were young and bimbo-y enough that I didn't think much of it. I also noticed that all the girls were wearing nametags, but I didn't care enough to actually look and see where they were from. I assumed it was some sort of women's college or something doing a pathetic excuse for a field trip.
The next thing I noticed was much weirder. The layout of my gym... it isn't exactly cramped, but it's certainly not a large space either. Half the space is the mirrored, lady-gym exercise class area and the other half is evenly split between cardio equipment and weight machines.
There was a class going on and I glanced toward the back of the class while I walked. Sometimes I do this. Sometimes I want to see how the other people like me, the ones who hide in the back of the class, are doing. Back when I was young, I was somehow more insecure but simultaneously more game to try out a class. Now? Not so much. I've tried two classes. One was a toning class that I really enjoyed but never went back to because I don't usually have anyone to watch Caitlyn during that time. The other one was a cardio class. I made it less than 10 minutes into that one and gave up (though this was about a week before I went into the hospital in January, so maybe it wasn't just that I couldn't handle it).
And everyone keeps saying to try Zumba. How Zumba is SO. MUCH. FUN. Lady Gym likes to play infomercials for Zumba during the Zumba classes. When I first signed up, I really wanted to check it out. My white girl, rhythm-deficient insecurities, however, would not allow me do it alone. So I recruited Nadine to go to Zumba class with me. Well, true to form, I was running late and showed up 10 minutes into the class. Nadine spotted me from across the room and immediately stopped Zumba-ing and walked over to me. "I'm done, Jaclyn. I look like the Pillsbury Doughboy doing Zumba". And that was all I needed to hear. No one wanted to see TWO Pillsbury Doughboys embarrassing themselves like that. Zumba was now dead to me.
I'm off track here. Way off track. My point certainly isn't about the Pillsbury Doughboy, though, now that I think of it, this segue is kind of genius (thank you, Nadine). Because at the back of the class area, where there was a class going on at that very moment, were two tables full of catering trays.
Yes. You read that right. At my gym. Where I go to lose weight. Was a fucking BUFFET LINE.
I'm insecure. I have very little willpower. Did there really need to be a buffet at the gym? It was worse, probably, for the girls like me at the back of the class, struggling to keep up while the smell of food wafted up their noses. I don't know. Maybe I was just overreacting because I've been sticking to a fairly strict diet and feeling a little sensitive? Actually, no. No fucking buffet at the gym. That should be a fucking rule. If they want to put up signs about the fact that they will ABSOLUTELY NOT make an exception for you if you forget your card, then I think they should have a no fucking buffet rule.
Anyway. My ten treadmill minutes were up. The treadmills face the window, so I didn't notice the chaos that had filtered in behind me. I stepped off and turned to face 40 nametag clad women just milling around, using the weight machines, the elliptical, the spot on the floor directly in front of the locker room, as their hang out space.
I found a machine that wasn't being used as a chair and sat down. As I worked out, I started feeling really fucking annoyed. Who were these bitches? Didn't anyone teach them any manners? Also, did they know what a bunch of assholes they all looked like, clad in yoga pants and tank tops, lazing around like they were at their high school gym, sitting in the bleachers hoping not to get a 0 for the day because, hey, at least they changed? I was not there because I had to be, and they were fucking up my shit.
Hostility breeds curiosity sometimes for me. The question of "who are these bitches" was getting to me. I imagined then that this MUST be some sort of bullshit college trip, because grown women don't act like they are still in high school.
That's when I noticed it. The nametags. They all had the name of my gym on them. And the name of the person. And their titles. "Manager", "Trainer", etc. These were EMPLOYEES of the gym, sent from other locations, apparently to have some sort of meeting and a fucking buffet lunch.
Dear Lady Gym,
You are one gentle misstep away from dead-to-me status. Do not pull some shit like that again.
Oh, and in case you were wondering, I DID reach my goal. I'm down 10 pounds in 4 weeks. I mostly attribute it to there not being buffets most days at the gym.
I gave myself an extremely short-term goal- I wanted to lose 8 pounds in the 3 weeks I had until I turned 30, so I've been going to the gym a lot. Mostly it's been fine, but I almost stabbed some bitches the other day. Let me set the scene for you:
I showed up on my lunch break, like usual. This means I only had 20 or so minutes to work out. Twenty minutes, when you are working with what I've got, really isn't much time to make an impact. It's certainly not enough time to deal with the level of bullshit I dealt with that day.
I was feeling pretty tired, because I had my shot the night before and it's been wiping me out. Still, I felt the need to do at least a little cardio, so I jumped on a treadmill and figured I could spend 10 minutes there and 10 minutes using a few of the weight machines.
While I walked on the treadmill, I noticed a couple of things. First, there was a small group of girls wandering around with one of the trainers. They giggled and chatted and had him take pictures of them while the stood on the windowsill near the treadmills in yoga poses. It was strange, but they were young and bimbo-y enough that I didn't think much of it. I also noticed that all the girls were wearing nametags, but I didn't care enough to actually look and see where they were from. I assumed it was some sort of women's college or something doing a pathetic excuse for a field trip.
The next thing I noticed was much weirder. The layout of my gym... it isn't exactly cramped, but it's certainly not a large space either. Half the space is the mirrored, lady-gym exercise class area and the other half is evenly split between cardio equipment and weight machines.
There was a class going on and I glanced toward the back of the class while I walked. Sometimes I do this. Sometimes I want to see how the other people like me, the ones who hide in the back of the class, are doing. Back when I was young, I was somehow more insecure but simultaneously more game to try out a class. Now? Not so much. I've tried two classes. One was a toning class that I really enjoyed but never went back to because I don't usually have anyone to watch Caitlyn during that time. The other one was a cardio class. I made it less than 10 minutes into that one and gave up (though this was about a week before I went into the hospital in January, so maybe it wasn't just that I couldn't handle it).
And everyone keeps saying to try Zumba. How Zumba is SO. MUCH. FUN. Lady Gym likes to play infomercials for Zumba during the Zumba classes. When I first signed up, I really wanted to check it out. My white girl, rhythm-deficient insecurities, however, would not allow me do it alone. So I recruited Nadine to go to Zumba class with me. Well, true to form, I was running late and showed up 10 minutes into the class. Nadine spotted me from across the room and immediately stopped Zumba-ing and walked over to me. "I'm done, Jaclyn. I look like the Pillsbury Doughboy doing Zumba". And that was all I needed to hear. No one wanted to see TWO Pillsbury Doughboys embarrassing themselves like that. Zumba was now dead to me.
I'm off track here. Way off track. My point certainly isn't about the Pillsbury Doughboy, though, now that I think of it, this segue is kind of genius (thank you, Nadine). Because at the back of the class area, where there was a class going on at that very moment, were two tables full of catering trays.
Yes. You read that right. At my gym. Where I go to lose weight. Was a fucking BUFFET LINE.
I'm insecure. I have very little willpower. Did there really need to be a buffet at the gym? It was worse, probably, for the girls like me at the back of the class, struggling to keep up while the smell of food wafted up their noses. I don't know. Maybe I was just overreacting because I've been sticking to a fairly strict diet and feeling a little sensitive? Actually, no. No fucking buffet at the gym. That should be a fucking rule. If they want to put up signs about the fact that they will ABSOLUTELY NOT make an exception for you if you forget your card, then I think they should have a no fucking buffet rule.
Anyway. My ten treadmill minutes were up. The treadmills face the window, so I didn't notice the chaos that had filtered in behind me. I stepped off and turned to face 40 nametag clad women just milling around, using the weight machines, the elliptical, the spot on the floor directly in front of the locker room, as their hang out space.
I found a machine that wasn't being used as a chair and sat down. As I worked out, I started feeling really fucking annoyed. Who were these bitches? Didn't anyone teach them any manners? Also, did they know what a bunch of assholes they all looked like, clad in yoga pants and tank tops, lazing around like they were at their high school gym, sitting in the bleachers hoping not to get a 0 for the day because, hey, at least they changed? I was not there because I had to be, and they were fucking up my shit.
Hostility breeds curiosity sometimes for me. The question of "who are these bitches" was getting to me. I imagined then that this MUST be some sort of bullshit college trip, because grown women don't act like they are still in high school.
That's when I noticed it. The nametags. They all had the name of my gym on them. And the name of the person. And their titles. "Manager", "Trainer", etc. These were EMPLOYEES of the gym, sent from other locations, apparently to have some sort of meeting and a fucking buffet lunch.
Dear Lady Gym,
You are one gentle misstep away from dead-to-me status. Do not pull some shit like that again.
Oh, and in case you were wondering, I DID reach my goal. I'm down 10 pounds in 4 weeks. I mostly attribute it to there not being buffets most days at the gym.
Thursday, June 7, 2012
So, You Think You are Having a Heart Attack
I should clarify. I didn't think I was having a heart attack. I thought that my MS meds ate through my aorta and my heart was about to explode. Or something. Anyway. Chest pains.
I know that logically, you should not wait 2 weeks to visit a doctor if you are having chest pains. I also know that my neurologist's office is a fucking pain in the ass to get on the phone. And Dr. Google always has good ideas about what is ailing me.
In any case, if you are wondering what you should do if you believe you are having a heart attack (or a mutilated aorta), I'm going to give you a step-by-step guide based on my experience (I feel the need to apologize in advance to anyone who finds this post through Dr. Google and is looking for actual advice. GO TO THE FUCKING HOSPITAL. THIS IS NOT WHAT YOU ARE LOOKING FOR):
1. Ignore. I mean, you have been working out a lot trying to reach your goal of losing 8lbs by your birthday which is only 2 weeks away. Your muscles are probably just sore from all that activity (I mean, it is kinda weird that the only sore muscle you seem to have is in your upper left chest, but whatever).
2. Skip the gym for a couple of days. This is the gold standard for heart attack diagnosis. If your chest still hurts after skipping the gym, you are obviously dying.
3. Decide you are obviously dying. God, not before the end of the work day though, you lazy bitch. This can clearly wait until after 5:00pm.
4. Send a nonchalant text to your estranged husband on the train ride home. Does he think you should go to the ER for "this chest pain thing"?
5. Make babysitting arrangements. Obviously you aren't dragging a toddler to the ER.
6. Stop at Wendy's on the way to your aforementioned babysitting arrangements. Do you realize how long you will be in the ER? It's dinner time, you are starving and you won't be home until midnight. Also? Do you even understand how shitty that "heart healthy" diet is that they will obviously put you on after your shredded aorta is diagnosed? Priorities, people. This is the most important step. You must stop at Wendy's (McDonalds or Burger King are fine too, as long as you are soaking up as much fat and sodium as possible before your big trip to the ER- you are going to need your energy!).
7. Chat with your brother-in-law for several minutes about his plans for the evening. Your kid LOVES spending time with her cousin and uncle!
8. Finally head over to the ER. Don't be discouraged when the woman behind the reception desk spends 2 full minutes ignoring you while she hole-punches name badges. Chest pain is like an express ticket to PROCEDUREVILLE and you will be on your way any minute!
9. Skip triage. Go directly to the place the paramedics bring their ambulance patients! You are rolling in style now (literally. They won't let you walk, so you have to make the 50 foot journey by wheelchair)!
10. Take off your shirt for that EKG. God, your tits are looking old! It's okay though. The other 3 people in the room don't seem to notice.
11. Your EKG is normal. Time to start waiting! It's been a busy day in the ER, so your gurney is rolled next to the food trays and refrigerator, directly across from the guy who picks his nose continuously, the entire time he is in your sight lines.
12. "Take deep breaths" for at least 5 different people so they can listen to your lungs. Tell the exact same story 5 separate times- did you think people WROTE THINGS DOWN in the ER? You silly girl!
13. It's been 2 hours and your chest is still hurting? Well you are in luck- PERCOCET!
14. Try not to doze off while listening to the woman next to you chatter on the phone about how she has no signal and she had to borrow the hospital's land line and she can only make local calls and the battery is almost dead on this phone, but somehow she has enough power left to make 3 more 20 minute calls after that, where she tells everyone she has ever known (with the exception of her sister and fiance, as she noted to one lucky caller, because she had not been in touch with them yet- WHO THE FUCK WERE YOUR FIRST 4 CALLS TO, YOU DUMB WHORE?) about how she can't BELIEVE her gynocologist missed her internally bleeding ovary-because- ISN'T THAT HER SPECIALTY??? Also wonder why she keeps pointing out that "several friends already offered to come, but I told them not to bother because I'm going to be SUCH bad company!". You know what, lady? Agreed. You are fucking terrible company. Also? I hope no one else in this fucking ER actually needed to call someone besides their top 5 besties- you know, like their husbands or mothers or sisters- because you've been hogging the only land line in this cell reception dead zone for at least 2 hours. Also, you are a cunt, which is probably why your ovary is exploding.
15. Since percocet has done literally nothing for you, and your heart and blood tests have all been normal, your doctor informs you that he suspects acid reflux and will be bringing you something for your stomach to see if that helps. "Is it pills or something nasty I have to drink?", you may decide to ask. At this point he will lie to you and tell you "It's a drink, but it actually tastes really good. I had to drink it once".
16. After another hour of waiting, they finally bring you your "GI Cocktail". The nurse informs you that it contains "Maalox, Lidocaine and... blah blah blah other stomach stuff". This is another lie. Based on color, consistency, volume and taste, I suspect the actual contents are as follows: Horse semen, shampoo, grape flavored Triaminic.
17. Spend 15 minutes trying to choke down your "cocktail". Gag repeatedly. Feel surprised that even after the numbing effects of the horse semen kick in, the taste and texture are still so blatantly revolting that you can barely manage to drink it at all. After making it through 90% or so, declare "fuck this" and refuse to drink anymore.
18. Wait around and find that your chest pain is starting to subside. Feel dumb that you spent the entire night in the ER for what amounts to heartburn and a really big fart.
19. Take your first full dose of MS medication (if you do not have MS, I suggest something equally likely to cause "flu-like symptoms". Maybe go around licking some of the other patients). You don't know this yet, especially since you've mostly handled it really well, but the 5 hours you'll have left to sleep by the time you get home will be considerably disturbed when you wake up shaking with chills from your high fever, and aching from head-to-toe.
20. Get discharged without so much as a prescription for Nexium or a suggestion to take some extra-strength Maalox. "Follow up with your regular doctor" or some shit.
Your heart attack is now complete. Enjoy being tired as fuck at work tomorrow (because really, you can't call out and say "well, I thought I was having a heart attack but apparently I just had a really spicy burrito, so I'm just going to stay home today").
I know that logically, you should not wait 2 weeks to visit a doctor if you are having chest pains. I also know that my neurologist's office is a fucking pain in the ass to get on the phone. And Dr. Google always has good ideas about what is ailing me.
In any case, if you are wondering what you should do if you believe you are having a heart attack (or a mutilated aorta), I'm going to give you a step-by-step guide based on my experience (I feel the need to apologize in advance to anyone who finds this post through Dr. Google and is looking for actual advice. GO TO THE FUCKING HOSPITAL. THIS IS NOT WHAT YOU ARE LOOKING FOR):
1. Ignore. I mean, you have been working out a lot trying to reach your goal of losing 8lbs by your birthday which is only 2 weeks away. Your muscles are probably just sore from all that activity (I mean, it is kinda weird that the only sore muscle you seem to have is in your upper left chest, but whatever).
2. Skip the gym for a couple of days. This is the gold standard for heart attack diagnosis. If your chest still hurts after skipping the gym, you are obviously dying.
3. Decide you are obviously dying. God, not before the end of the work day though, you lazy bitch. This can clearly wait until after 5:00pm.
4. Send a nonchalant text to your estranged husband on the train ride home. Does he think you should go to the ER for "this chest pain thing"?
5. Make babysitting arrangements. Obviously you aren't dragging a toddler to the ER.
6. Stop at Wendy's on the way to your aforementioned babysitting arrangements. Do you realize how long you will be in the ER? It's dinner time, you are starving and you won't be home until midnight. Also? Do you even understand how shitty that "heart healthy" diet is that they will obviously put you on after your shredded aorta is diagnosed? Priorities, people. This is the most important step. You must stop at Wendy's (McDonalds or Burger King are fine too, as long as you are soaking up as much fat and sodium as possible before your big trip to the ER- you are going to need your energy!).
7. Chat with your brother-in-law for several minutes about his plans for the evening. Your kid LOVES spending time with her cousin and uncle!
8. Finally head over to the ER. Don't be discouraged when the woman behind the reception desk spends 2 full minutes ignoring you while she hole-punches name badges. Chest pain is like an express ticket to PROCEDUREVILLE and you will be on your way any minute!
9. Skip triage. Go directly to the place the paramedics bring their ambulance patients! You are rolling in style now (literally. They won't let you walk, so you have to make the 50 foot journey by wheelchair)!
10. Take off your shirt for that EKG. God, your tits are looking old! It's okay though. The other 3 people in the room don't seem to notice.
11. Your EKG is normal. Time to start waiting! It's been a busy day in the ER, so your gurney is rolled next to the food trays and refrigerator, directly across from the guy who picks his nose continuously, the entire time he is in your sight lines.
12. "Take deep breaths" for at least 5 different people so they can listen to your lungs. Tell the exact same story 5 separate times- did you think people WROTE THINGS DOWN in the ER? You silly girl!
13. It's been 2 hours and your chest is still hurting? Well you are in luck- PERCOCET!
14. Try not to doze off while listening to the woman next to you chatter on the phone about how she has no signal and she had to borrow the hospital's land line and she can only make local calls and the battery is almost dead on this phone, but somehow she has enough power left to make 3 more 20 minute calls after that, where she tells everyone she has ever known (with the exception of her sister and fiance, as she noted to one lucky caller, because she had not been in touch with them yet- WHO THE FUCK WERE YOUR FIRST 4 CALLS TO, YOU DUMB WHORE?) about how she can't BELIEVE her gynocologist missed her internally bleeding ovary-because- ISN'T THAT HER SPECIALTY??? Also wonder why she keeps pointing out that "several friends already offered to come, but I told them not to bother because I'm going to be SUCH bad company!". You know what, lady? Agreed. You are fucking terrible company. Also? I hope no one else in this fucking ER actually needed to call someone besides their top 5 besties- you know, like their husbands or mothers or sisters- because you've been hogging the only land line in this cell reception dead zone for at least 2 hours. Also, you are a cunt, which is probably why your ovary is exploding.
15. Since percocet has done literally nothing for you, and your heart and blood tests have all been normal, your doctor informs you that he suspects acid reflux and will be bringing you something for your stomach to see if that helps. "Is it pills or something nasty I have to drink?", you may decide to ask. At this point he will lie to you and tell you "It's a drink, but it actually tastes really good. I had to drink it once".
16. After another hour of waiting, they finally bring you your "GI Cocktail". The nurse informs you that it contains "Maalox, Lidocaine and... blah blah blah other stomach stuff". This is another lie. Based on color, consistency, volume and taste, I suspect the actual contents are as follows: Horse semen, shampoo, grape flavored Triaminic.
17. Spend 15 minutes trying to choke down your "cocktail". Gag repeatedly. Feel surprised that even after the numbing effects of the horse semen kick in, the taste and texture are still so blatantly revolting that you can barely manage to drink it at all. After making it through 90% or so, declare "fuck this" and refuse to drink anymore.
18. Wait around and find that your chest pain is starting to subside. Feel dumb that you spent the entire night in the ER for what amounts to heartburn and a really big fart.
19. Take your first full dose of MS medication (if you do not have MS, I suggest something equally likely to cause "flu-like symptoms". Maybe go around licking some of the other patients). You don't know this yet, especially since you've mostly handled it really well, but the 5 hours you'll have left to sleep by the time you get home will be considerably disturbed when you wake up shaking with chills from your high fever, and aching from head-to-toe.
20. Get discharged without so much as a prescription for Nexium or a suggestion to take some extra-strength Maalox. "Follow up with your regular doctor" or some shit.
Your heart attack is now complete. Enjoy being tired as fuck at work tomorrow (because really, you can't call out and say "well, I thought I was having a heart attack but apparently I just had a really spicy burrito, so I'm just going to stay home today").
Monday, May 14, 2012
Where I Try To Be Less Depressing, So I Write About My Biggest Insecurities (I swear it made sense at the time)
A few months back (and by a few months, obviously I mean over a year ago), I set a goal for myself for my 30th birthday that I would be under a certain weight (and no, I most certainly am NOT going to give you a number).
It started off okay. I joined Weight Watchers and lost 15lbs in a couple of months. Then I started to slack a bit and decided joining a gym would be the next logical step to get my ass in line. And I went to the gym pretty regularly, except that it didn't help much because I got REALLY lazy about my eating habits again. Then I got sick, gained back 10lbs and lost all my motivation.
And so here I am, less than a month out from my BIG, SCARY birthday and only about 5lbs away from where I started. I've been trying to get back on track, but it seems I can only manage to get to the gym for a grand total of about an hour a week. I am not going to get anywhere near my original goal.
I'll keep working on it though. Because in addition to the flat-out vanity of the issue, I'm also creeping closer to the age my mom was when she started having heart problems. And I have MS. And I'm going to be single. All signs point to "be less of a fat ass".
I find that when I go to the gym, I have a couple of distinct regimens I rotate between:
The first is the "Burn Fat, You Fatty Fatty Fatass" routine. I usually hit the gym on my lunch break which only gives me about 20 minutes of actual workout time. So I'm usually in this mode, which consists entirely of cardio. I'll jump on an elliptical and stay there until I have to go back to work. The do-only-cardio thing is usually what happens when I'm not being consistent enough about going to the gym.
Second is the "Muscle Burns More Fat than... Fat" routine. There are actually two versions of this one, but the idea is the same. I rotate cardio and weight lifting. The difference is in the weight lifting. My time is limited, so I can't ever do everything I want to do and so I have to choose which weight machines to use. In version one, I decide to make an impact where I think I'll see it the most. This means I focus on my arms and chest mostly. I figure I'll just hide my ass fat and linebacker calves and gut in baggy bottoms while my gloriously toned biceps and extra perky tits take center stage. Because my arms are certainly jiggly, but I do at least see a difference when I focus on them for a while (meaning, mostly that they are LESS jiggly for a while).
Then there is full on "Body Hate" mode. This is the other version of the cardio-weight lifting rotation. This is where I decide to focus on the parts of my body that I hate the most, which are my stomach and thighs. I'll push extra hard on the cardio, then do way more stomach and thigh exercises than is absolutely necessary and I won't be able to walk without aching for a few days. This never lasts long though, because I won't see any real measurable results and so I'll skip the gym for a week or two and go back to doing mostly cardio.
I guess I'm in a little bit of a rut. I need to get serious about the gym again, and, more importantly, about eating right. I tend to let things like parties and weekends and free snacks at work derail the shit out of my goals. I know I can do it, but being in the hospital earlier this year really fucked up my shit. I felt like I couldn't get back into the swing of things until just very recently. Having the goal in mind of my birthday helped to keep me focused at first, and now that I know I won't make it, I feel like I need another placeholder. Something arbitrary even. My goal is 25 or so pounds away. Someone give me an arbitrary deadline to reach that goal.
It started off okay. I joined Weight Watchers and lost 15lbs in a couple of months. Then I started to slack a bit and decided joining a gym would be the next logical step to get my ass in line. And I went to the gym pretty regularly, except that it didn't help much because I got REALLY lazy about my eating habits again. Then I got sick, gained back 10lbs and lost all my motivation.
And so here I am, less than a month out from my BIG, SCARY birthday and only about 5lbs away from where I started. I've been trying to get back on track, but it seems I can only manage to get to the gym for a grand total of about an hour a week. I am not going to get anywhere near my original goal.
I'll keep working on it though. Because in addition to the flat-out vanity of the issue, I'm also creeping closer to the age my mom was when she started having heart problems. And I have MS. And I'm going to be single. All signs point to "be less of a fat ass".
I find that when I go to the gym, I have a couple of distinct regimens I rotate between:
The first is the "Burn Fat, You Fatty Fatty Fatass" routine. I usually hit the gym on my lunch break which only gives me about 20 minutes of actual workout time. So I'm usually in this mode, which consists entirely of cardio. I'll jump on an elliptical and stay there until I have to go back to work. The do-only-cardio thing is usually what happens when I'm not being consistent enough about going to the gym.
Second is the "Muscle Burns More Fat than... Fat" routine. There are actually two versions of this one, but the idea is the same. I rotate cardio and weight lifting. The difference is in the weight lifting. My time is limited, so I can't ever do everything I want to do and so I have to choose which weight machines to use. In version one, I decide to make an impact where I think I'll see it the most. This means I focus on my arms and chest mostly. I figure I'll just hide my ass fat and linebacker calves and gut in baggy bottoms while my gloriously toned biceps and extra perky tits take center stage. Because my arms are certainly jiggly, but I do at least see a difference when I focus on them for a while (meaning, mostly that they are LESS jiggly for a while).
Then there is full on "Body Hate" mode. This is the other version of the cardio-weight lifting rotation. This is where I decide to focus on the parts of my body that I hate the most, which are my stomach and thighs. I'll push extra hard on the cardio, then do way more stomach and thigh exercises than is absolutely necessary and I won't be able to walk without aching for a few days. This never lasts long though, because I won't see any real measurable results and so I'll skip the gym for a week or two and go back to doing mostly cardio.
I guess I'm in a little bit of a rut. I need to get serious about the gym again, and, more importantly, about eating right. I tend to let things like parties and weekends and free snacks at work derail the shit out of my goals. I know I can do it, but being in the hospital earlier this year really fucked up my shit. I felt like I couldn't get back into the swing of things until just very recently. Having the goal in mind of my birthday helped to keep me focused at first, and now that I know I won't make it, I feel like I need another placeholder. Something arbitrary even. My goal is 25 or so pounds away. Someone give me an arbitrary deadline to reach that goal.
Labels:
FAIL,
nutrition-schmutrition,
You're Welcome
Thursday, January 26, 2012
Peace Out, Girl Scouts. Did I Say Peace Out? I Meant Fuck You
Alright. So it shouldn't be news to any of you that I'm a bit of a fatty. You've seen my pictures. There is no need for lies.
I've been working on it though. I joined a gym and Weight Watchers and it's been slow progress, but I've lost about 25 lbs in the last year and a half or so. I could have done better. I could have lost more. But I've managed to drop a couple of pants sizes, a bra size (around, don't worry, the ladies aren't going anywhere) and a whole lot of fat shame.
I've kept it off, despite many lapses in judgment. It seems as if my body had a set point and I've managed to create a new one that is 20 lbs lower. What that has meant for me is that I don't have to be perfect in my choices. I haven't seen any real loss in a couple of months, but I'd been pretty consistent with going to the gym and my time at Weight Watchers really reprogrammed my brain into making better choices, even when I'm making shitty ones.
And then I went into the hospital. Did you know that you can get dessert with every meal if you are on an unrestricted diet in the hospital? And really, I was sick and feeling bad enough for myself that I absolutely ordered dessert. Every. Single. Time (Ok. With the exception of breakfast. Which was bacon, eggs and home fries every day for me, so it's kind of a moot point, isn't it? Bacon is breakfast's dessert).
Besides the cheesecake I regularly ordered, Nadine brought me daily snacks. The first day it was a bag of chocolate candies. Then hot chocolate from Dunkin Donuts. Then assorted pastries and soy hot chocolate from Starbucks so I wouldn't get diarrhea, then a dozen cupcakes from the fancy cupcake place near the hospital. It was all delicious and appreciated, but man, I fell into some bad habits with all those snacks.
When I got out of the hospital and switched over to oral Prednisone, it came to my attention that everything tasted awful. Everything was bitter and disgusting and tasted like it was covered in dirt. Except cookies. Add to that the fact that I was taking the pills every 4 hours and they gave me ridiculous heartburn if I didn't eat with them, and you can understand why I ate approxiametly 4 bags of Chips Ahoy in less than a week. I may be underestimating with 4 actually, but I have too much fat shame to admit to any more than that. Let's just say I ate a lot of fucking cookies.
The cookies spiraled into anything sweet. I started drinking hot chocolate every day, multiple times a day. I had to! Everything else tasted like shit! But it was getting ridiculous, so I finally sucked it up last week and went back to Weight Watchers to face the damage. To my utter shock, I had only gained 3 lbs. I was fully expecting 10. My body had not forsaken me.
Which brings me to those fucking whorebag Girl Scouts. I'm trying to get back on track. Trying to make better decisions and stop eating anything that crosses my path. And I keep getting reminders that soon I will have to not buy their cookies.
Every year in February and March, I get mauled almost daily in the train station by pushy Girl Scouts trying to whore out their product. And it's a good product. Hard to say no to. It's certainly better than that time the Cub Scouts were camped out trying to sell $18 bags of fucking popcorn (
Really Cub Scouts? Who does your fucking marketing?). But Girl Scouts? I don't need it this year. And what I especially don't need is to be reminded a month in advance that I'd better have cash at the ready or I'll miss out on your annual deliciousness.
You see, I work with people who have Girl Scout aged daughters. And those fuckers keep sending out "BUY MY KID'S GIRL SCOUT COOKIES" emails to everyone in the office. And I find myself resisting the urge to sign myself up for some Thin Mints. Those little bastards are like crack. MINT-FLAVORED CRACK. And, I mean, if I'm going to buy Thin Mints, I might as well get a box of Samoas too. Those are some unique cookies right there. You can't just find something similar in the grocery store. And actually, the Tag-Alongs are pretty good too. What's that? There is a new lemon cookie? I LOVE lemon!
And then I spiral into despair because I'll always be fat because of the Girl Scouts.
I've been working on it though. I joined a gym and Weight Watchers and it's been slow progress, but I've lost about 25 lbs in the last year and a half or so. I could have done better. I could have lost more. But I've managed to drop a couple of pants sizes, a bra size (around, don't worry, the ladies aren't going anywhere) and a whole lot of fat shame.
I've kept it off, despite many lapses in judgment. It seems as if my body had a set point and I've managed to create a new one that is 20 lbs lower. What that has meant for me is that I don't have to be perfect in my choices. I haven't seen any real loss in a couple of months, but I'd been pretty consistent with going to the gym and my time at Weight Watchers really reprogrammed my brain into making better choices, even when I'm making shitty ones.
And then I went into the hospital. Did you know that you can get dessert with every meal if you are on an unrestricted diet in the hospital? And really, I was sick and feeling bad enough for myself that I absolutely ordered dessert. Every. Single. Time (Ok. With the exception of breakfast. Which was bacon, eggs and home fries every day for me, so it's kind of a moot point, isn't it? Bacon is breakfast's dessert).
Besides the cheesecake I regularly ordered, Nadine brought me daily snacks. The first day it was a bag of chocolate candies. Then hot chocolate from Dunkin Donuts. Then assorted pastries and soy hot chocolate from Starbucks so I wouldn't get diarrhea, then a dozen cupcakes from the fancy cupcake place near the hospital. It was all delicious and appreciated, but man, I fell into some bad habits with all those snacks.
When I got out of the hospital and switched over to oral Prednisone, it came to my attention that everything tasted awful. Everything was bitter and disgusting and tasted like it was covered in dirt. Except cookies. Add to that the fact that I was taking the pills every 4 hours and they gave me ridiculous heartburn if I didn't eat with them, and you can understand why I ate approxiametly 4 bags of Chips Ahoy in less than a week. I may be underestimating with 4 actually, but I have too much fat shame to admit to any more than that. Let's just say I ate a lot of fucking cookies.
The cookies spiraled into anything sweet. I started drinking hot chocolate every day, multiple times a day. I had to! Everything else tasted like shit! But it was getting ridiculous, so I finally sucked it up last week and went back to Weight Watchers to face the damage. To my utter shock, I had only gained 3 lbs. I was fully expecting 10. My body had not forsaken me.
Which brings me to those fucking whorebag Girl Scouts. I'm trying to get back on track. Trying to make better decisions and stop eating anything that crosses my path. And I keep getting reminders that soon I will have to not buy their cookies.
Every year in February and March, I get mauled almost daily in the train station by pushy Girl Scouts trying to whore out their product. And it's a good product. Hard to say no to. It's certainly better than that time the Cub Scouts were camped out trying to sell $18 bags of fucking popcorn (
Really Cub Scouts? Who does your fucking marketing?). But Girl Scouts? I don't need it this year. And what I especially don't need is to be reminded a month in advance that I'd better have cash at the ready or I'll miss out on your annual deliciousness.
You see, I work with people who have Girl Scout aged daughters. And those fuckers keep sending out "BUY MY KID'S GIRL SCOUT COOKIES" emails to everyone in the office. And I find myself resisting the urge to sign myself up for some Thin Mints. Those little bastards are like crack. MINT-FLAVORED CRACK. And, I mean, if I'm going to buy Thin Mints, I might as well get a box of Samoas too. Those are some unique cookies right there. You can't just find something similar in the grocery store. And actually, the Tag-Alongs are pretty good too. What's that? There is a new lemon cookie? I LOVE lemon!
And then I spiral into despair because I'll always be fat because of the Girl Scouts.
Wednesday, November 23, 2011
The Backwash Chronicles
So we've been over it a few times now: toddlers are disgusting.
But you already knew that. There is one area in particular though that gets me every time.
Backwash.
Last night we had pizza for dinner (because I'm a good mom and I definitely don't feed my kid shit every night for dinner- specifically, I certainly didn't feed her McDonalds chicken nuggets the night before). Caitlyn is a picky eater. This isn't news either, but she seemed to take a liking to pizza. Or PEE-AH, as she spent the next 3 hours wandering around the house calling it.
When I say she "took a liking" to pizza, let me clarify and say that she certainly did not sit nicely and eat a slice of pizza. Nope. I would guess the dog ate 3/4 of her pizza. What she liked, in particular, was sucking the sauce and grease off the pizza. I had taken off the cheese because I'm completely paranoid, so she pretty much just had the slice pushed up against her face while she licked it clean.
I'm used to this kind of stuff. She is naturally gross. But Caitlyn has this thing about having a drink after ever bite of food. She will entertain the sippy cup thing for about 5 minutes before "sharing" it with the dog by holding over his face and dropping it on top of him. And that means sippy cup time is over. Within seconds of dropping her cup, she will eye up my glass and give me her usual chorus of "puh-puh-puh" as she begs for a drink of my water. Because it is different from her water, obviously. Infinitely better, in fact.
At this point I usually try several times to give her back her sippy cup. You know how in movies sometimes a guy will sweep everything off a desk with one arm before throwing down the lady he's about to bang? That is what Caitlyn does with her sippy cup. Or pretty much anything else she doesn't want. She very dramatically sweeps everything off the tray of her high chair with one arm. It's fucking obnoxious. Anyway, after 2 or 3 times of her doing that, I usually give in and let her drink from my cup, otherwise she will refuse to eat anything else.
Which returns us to backwash. Like I said, Caitlyn's primary dinner last night consisted of pizza sauce and grease. And then I had to share my water with her. You know that thing grease does when it gets into water? How it streaks your water all white and slimy and its all you can do not to gag just looking at it? Yeah. Ask me if I was thirsty after THAT.
So I will end on this note: Dear Toddlers, DRINK FROM YOUR OWN FUCKING CUP!!! Love & Kisses, Mommy
But you already knew that. There is one area in particular though that gets me every time.
Backwash.
Last night we had pizza for dinner (because I'm a good mom and I definitely don't feed my kid shit every night for dinner- specifically, I certainly didn't feed her McDonalds chicken nuggets the night before). Caitlyn is a picky eater. This isn't news either, but she seemed to take a liking to pizza. Or PEE-AH, as she spent the next 3 hours wandering around the house calling it.
When I say she "took a liking" to pizza, let me clarify and say that she certainly did not sit nicely and eat a slice of pizza. Nope. I would guess the dog ate 3/4 of her pizza. What she liked, in particular, was sucking the sauce and grease off the pizza. I had taken off the cheese because I'm completely paranoid, so she pretty much just had the slice pushed up against her face while she licked it clean.
I'm used to this kind of stuff. She is naturally gross. But Caitlyn has this thing about having a drink after ever bite of food. She will entertain the sippy cup thing for about 5 minutes before "sharing" it with the dog by holding over his face and dropping it on top of him. And that means sippy cup time is over. Within seconds of dropping her cup, she will eye up my glass and give me her usual chorus of "puh-puh-puh" as she begs for a drink of my water. Because it is different from her water, obviously. Infinitely better, in fact.
At this point I usually try several times to give her back her sippy cup. You know how in movies sometimes a guy will sweep everything off a desk with one arm before throwing down the lady he's about to bang? That is what Caitlyn does with her sippy cup. Or pretty much anything else she doesn't want. She very dramatically sweeps everything off the tray of her high chair with one arm. It's fucking obnoxious. Anyway, after 2 or 3 times of her doing that, I usually give in and let her drink from my cup, otherwise she will refuse to eat anything else.
Which returns us to backwash. Like I said, Caitlyn's primary dinner last night consisted of pizza sauce and grease. And then I had to share my water with her. You know that thing grease does when it gets into water? How it streaks your water all white and slimy and its all you can do not to gag just looking at it? Yeah. Ask me if I was thirsty after THAT.
So I will end on this note: Dear Toddlers, DRINK FROM YOUR OWN FUCKING CUP!!! Love & Kisses, Mommy
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