THERE IS NO I IN TEAM
This is said, ironically, to foster a sense of team spirit, though it sounds like something you would say if you did not want to be a team player. "Wait, there is no I in team. Screw you guys I'm going home". But instead, when you hear this phrase you are supposed to think of subjugating your own needs and desires for the good of the team. You know, like communism.
But here's what's really stupid about that saying: it's not a good argument, because it's illogical. Everyone knows that team is spelled t-e-a-m. No, it is not spelled with an I. But the letter "i" does not always represent the first person pronoun. If it did, then I could say "There is no I in work. Guess I'd better go home". Or "There are three Is in 'millionaire'. Guess I'd better get spending". How can any rational person be inspired to great acts of teamwork by an irrational statement?
HAVE NO REGRETS
If you have no regrets you are a sociopath. You should regret things, unless you're some kind of perfect saint, which you aren't. We ALL have done things that are kind of messed up, and if you have a conscience, you are SUPPOSED to feel bad about it. I'm not saying you should cut yourself and torture yourself over it. But if you have any kind of moral compass at all, and you are reflecting on a mistake you made, you say to yourself "That was wrong of me. I wish I had handled that differently". If you say "Yeah, what I did was horrible, but whatevs. Have no regrets!" you are a horrible person.
THE PRESENT IS A GIFT. THAT'S WHY THEY CALL IT A PRESENT.
No. That's not why they call it a "present". You can see my "I in team" description above, because really it's the same argument. Except I would like to add that the "present" is not always a "gift". Just ask the people starving in Africa, or the people being tortured in North Korean prisons. They would probably love to skip right to the future.
IF YOU LOVE SOMEONE, SET HER FREE. IF SHE COMES BACK, SHE'S YOURS FOR LIFE. IF SHE DOESN'T, SHE WAS NEVER YOURS IN THE FIRST PLACE.
Ugh. How many idiots have dumped perfectly good people because of this horrible advice? This advice is guaranteed to keep you lonely and alone. Because here's how this goes. John is feeling antsy in his relationship with Jill. So he dumps her to see if she comes back. Jill is confused. Why did John dump her? Things seemed to be going ok. Jill is depressed and she starts drinking a lot of bourbon and listening to lots of Bikini Kill. But one day she brushes herself off and decides to heal her broken heart. Jill calls that guy she met at a friend's party who was kind of cute. Jill marries the cute guy from the party. John sits home alone wondering why Jill didn't come beg him to take her back like she was supposed to.
THE ONLY THING WE HAVE TO FEAR IS FEAR ITSELF.
This is so stupid I can't believe anyone ever took it seriously. Because maybe if you've had a totally priviliged, cushy life that's all you have to fear. But the rest of us have to worry about disease, finances, global warming, drunk drivers, pedophiles, and meteors colliding with the earth. I understand the point, kind of. Obviously panic and irrational fear is bad, and unhelpful. But it doesn't follow that there is NOTHING else to fear. That's just silly.
BE POSITIVE. IT TAKES 64 MUSCLES TO FROWN BUT ONLY 11 TO SMILE.
Most people feel emotions because of external or internal events, which are either pleasing or displeasing. I, for one, have never decided to feel an emotion simply because of the number of muscles involved in expressing it. It's not even a contributing factor. BAsically, if I'm feeling upset, I'm not going to stop feeling upset simply because it's more effort than feeling happy. I won't stop feeling upset until the underlying issue is resolved.
Besides, who frowns? Seriously? When was the last time you saw someone frown? If I saw someone frowning to express displeasure, I would laugh and assume they were just trying to be funny.
LOVE MEANS NEVER HAVING TO SAY YOU'RE SORRY
What? Whoever said this has never been in a relationship of any kind. If you love someone you say "I'm sorry" all the freaking time. "I'm sorry I ruined dinner". "I'm sorry I was late". "I'm sorry I laughed when you slipped and fell". Apologizing is the way we acknowledge that we want to be a certain way in our relationships, and we have fallen short of that ideal. It says to your partner "I care enough about you to want to do better for you".
On the other hand, if you do something wrong, and DON'T apologize, what you're saying is "I don't care how you feel. I gotta be me baby. Deal with it." No one but God will love you long with that attitude.
So many more sayings, but I'm tired now, and feeling sick from trying to eat Chipotle.
Wednesday, February 9, 2011
Monday, February 7, 2011
Imagination
As a child growing up in the 80s, I was exposed to a huge amount of really cheesy educational programming, the purpose of which was to encourage children to "use their imaginations". As the children of ex hippies and potheads, the children of the 80s were encouraged to express ourselves and think outside the box. Fine. But the problem was, the makers of the educational programming obviously had NO imaginations WHATSOEVER. These programs were so boring it made my head hurt. They always (I do mean always) featured excessively precious drawings of rocket ships, friendly looking monsters and children staring up at the stars, wide-eyed, dreaming of space travel. As a result, I believed that "kids with imaginations" were simply kids who were obsessed with rockets and outer space. Those things didn't appeal to me at all; and if you had asked me "Do you have a good imagination?" I would have responded, almost angrily "No. I really don't".
The truth was, I had an insanely overactive imagination. But it wasn't the kind of wholesome, teacher-approved imagination which the educational materials attempted to cultivate. My imagination was probably the worst thing about my childhood, and at the time the very best thing for me would have been for someone to stamp it out immediately. Of course, as an adult I've learned to manage and control it a lot better, thanks to increased awareness and high doses of Obsessive Compulsive Disorder medication. Now, I've learned to make it work for me; for instance I can focus it on happy things like re-writing sad movie endings and making elaborate revenge plots. But as a child it was oppressive and horrible.
For instance.
When I was 8, I began reading VC Andrews novels. For those of you unacquainted with VC Andrews books, each book is essentially 400 pages of teenaged girls being raped by every family member they have. Graphically, graphically raped. Why my mom let me read those books still puzzles me, but suffice it to say, they made an impression on me. As did a show I watched every weekend at my Grandma's called "Unsolved Mysteries". "Unsolved Mysteries often featured mundane things such as black widows and serial bank robbers, but it often had specials about ghosts. Well when I stayed at my Grandma's house, I slept in my dead uncle's room. It was a perfectly nice room, but in my little 8 year old mind, there were obviously ghosts living in it at night. Where? The closet. But then why would a ghost be hiding in the closet? Well, to rape me obviously. And so I developed a number of "protections" against ghost rape. Mostly I would repeat a little chant-prayer over and over again, asking God to please not let the ghosts rape me. And I slept with my legs tightly zipped together, the blankets tight, tight around me, so only my head poked out the top. I sat awake many a night, just knowing that the ghosts were going to come violate me while I slept, and I would, of course, wake up pregnant, at which point my parents would kick me out of the house for being a whore. Because no one would believe it was ghosts. Obviously.
But my pregnancy fears didn't end there. Being raised Catholic, of course I learned the story of the Virgin Birth. And while I absorbed the fact that the Immaculate Conception was a mark of God's FAVOR, I took that story in a whole different direction. Because if God could knock up a virgin once, he could do it again. Could God knock me up? But why? To punish me of course. Please understand that I was most definitely a virgin. I was 9, and I had never been molested. But whenever I did something "wrong" I felt certain that to punish me, God would give me a shameful, out-of-wedlock pregnancy and my life would be ruined. It was a short leap from worrying that I COULD be pregnant to worrying that I WAS pregnant. I remember one particular day when I realized that "OH NO! I'VE NEVER GOT MY PERIOD!" and then "MY STOMACH IS STICKNG OUT". I was postive, so very positive that I was a pregnant nine year old. So panicked was I that I made myself throw up, only convincing myself further that I was, in fact, pregnant. I had this same panicked thought intermittently for FOUR YEARS.
Oh but it doesn't end. I don't know how other kids played with Barbies, but the way I did it was messed up. Barbie was constantly getting beat up by Ken. Barbie got arrested for drunk driving all the time too. Sometimes Barbie would become crippled in a car accident and Ken would keep her locked up in a room, and she couldn't get out because she was crippled. Also Barbie often had babies who died.
There was a lot of death in my head as a child. Whenever a parent was late coming to pick me up, it was because they were dead. When they went out at night, I assumed they would, of course, die, and I would frequently call the bar where they were to make sure they were alive. If they weren't there I would go into full blown panic mode, shaking and nauseated, completely unable to sleep or focus on anything but my imminent orphan-dom. When I left the house, I assumed that when I came back to it, it would be burned to the ground, everyone inside dead. In addition, I was obsessively worried about CAUSING the death of others. If I dropped ice on the ground, someone would surely come and slip on it and snap her neck and die. I had heard of a girl who died because she used a knife that had traces of peanut butter on it. I becaame really paranoid about peanut butter and for several years insisted that "I don't like peanut butter".
Sometimes I thought there were secret passageways in houses. I would spend an inordinate amount of time searching for these secret passageways, pulling books out of shelves and putting them back, pulling an anything that might be a lever, and pushing anything that looked like a button, then stepping back quickly, waiting for the passageway to open, revealing skeletons of people who got trapped in there and starved to death. Possibly treasure as well, but mostly I was really worried about anything living that might be trapped in there, or anything sinister that was hiding in there waiting to rape me.
These are just a few examples of my childhood imagination in action. It makes me wonder though, what the creators of the imagination-encouraging-programs would have thought of me. They probably would have sent me to therapy and given me some very heavy anti-psychotic meds. Though perhaps if the ghost raping took place in spaceship, they would have been more comfortable with it.
The truth was, I had an insanely overactive imagination. But it wasn't the kind of wholesome, teacher-approved imagination which the educational materials attempted to cultivate. My imagination was probably the worst thing about my childhood, and at the time the very best thing for me would have been for someone to stamp it out immediately. Of course, as an adult I've learned to manage and control it a lot better, thanks to increased awareness and high doses of Obsessive Compulsive Disorder medication. Now, I've learned to make it work for me; for instance I can focus it on happy things like re-writing sad movie endings and making elaborate revenge plots. But as a child it was oppressive and horrible.
For instance.
When I was 8, I began reading VC Andrews novels. For those of you unacquainted with VC Andrews books, each book is essentially 400 pages of teenaged girls being raped by every family member they have. Graphically, graphically raped. Why my mom let me read those books still puzzles me, but suffice it to say, they made an impression on me. As did a show I watched every weekend at my Grandma's called "Unsolved Mysteries". "Unsolved Mysteries often featured mundane things such as black widows and serial bank robbers, but it often had specials about ghosts. Well when I stayed at my Grandma's house, I slept in my dead uncle's room. It was a perfectly nice room, but in my little 8 year old mind, there were obviously ghosts living in it at night. Where? The closet. But then why would a ghost be hiding in the closet? Well, to rape me obviously. And so I developed a number of "protections" against ghost rape. Mostly I would repeat a little chant-prayer over and over again, asking God to please not let the ghosts rape me. And I slept with my legs tightly zipped together, the blankets tight, tight around me, so only my head poked out the top. I sat awake many a night, just knowing that the ghosts were going to come violate me while I slept, and I would, of course, wake up pregnant, at which point my parents would kick me out of the house for being a whore. Because no one would believe it was ghosts. Obviously.
But my pregnancy fears didn't end there. Being raised Catholic, of course I learned the story of the Virgin Birth. And while I absorbed the fact that the Immaculate Conception was a mark of God's FAVOR, I took that story in a whole different direction. Because if God could knock up a virgin once, he could do it again. Could God knock me up? But why? To punish me of course. Please understand that I was most definitely a virgin. I was 9, and I had never been molested. But whenever I did something "wrong" I felt certain that to punish me, God would give me a shameful, out-of-wedlock pregnancy and my life would be ruined. It was a short leap from worrying that I COULD be pregnant to worrying that I WAS pregnant. I remember one particular day when I realized that "OH NO! I'VE NEVER GOT MY PERIOD!" and then "MY STOMACH IS STICKNG OUT". I was postive, so very positive that I was a pregnant nine year old. So panicked was I that I made myself throw up, only convincing myself further that I was, in fact, pregnant. I had this same panicked thought intermittently for FOUR YEARS.
Oh but it doesn't end. I don't know how other kids played with Barbies, but the way I did it was messed up. Barbie was constantly getting beat up by Ken. Barbie got arrested for drunk driving all the time too. Sometimes Barbie would become crippled in a car accident and Ken would keep her locked up in a room, and she couldn't get out because she was crippled. Also Barbie often had babies who died.
There was a lot of death in my head as a child. Whenever a parent was late coming to pick me up, it was because they were dead. When they went out at night, I assumed they would, of course, die, and I would frequently call the bar where they were to make sure they were alive. If they weren't there I would go into full blown panic mode, shaking and nauseated, completely unable to sleep or focus on anything but my imminent orphan-dom. When I left the house, I assumed that when I came back to it, it would be burned to the ground, everyone inside dead. In addition, I was obsessively worried about CAUSING the death of others. If I dropped ice on the ground, someone would surely come and slip on it and snap her neck and die. I had heard of a girl who died because she used a knife that had traces of peanut butter on it. I becaame really paranoid about peanut butter and for several years insisted that "I don't like peanut butter".
Sometimes I thought there were secret passageways in houses. I would spend an inordinate amount of time searching for these secret passageways, pulling books out of shelves and putting them back, pulling an anything that might be a lever, and pushing anything that looked like a button, then stepping back quickly, waiting for the passageway to open, revealing skeletons of people who got trapped in there and starved to death. Possibly treasure as well, but mostly I was really worried about anything living that might be trapped in there, or anything sinister that was hiding in there waiting to rape me.
These are just a few examples of my childhood imagination in action. It makes me wonder though, what the creators of the imagination-encouraging-programs would have thought of me. They probably would have sent me to therapy and given me some very heavy anti-psychotic meds. Though perhaps if the ghost raping took place in spaceship, they would have been more comfortable with it.
Sunday, February 6, 2011
I Judge You For Your Churlish Need To Hoard Lemons
The folks who live across the street have three mature lemon trees in their front yard, bearing hundreds of lemons. Recently they have put up a big laminated sign, stating "Do Not Take Lemons. THOU SHALT NOT STEAL." I don't know who took the lemons. Yesterday the little kids next door were having some kind of "juice" stand, but that could just be coincidence. I don't support stealing of course, but in this case I feel that the lemon tree owners are in the wrong. Here's why.
1) Whoever took the lemons obviously didn't take that many, since there are literally hundreds of them left. So let's not overreact, as if they stole your car.
2)How many lemons could you possibly need? Only two people live there. They are obviously not lemon farmers, so it's not as if the thieves were cutting into their lemon profits. But lets say they are just crazy about lemons. Every single day they make a pitcher of fresh lemonade, they season every dish they cook with lemon juice, and they garnish every plate with lemon slices. That's just how they roll. Even then, we're really only talking about like 10 lemons per day. And I'm 99% certain that they aren't even using that many. But even if they were, they have THREE mature trees FULL of lemons. They aren't even putting a dent in it, seriously.
3) I'm pretty sure that the lemon theives were the little neighborhood kids. Look, I know stealing is wrong, but really? I'm putting myself in the owners' shoes. I'm old and I love lemons. I see a couple of little kids rush into my yard and pick a few lemons. What do I do? Honestly, I would chuckle to myself and move on. If I was feeling feisty, I might patronize the "juice" stand and say "Wow! This lemonade is delicious! Wherever did you get the lemons? You must have used fresh ones to get it to taste so good!" And then I would wink and go back to my house. But that would be like, if I was PMSing and felt like scaring some little kids. I can't get my head around the mindset that thinks "Someone stole three of my 800 lemons. I'm angry and I'm not going to take it anymore!" And then I LAMINATE a sign and hang it up in the front yard.
4)Let's say it wasn't kids engaged in an innocent lemonade stand enterprise. Let's say it was an adult. Does that really change matters that much? I mean, we've all been in the middle of a recipe and said "Shit. I thought we had lemon juice but we don't! I'm in the middle of cooking; I can't run to the store! What should I do?" And then we get resourceful. So?
I didn't steal the lemons. I'm just saying.
5)Why bring religion into it? Of course thou shalt not steal. We all know that. But you know what else? Jesus was all about sharing. He didn't say "These are my bread and fishes and this is my wine. Go fuck yourselves." Jesus was a big supporter of sharing, turning the other cheek, and forgiveness. You aren't being a good Christian by getting all angry because someone took a couple of your lemons. You're just being kind of a dick.
6)Not to "blame the victim" but if you put fruit trees in your front yard, with no fence of any kind, you're kind of asking for it. I mean, if someone robs your house, that's wrong. But if you left your front door wide open, valuables in full view, you're kind of to blame too. If your property is that important to you, do something to secure it. By not taking measures to protect your property, you're kind of saying "I don't care, go ahead and take it". It doesn't mean the thief is in the right, it just means you are stoopid, in addition.
So here it is. I believe that the lemon tree owners are totally within their rights to put up the bitchy sign. I think they are within their rights to be angry. Heck, they would even be within their rights to call the police. It is their private property, and if they say you can't have it, then you can't. But this isn't about whether you have the RIGHT to do something. It's about whether you SHOULD do something. I have the right to hiss at ugly people. It doesn't mean I should. The lemon tree owners have the right to hoard as many lemons as they like. And I have the right to think they're petty, selfish idiots.
1) Whoever took the lemons obviously didn't take that many, since there are literally hundreds of them left. So let's not overreact, as if they stole your car.
2)How many lemons could you possibly need? Only two people live there. They are obviously not lemon farmers, so it's not as if the thieves were cutting into their lemon profits. But lets say they are just crazy about lemons. Every single day they make a pitcher of fresh lemonade, they season every dish they cook with lemon juice, and they garnish every plate with lemon slices. That's just how they roll. Even then, we're really only talking about like 10 lemons per day. And I'm 99% certain that they aren't even using that many. But even if they were, they have THREE mature trees FULL of lemons. They aren't even putting a dent in it, seriously.
3) I'm pretty sure that the lemon theives were the little neighborhood kids. Look, I know stealing is wrong, but really? I'm putting myself in the owners' shoes. I'm old and I love lemons. I see a couple of little kids rush into my yard and pick a few lemons. What do I do? Honestly, I would chuckle to myself and move on. If I was feeling feisty, I might patronize the "juice" stand and say "Wow! This lemonade is delicious! Wherever did you get the lemons? You must have used fresh ones to get it to taste so good!" And then I would wink and go back to my house. But that would be like, if I was PMSing and felt like scaring some little kids. I can't get my head around the mindset that thinks "Someone stole three of my 800 lemons. I'm angry and I'm not going to take it anymore!" And then I LAMINATE a sign and hang it up in the front yard.
4)Let's say it wasn't kids engaged in an innocent lemonade stand enterprise. Let's say it was an adult. Does that really change matters that much? I mean, we've all been in the middle of a recipe and said "Shit. I thought we had lemon juice but we don't! I'm in the middle of cooking; I can't run to the store! What should I do?" And then we get resourceful. So?
I didn't steal the lemons. I'm just saying.
5)Why bring religion into it? Of course thou shalt not steal. We all know that. But you know what else? Jesus was all about sharing. He didn't say "These are my bread and fishes and this is my wine. Go fuck yourselves." Jesus was a big supporter of sharing, turning the other cheek, and forgiveness. You aren't being a good Christian by getting all angry because someone took a couple of your lemons. You're just being kind of a dick.
6)Not to "blame the victim" but if you put fruit trees in your front yard, with no fence of any kind, you're kind of asking for it. I mean, if someone robs your house, that's wrong. But if you left your front door wide open, valuables in full view, you're kind of to blame too. If your property is that important to you, do something to secure it. By not taking measures to protect your property, you're kind of saying "I don't care, go ahead and take it". It doesn't mean the thief is in the right, it just means you are stoopid, in addition.
So here it is. I believe that the lemon tree owners are totally within their rights to put up the bitchy sign. I think they are within their rights to be angry. Heck, they would even be within their rights to call the police. It is their private property, and if they say you can't have it, then you can't. But this isn't about whether you have the RIGHT to do something. It's about whether you SHOULD do something. I have the right to hiss at ugly people. It doesn't mean I should. The lemon tree owners have the right to hoard as many lemons as they like. And I have the right to think they're petty, selfish idiots.
Thursday, February 3, 2011
The Truth About My Hobbies
I hate being asked what my hobbies are, or what I like to do for fun. Not that I find the topic of conversation objectionable - I don't - but I don't like discussing it, because I don't want people to judge me. So I always say something like "reading, cooking, kayaking" etc. You know, something that is relatable, while not being a lie. But the fact of the matter is, I hate crafts, suck at art, despise sports (except gymnastics and The World's Strongest Man Competition and boxing - and I only like watching those) dislike killing animals, and really, really can't sew or crochet. So that leaves very few hobbies I can claim as my own.
Unless I were to tell the truth.
So here, written for all of you, are my real hobbies.
1) Scoping out prospective adoptive parents on websites and judging them.
This is so much fun. There are whole websites out there where parents put "profiles" of themselves, describing who they are, and why they are the perfect people to raise your little bastard. I read the profiles very carefully, scrutinizing their pictures, jobs, hobbies (yes I'm a hypocrite) and interests. "The Smiths from New Jersey seem like very accomplished professionals. But Dan says his favorite dessert is banana cream pie. How could I let my child be raised in that kind of environmnent? I say no to you, Smiths from New Jersey." "Ew, they both say their favorite show is American Idol. And look how fat they are. I'm not gonna give my kid to people who are just going to die of a heart attack in two years. Then my poor kid would be a double orphan! No". Or "OH! These people are so perfect! I almost want to get pregnant just so I can give these amazing people my baby!" Admittedly, it's not the "nicest" hobby, but so much fun, and so addictive.
2) Gawking at people with eating disorders.
This goes for overeaters and under eaters, as well as the more "exotic" eating disorders like people who eat chalk, etc. Any show that features morbidly obese people losing weight earns a season pass on my tivo. When I discovered "pro ana" and "pro mia" at first I thought it was a joke.
And then I found the online forums.
I loved reading those forums. They don't post pictures of themselves, so if you just read their posts, you get the impression that you're in some kind of fat girl support group where they all try to encourage people to reach their weight loss goals. They're really nice to each other. "Only 10 more pounds until I reach my goal weight!" "Yay Mia2883! You can do it!" But then you keep reading. And they start talking about strategies for avoiding food...always. And then you see their "thinspiration" photos who are invariably heroin-chic-looking skeletons, even though heroin chic went out years ago. I started getting really into their internal dramas, and started to get familiar with their individual personalities. One day Phil asked what I was reading, because I looked freaked out. I replied "Ana362436 is in a jam. Her mom found the bags of vomit she was hoarding in her closet."
Phil was freaked. "What the hell are you reading? Why was she hoarding vomit?"
"Because she didn't want anyone to hear her flushing when she purged. Also, the vomit was gross, so it was a good disincentive to eat. It makes sense, really."
"No honey. It doesn't..."
"No! I don't mean it's like, a good thing to do. I'm just saying, if you're going to be bulimic, it's a good strategy."
Phil was pensive and then made me promise I would stop reading the pro-ana, pro-mia forums.
Which I have.
3)Online shopping while drunk.
Sometimes when I drink I buy things online. I blame one click shopping. If I had to get up off my ass, retrieve my purse, enter all the information and then confirm it all, this probably wouldn't happen. But with one click shopping I can buy whatever I want, whenever I want it. And under the influence of alcohol I lose all sense of worry or restraint.
But then I forget that I bought stuff. And weeks later I'll come home from work and find a bunch of packages on my doorstep. "What's this?" I say to myself. Only to open up the packages and find all kinds of treasures! Sparkly shoes! Fancy scarves! Books on travel! Sometimes even boxes of candy! I'm not proud of myself for my actions, but in all honesty it's hard to be too concerned about it because every time I do it I get rewarded with all kinds of treats. It's not exactly teaching me a lesson.
4) Redoing movie scenes.
I don't like unhappy endings in movies. If I want harsh reality and somber truths, I'll listen to the news. I go to movies because I want to be entertained and uplifted. But some movies with sad endings are really, truly good; and they do entertain me. So how do I remedy this? By creating a new ending in my head, which I replay whenever I like, for my pleasure.
Here is an example of what I mean. If you have ever seen the movie "Life is Beautiful" you know that it is amazing and wonderful. Until the end. I can't watch anything after the scene where the dad does a humorous goose-step to amuse his son who is hiding from the Nazis. I turn the movie off at that point and say "The end! They won a tank! Yay!"
But that's not a very satisfying ending. Kind of a cop out really. So here is the "Dana Improved Ending".
It's the dinner party scene. The riddle loving nazi drops his fork to lure the dad away from his waiter duties. The dad goes over to him, hope radiating from his every pore. He knows that his friend will help him.
The riddle loving nazi says, with no preamble, "Your wife is safe. I've moved her to my cousin's farm in the country. They have a safe place for her to hide."
The dad lets out a blast of relief, tears almost flooding his eyes. The riddle loving nazi speaks quietly and quickly. "It's not safe for me to move you and your son tonight. I'm sorry. Can you meet me by the south wall at 3am this Saturday?"
The dad nods curtly. Of course he can, an innovative man like him! He'll find a way!
"My cousin's farm is not a luxurious place. But you will all be together, safe. My cousin and his wife are good people; they'll see that all your needs are met."
"Thank you! Thank you so much!" begins the dad. But the riddle loving nazi cuts him off. "All I ask in return" he says, very serious, "is that you assist me with this riddle" and then proceeds to tell the riddle. The dad laughs with giddy relief and of course gives him enough clues to answer the riddle on his own. It's the least he can do.
Well, the dad now has to explain to the little boy that they are quitting the game. He'll probably have to say that he found out it's all a trick and there IS no tank!!! He will devise an ingenious way to be at the south wall at 3 am, probably something humerous involving disguises and magic tricks. They are almost caught, but make it out by the skin of their teeth. They are all reunited on the farm and live happily ever after. And then they get a tank anyway.
See, isn't my ending better? I like to make little scene revisions and play them to myself whenever I'm bored. It's good fun, and I recommend you try your own.
5)Grocery shopping
Is anything more awesome than grocery shopping? Yes, but not much. I love looking at rows and rows of tasty, gourmet foods, knowing that I CAN BUY WHATEVER I WANT. For most of my life my food decisions were based on whatever was cheapest. But now. NOW. I'm making up for lost time. Yes I do need 6 pomegranates, imported gorgonzola cheese, truffle oil and a bottle of Chablis. Why not? Why should I deny myself? I shouldn't. That's why.
Are these healthy hobbies? Probably not. Are they hobbies I could discuss in polite company? Probably not. But it feels good to get it out there and be honest with you all. This is what I like to do for fun. Judge me.
Unless I were to tell the truth.
So here, written for all of you, are my real hobbies.
1) Scoping out prospective adoptive parents on websites and judging them.
This is so much fun. There are whole websites out there where parents put "profiles" of themselves, describing who they are, and why they are the perfect people to raise your little bastard. I read the profiles very carefully, scrutinizing their pictures, jobs, hobbies (yes I'm a hypocrite) and interests. "The Smiths from New Jersey seem like very accomplished professionals. But Dan says his favorite dessert is banana cream pie. How could I let my child be raised in that kind of environmnent? I say no to you, Smiths from New Jersey." "Ew, they both say their favorite show is American Idol. And look how fat they are. I'm not gonna give my kid to people who are just going to die of a heart attack in two years. Then my poor kid would be a double orphan! No". Or "OH! These people are so perfect! I almost want to get pregnant just so I can give these amazing people my baby!" Admittedly, it's not the "nicest" hobby, but so much fun, and so addictive.
2) Gawking at people with eating disorders.
This goes for overeaters and under eaters, as well as the more "exotic" eating disorders like people who eat chalk, etc. Any show that features morbidly obese people losing weight earns a season pass on my tivo. When I discovered "pro ana" and "pro mia" at first I thought it was a joke.
And then I found the online forums.
I loved reading those forums. They don't post pictures of themselves, so if you just read their posts, you get the impression that you're in some kind of fat girl support group where they all try to encourage people to reach their weight loss goals. They're really nice to each other. "Only 10 more pounds until I reach my goal weight!" "Yay Mia2883! You can do it!" But then you keep reading. And they start talking about strategies for avoiding food...always. And then you see their "thinspiration" photos who are invariably heroin-chic-looking skeletons, even though heroin chic went out years ago. I started getting really into their internal dramas, and started to get familiar with their individual personalities. One day Phil asked what I was reading, because I looked freaked out. I replied "Ana362436 is in a jam. Her mom found the bags of vomit she was hoarding in her closet."
Phil was freaked. "What the hell are you reading? Why was she hoarding vomit?"
"Because she didn't want anyone to hear her flushing when she purged. Also, the vomit was gross, so it was a good disincentive to eat. It makes sense, really."
"No honey. It doesn't..."
"No! I don't mean it's like, a good thing to do. I'm just saying, if you're going to be bulimic, it's a good strategy."
Phil was pensive and then made me promise I would stop reading the pro-ana, pro-mia forums.
Which I have.
3)Online shopping while drunk.
Sometimes when I drink I buy things online. I blame one click shopping. If I had to get up off my ass, retrieve my purse, enter all the information and then confirm it all, this probably wouldn't happen. But with one click shopping I can buy whatever I want, whenever I want it. And under the influence of alcohol I lose all sense of worry or restraint.
But then I forget that I bought stuff. And weeks later I'll come home from work and find a bunch of packages on my doorstep. "What's this?" I say to myself. Only to open up the packages and find all kinds of treasures! Sparkly shoes! Fancy scarves! Books on travel! Sometimes even boxes of candy! I'm not proud of myself for my actions, but in all honesty it's hard to be too concerned about it because every time I do it I get rewarded with all kinds of treats. It's not exactly teaching me a lesson.
4) Redoing movie scenes.
I don't like unhappy endings in movies. If I want harsh reality and somber truths, I'll listen to the news. I go to movies because I want to be entertained and uplifted. But some movies with sad endings are really, truly good; and they do entertain me. So how do I remedy this? By creating a new ending in my head, which I replay whenever I like, for my pleasure.
Here is an example of what I mean. If you have ever seen the movie "Life is Beautiful" you know that it is amazing and wonderful. Until the end. I can't watch anything after the scene where the dad does a humorous goose-step to amuse his son who is hiding from the Nazis. I turn the movie off at that point and say "The end! They won a tank! Yay!"
But that's not a very satisfying ending. Kind of a cop out really. So here is the "Dana Improved Ending".
It's the dinner party scene. The riddle loving nazi drops his fork to lure the dad away from his waiter duties. The dad goes over to him, hope radiating from his every pore. He knows that his friend will help him.
The riddle loving nazi says, with no preamble, "Your wife is safe. I've moved her to my cousin's farm in the country. They have a safe place for her to hide."
The dad lets out a blast of relief, tears almost flooding his eyes. The riddle loving nazi speaks quietly and quickly. "It's not safe for me to move you and your son tonight. I'm sorry. Can you meet me by the south wall at 3am this Saturday?"
The dad nods curtly. Of course he can, an innovative man like him! He'll find a way!
"My cousin's farm is not a luxurious place. But you will all be together, safe. My cousin and his wife are good people; they'll see that all your needs are met."
"Thank you! Thank you so much!" begins the dad. But the riddle loving nazi cuts him off. "All I ask in return" he says, very serious, "is that you assist me with this riddle" and then proceeds to tell the riddle. The dad laughs with giddy relief and of course gives him enough clues to answer the riddle on his own. It's the least he can do.
Well, the dad now has to explain to the little boy that they are quitting the game. He'll probably have to say that he found out it's all a trick and there IS no tank!!! He will devise an ingenious way to be at the south wall at 3 am, probably something humerous involving disguises and magic tricks. They are almost caught, but make it out by the skin of their teeth. They are all reunited on the farm and live happily ever after. And then they get a tank anyway.
See, isn't my ending better? I like to make little scene revisions and play them to myself whenever I'm bored. It's good fun, and I recommend you try your own.
5)Grocery shopping
Is anything more awesome than grocery shopping? Yes, but not much. I love looking at rows and rows of tasty, gourmet foods, knowing that I CAN BUY WHATEVER I WANT. For most of my life my food decisions were based on whatever was cheapest. But now. NOW. I'm making up for lost time. Yes I do need 6 pomegranates, imported gorgonzola cheese, truffle oil and a bottle of Chablis. Why not? Why should I deny myself? I shouldn't. That's why.
Are these healthy hobbies? Probably not. Are they hobbies I could discuss in polite company? Probably not. But it feels good to get it out there and be honest with you all. This is what I like to do for fun. Judge me.
Sunday, January 30, 2011
Artistic Failures
It all started with the sequence packets. In second grade we had to do these exercises called "sequence packets". By doing these sequence packets, we were supposed to demonstrate that we understood cause and effect and how to sequence a series of events. The packets contained such questions as "Does spring come before or after winter?". My answer: both. Teacher's answer "You're wrong". This was one of the first times that "grown up" Dana emerged; defiant, arrogant and correct. I got in a fight with my teacher about this, and I found the whole event rather upsetting. So suffice it to say, I hated the sequence packets.
One day, during sequence packet time, we had to draw a picture in one of a series of boxes, illustrating "what happens next". I don't remember the sequence, but I do remember the anger I felt at being forced to do such a stupid assignment. I finished my drawing quickly and efficiently, illustrating a couple people. I lacked artistic skills, but my stick people, I felt did the job. It showed that I understood what happens next, which was, after all the point of the assignment.
The teacher saw it differently.
She looked at my drawing and told me I needed to go back and redraw it.
"Why?" I asked.
"Because you're not done. See, these people don't even have hands or feet!"
"They don't need hands or feed" I said, logically. "They're not real".
"You need to go back to your desk and finish your drawing."
I could see that she was beyond reasoning, so I went back to my desk, shaking with anger, and tried to draw hands and feet with crayons, which you know, went well. I still to this day don't understand how you can draw hands or feet with crayons. No matter what, they end up looking like blobs, and not like hands or feet at all. And if we're going for realism, it was probably better for me to leave them off, honestly.
This incident started a hatred of art in my angry little girl heart. I began to associate it with nitpicky, hateful witches who couldn't see the forest through the trees. Drawing was the realm of the detail oriented and excessively rule bound; the kind of people who missed the point entirely and got hung up on things that didn't matter.
This frame of mind was only enhanced by an art project I was forced to endure in 3rd grade. In November we were coerced into making "Thanksgiving turkeys" in the most tedious and horrifying way possible. We made outlines of a turkey on a piece of white paper. AND THEN WE HAD TO FILL IN THE ENTIRE THING WITH LITTLE TINY SCRAPS OF CREPE PAPER. We were given massive amounts of multi colored crepe paper squares, which we were to wrap around the end of a pencil, making a little cup shape, and then we had to glue each little square to the paper. The ending result was supposed to be some kind of monstrous multicolored squishy paper turkey. I saw the finished project and thought it was really tacky, and not like something I wanted in my house. Plus we had turkeys on the farm, and I saw nothing particularly interesting or beautiful about them. Why turkeys? I had a bad attitude about the project. So I half-assed it.
Do you have any idea how long it takes to make a turkey out of tiny cup shaped crepe paper squares? Months. That's how long. It is tedious mind numbing work and the teacher who forced us to do it should probably be punished. I'm not going to say it was sweatshop labor. That's for the suits in Washington to decide. I'm just saying you know. There were similarities. When I finally finished, I beheld the disgustingly ugly partial birth abortion that was my hideous turkey and I nearly cried. All that work. All that suffering. For this.
For this.
My hatred of art grew and grew. Until one day, in the sixth grade, I went to a yard sale with my friend and her dad. I found there a large package of magazines titled "Art and Antiques". I began flipping through them, just curious.
And it blew my mind.
THIS was art? What were they making me do in school?
My eyes devoured each page, looking at gleaming white sculptures, disturbingly dark paintings, architecture so light and airy it made me feel like crying with delight. I could see that someone paid over $200,000 for an armoire at Southeby's. What was an armoire? I had to know. I had to know more! I begged my friend's dad to buy me the magazines, which he did, for 25 cents.
When I got home I holed myself up in my room with my treasure, absorbing not just the art, but the LIFESTYLE associated with it. Looking at the people featured in them, I just knew they had never, ever got into a fight over a pizza crust as I had recently done. Their clothes were elegant, their homes beautiful and refined. They attended charity auctions. They discussed "pieces". They found precious antiques while shopping for vintage clothing in atelier shops in Paris. I looked around at my clothes. My house. My life. And suddenly I felt an utter self loathing. I hated my life, my self. I was trash.
After moping around for a few days I decided that rather than mope, I would simply have to remedy the situation. But how? I couldn't afford any of the art and antiques in the magazine, and even if I could, I didn't live anywhere where you could buy anything like that. So. I would have to make my own art.
I asked my dad for paints, which made him angry, since that was far, far beyond our means. So I got my sad little stack of notebook paper and found some red, blue and yellow paints from an old toy in the closet. The paints were crappy and old, but I figured I could mix them together to make all kinds of colors and shades. I'd seen Bob Ross mix paints, and I felt I pretty much understood the technique. I gathered my notebook paper and my red, blue and yellow paints and went down to the creek to try my hand at nature painting. After an hour and several truly heinous paintings I stalked back up to the house, in tears, hating myself even more than I had. I was a failure.
I got the magazines out again. I needed to study them, I decided. Which yielded some interesting results. I discovered that great art doesn't require great technique; it requires great IDEAS. And I, after all, was an idea person. And thus I decided, I didn't want to be a Monet; I hated landscapes anyway! I was going to be a modern artist. I found some old pairs of shoes with holes in them and nailed them to my walls, to look like a ghost was walking up my walls (at least I thought so). I found some paper cups and covered them in wrapping paper. I suspended these from the ceiling, using different lengths of yarn. I cut out all my favorite pictures from the magazines and made collages that covered my closet doors. I bent coat hangers into interesting shapes and taped them to things. ART. I was an artist.
But when I was finally done, I realized that my room didn't look elegant. It didn't look like the inside of a museum. It just looked like a crazy person lived there. I gave up.
But then, as a high school senior, I took my very first ever trip to an art museum. The Seattle Art Museum to be exact. And suddenly I was in sixth grade again, feeling like an inadequate hick, and wanting so desperately to be better and do better. I decided then and there to major in art history when I went to college, which I did. I knew I was no artist, but I wanted this. I wanted this to be my life. I wanted to be one of the elegant, refined women in Art and Antiques who "acquired pieces".
But what I hadn't bargained on was the fact that art history majors have to take art classes too. My drawing class was horrible. Surrounded by truly talented drawers, I felt like the worst kind of class dunce. I didn't belong there. I sucked. Plus I was too tense to even make much of an effort. Was I supposed to draw the model's back acne? Because that was all I could focus on. No one else was drawing the acne. Was I a horrible person? Will the male model get angry if I draw his penis as small as it appears? Should I "enhance" it to make him feel better? Or would that be too obvious?
However, my final art class was a sculpture class. This I enjoyed, though I sucked at it. Our first assignment was to make an "imaginary friend" out of cardboard. My imaginary friend was awesome. I make a winged swing. It was a regular swing, but the ropes were attached to a smiling set of wings. Because wouldn't that be the coolest friend ever? Almost as good as a magic carpet.
My final project was to make a sculture from plaster of Paris. We were supposed to juxtapose two objects together, which did not belong together. I made a coffee mug, but instead of a handle, it had an electrical outlet. It was dangerous. Those things should never be put together. I still have it actually. It's the only piece of art I've ever done that I liked.
Of course, when I graduated I couldn't get a job in the art world, and wound up in finance of all things, working in the least creative, least elegant, most bland environment you can imagine. It's funny how things work out.
One day, during sequence packet time, we had to draw a picture in one of a series of boxes, illustrating "what happens next". I don't remember the sequence, but I do remember the anger I felt at being forced to do such a stupid assignment. I finished my drawing quickly and efficiently, illustrating a couple people. I lacked artistic skills, but my stick people, I felt did the job. It showed that I understood what happens next, which was, after all the point of the assignment.
The teacher saw it differently.
She looked at my drawing and told me I needed to go back and redraw it.
"Why?" I asked.
"Because you're not done. See, these people don't even have hands or feet!"
"They don't need hands or feed" I said, logically. "They're not real".
"You need to go back to your desk and finish your drawing."
I could see that she was beyond reasoning, so I went back to my desk, shaking with anger, and tried to draw hands and feet with crayons, which you know, went well. I still to this day don't understand how you can draw hands or feet with crayons. No matter what, they end up looking like blobs, and not like hands or feet at all. And if we're going for realism, it was probably better for me to leave them off, honestly.
This incident started a hatred of art in my angry little girl heart. I began to associate it with nitpicky, hateful witches who couldn't see the forest through the trees. Drawing was the realm of the detail oriented and excessively rule bound; the kind of people who missed the point entirely and got hung up on things that didn't matter.
This frame of mind was only enhanced by an art project I was forced to endure in 3rd grade. In November we were coerced into making "Thanksgiving turkeys" in the most tedious and horrifying way possible. We made outlines of a turkey on a piece of white paper. AND THEN WE HAD TO FILL IN THE ENTIRE THING WITH LITTLE TINY SCRAPS OF CREPE PAPER. We were given massive amounts of multi colored crepe paper squares, which we were to wrap around the end of a pencil, making a little cup shape, and then we had to glue each little square to the paper. The ending result was supposed to be some kind of monstrous multicolored squishy paper turkey. I saw the finished project and thought it was really tacky, and not like something I wanted in my house. Plus we had turkeys on the farm, and I saw nothing particularly interesting or beautiful about them. Why turkeys? I had a bad attitude about the project. So I half-assed it.
Do you have any idea how long it takes to make a turkey out of tiny cup shaped crepe paper squares? Months. That's how long. It is tedious mind numbing work and the teacher who forced us to do it should probably be punished. I'm not going to say it was sweatshop labor. That's for the suits in Washington to decide. I'm just saying you know. There were similarities. When I finally finished, I beheld the disgustingly ugly partial birth abortion that was my hideous turkey and I nearly cried. All that work. All that suffering. For this.
For this.
My hatred of art grew and grew. Until one day, in the sixth grade, I went to a yard sale with my friend and her dad. I found there a large package of magazines titled "Art and Antiques". I began flipping through them, just curious.
And it blew my mind.
THIS was art? What were they making me do in school?
My eyes devoured each page, looking at gleaming white sculptures, disturbingly dark paintings, architecture so light and airy it made me feel like crying with delight. I could see that someone paid over $200,000 for an armoire at Southeby's. What was an armoire? I had to know. I had to know more! I begged my friend's dad to buy me the magazines, which he did, for 25 cents.
When I got home I holed myself up in my room with my treasure, absorbing not just the art, but the LIFESTYLE associated with it. Looking at the people featured in them, I just knew they had never, ever got into a fight over a pizza crust as I had recently done. Their clothes were elegant, their homes beautiful and refined. They attended charity auctions. They discussed "pieces". They found precious antiques while shopping for vintage clothing in atelier shops in Paris. I looked around at my clothes. My house. My life. And suddenly I felt an utter self loathing. I hated my life, my self. I was trash.
After moping around for a few days I decided that rather than mope, I would simply have to remedy the situation. But how? I couldn't afford any of the art and antiques in the magazine, and even if I could, I didn't live anywhere where you could buy anything like that. So. I would have to make my own art.
I asked my dad for paints, which made him angry, since that was far, far beyond our means. So I got my sad little stack of notebook paper and found some red, blue and yellow paints from an old toy in the closet. The paints were crappy and old, but I figured I could mix them together to make all kinds of colors and shades. I'd seen Bob Ross mix paints, and I felt I pretty much understood the technique. I gathered my notebook paper and my red, blue and yellow paints and went down to the creek to try my hand at nature painting. After an hour and several truly heinous paintings I stalked back up to the house, in tears, hating myself even more than I had. I was a failure.
I got the magazines out again. I needed to study them, I decided. Which yielded some interesting results. I discovered that great art doesn't require great technique; it requires great IDEAS. And I, after all, was an idea person. And thus I decided, I didn't want to be a Monet; I hated landscapes anyway! I was going to be a modern artist. I found some old pairs of shoes with holes in them and nailed them to my walls, to look like a ghost was walking up my walls (at least I thought so). I found some paper cups and covered them in wrapping paper. I suspended these from the ceiling, using different lengths of yarn. I cut out all my favorite pictures from the magazines and made collages that covered my closet doors. I bent coat hangers into interesting shapes and taped them to things. ART. I was an artist.
But when I was finally done, I realized that my room didn't look elegant. It didn't look like the inside of a museum. It just looked like a crazy person lived there. I gave up.
But then, as a high school senior, I took my very first ever trip to an art museum. The Seattle Art Museum to be exact. And suddenly I was in sixth grade again, feeling like an inadequate hick, and wanting so desperately to be better and do better. I decided then and there to major in art history when I went to college, which I did. I knew I was no artist, but I wanted this. I wanted this to be my life. I wanted to be one of the elegant, refined women in Art and Antiques who "acquired pieces".
But what I hadn't bargained on was the fact that art history majors have to take art classes too. My drawing class was horrible. Surrounded by truly talented drawers, I felt like the worst kind of class dunce. I didn't belong there. I sucked. Plus I was too tense to even make much of an effort. Was I supposed to draw the model's back acne? Because that was all I could focus on. No one else was drawing the acne. Was I a horrible person? Will the male model get angry if I draw his penis as small as it appears? Should I "enhance" it to make him feel better? Or would that be too obvious?
However, my final art class was a sculpture class. This I enjoyed, though I sucked at it. Our first assignment was to make an "imaginary friend" out of cardboard. My imaginary friend was awesome. I make a winged swing. It was a regular swing, but the ropes were attached to a smiling set of wings. Because wouldn't that be the coolest friend ever? Almost as good as a magic carpet.
My final project was to make a sculture from plaster of Paris. We were supposed to juxtapose two objects together, which did not belong together. I made a coffee mug, but instead of a handle, it had an electrical outlet. It was dangerous. Those things should never be put together. I still have it actually. It's the only piece of art I've ever done that I liked.
Of course, when I graduated I couldn't get a job in the art world, and wound up in finance of all things, working in the least creative, least elegant, most bland environment you can imagine. It's funny how things work out.
Thursday, January 27, 2011
The Inevitable Stomach Blog
In early December, I noticed that my stomach hurt a lot after I ate. I ignored it at first, but eventually it got so bad that I had to leave work in the middle of the day. I went to the doctor, who said I had acid reflux. He gave me a list of forbidden foods and told me to take prevacid. The next morning I ate some oatmeal and herbal tea and promptly vomited it all up. This confused me. Oatmeal should be fine for acid reflux! I went home and ate some toast, and had excruciating pain for the rest of the day.
I mentioned the stomach situation to my rheumatologist, who said it was probably just the stomach flu.
It didn't go away for 2 weeks. I'm no doctor, but I know the flu doesn't last that long. I went to see a different doctor, Dr. Demoui. She ordered some tests. I waited a week and called for my test results. I couldn't reach her so I left a message with the nurse. I repeated this process every day for another week. At this point I was totally stressed because I did NOT want to travel north for Christmas with this horrifying problem. Which is exactly what I had to do, because Dr. Demoui couldn't be bothered to return my calls. I finally badgered the nurse into giving me my "results". The nurse said that Dr. Demoui wrote notes in my file saying I needed to "take vitamins". I asked if I could speak to the doctor directly, because I didn't feel this was a satisfactory diagnosis. I was told she was "on vacation".
At this point, filled with psychopathic rage, I made an appointment wiht a naturopathic doctor. He prescribed me a nasty powder to drink as well as "silica". He gave me instructions to avoid gluten, since, judging from my food journal, the culprit may be a gluten allergy. The nasty powder, though nasty, did actually calm my stomach. I felt pretty good as long as I was very careful what I ate and regularly drank my cup of nasty. However, I still had no explanation as to what is actually WRONG.
So I went to go see a gastroenterologist. He said it sounded like Celiac disease. He tested me for it, even though the he said test may not be as accurate since I had been abstaining from gluten for a couple of weeks. The test came back negative. Then he said it could be related to my autoimmune drama.
Rewind: A coup]e years ago I started having joint pain, and rashes. That's why I go to a rheumatologist. My ANA test came back positive, so now I have to go for testing every two months to "monitor" the situation to make sure I don't like, have kidney failure or whatever. It's never been a major problem. Sometimes my joints hurt and I get a rash, and then it goes away.
But the gastroenterologist pointed out that my last lab results had a MAJOR JUMP just prior to my stomach pain. The jump also coincided with the return of my joint pain and rash. So. It appears that it may be auto immune. The joint pain and rash are gone, but the stomach pain remains.
I am left with many questions.
1) Obviously, I need to know what is causing the stomach pain.
2) If it is auto-immune, why does it help when I avoid gluten.
3) If it is a gluten allergy, why does it hurt when I have an empty stomach sometimes? Can it just be leftover tenderness from prior gluten-induced damage?
4) Why does sour cream hurt my stomach, but not other kinds of dairy?
5) Why do antacids help only sometimes?
6) If it is autoimmune, will they be albe to determine that from the endoscopy?
7) What, exactly, can they determine from the endoscopy?
I am really not looking forward to having a creepy tube stuck down my throat.
Pray for me. Or if you aren't religious, send me good vibes or whatever.
I mentioned the stomach situation to my rheumatologist, who said it was probably just the stomach flu.
It didn't go away for 2 weeks. I'm no doctor, but I know the flu doesn't last that long. I went to see a different doctor, Dr. Demoui. She ordered some tests. I waited a week and called for my test results. I couldn't reach her so I left a message with the nurse. I repeated this process every day for another week. At this point I was totally stressed because I did NOT want to travel north for Christmas with this horrifying problem. Which is exactly what I had to do, because Dr. Demoui couldn't be bothered to return my calls. I finally badgered the nurse into giving me my "results". The nurse said that Dr. Demoui wrote notes in my file saying I needed to "take vitamins". I asked if I could speak to the doctor directly, because I didn't feel this was a satisfactory diagnosis. I was told she was "on vacation".
At this point, filled with psychopathic rage, I made an appointment wiht a naturopathic doctor. He prescribed me a nasty powder to drink as well as "silica". He gave me instructions to avoid gluten, since, judging from my food journal, the culprit may be a gluten allergy. The nasty powder, though nasty, did actually calm my stomach. I felt pretty good as long as I was very careful what I ate and regularly drank my cup of nasty. However, I still had no explanation as to what is actually WRONG.
So I went to go see a gastroenterologist. He said it sounded like Celiac disease. He tested me for it, even though the he said test may not be as accurate since I had been abstaining from gluten for a couple of weeks. The test came back negative. Then he said it could be related to my autoimmune drama.
Rewind: A coup]e years ago I started having joint pain, and rashes. That's why I go to a rheumatologist. My ANA test came back positive, so now I have to go for testing every two months to "monitor" the situation to make sure I don't like, have kidney failure or whatever. It's never been a major problem. Sometimes my joints hurt and I get a rash, and then it goes away.
But the gastroenterologist pointed out that my last lab results had a MAJOR JUMP just prior to my stomach pain. The jump also coincided with the return of my joint pain and rash. So. It appears that it may be auto immune. The joint pain and rash are gone, but the stomach pain remains.
I am left with many questions.
1) Obviously, I need to know what is causing the stomach pain.
2) If it is auto-immune, why does it help when I avoid gluten.
3) If it is a gluten allergy, why does it hurt when I have an empty stomach sometimes? Can it just be leftover tenderness from prior gluten-induced damage?
4) Why does sour cream hurt my stomach, but not other kinds of dairy?
5) Why do antacids help only sometimes?
6) If it is autoimmune, will they be albe to determine that from the endoscopy?
7) What, exactly, can they determine from the endoscopy?
I am really not looking forward to having a creepy tube stuck down my throat.
Pray for me. Or if you aren't religious, send me good vibes or whatever.
Wednesday, January 26, 2011
Food For People Who Can't Eat
Due to my horrifying stomach drama, I'm no longer allowed to eat gluten. If you've ever tried to be vegetarian and gluten free at the same time, you know that it's easy enough at home, surrounded by your army of cookbooks, but when dining out it's pretty much Thai food, and that's about it. So I have a great idea. To open up a restaurant called "Food for People Who Can't Eat". It would be a place where people with dietary restrictions could eat to their hearts' content, relishing every tasty biteful. The restaurant would offer several separate menus, each with 5 or 6 entree options, several "sides" from which they could choose, three or four desserts, and of course beverages. "Food For People Who Can't Eat" would offer the following menus:
Gluten Free
Vegetarian
Vegan
Kosher
Halal
Diabetic
"On a Diet"
low carb
raw foods
local, organic, whole foods
fruitarian
nut allergy
lactose intolerance
juice bar (for people on liquid diets and people with no teeth)
macrobiotic
"gourmet" (only the highest quality, snob approved foods)
That's 16 menus. If each menu has 5 entrees that's 80 options, which is a lot. But I think restaurants like The Cheesecake Factory manage it, so we should be able to as well. And of course, there could be some overlap too, for instance lots of macrobiotic things could be on the vegan menu and so on.
The menu cover would say something like this: "Here at Food For People Who Can't Eat we want to offer a delicious dining experience for all of our guests. Are you tired of going to restaurants where all you can eat is a salad? We know. We know. This restaurant is for YOU. You, people who need wholesome, tasty food, but who can't get their needs met at traditional dining establishments. We aren't here to judge you or call you picky or roll our eyes when you question us about the ingredients in our dishes. We're here to serve you! So ask as many questions as you like. Our waitstaff are trained in all kinds of dietary restrictions and are intimately acquainted with the ingredients in all of our dishes. Here at Food for People Who Can't Eat, we love you! And we know you deserve to eat as much as your less discriminating fellows."
And people who have no dietary restrictions may enjoy it as well! After all, we would serve really, truly tasty food. And it might be fun for anyone who has ever wondered "What do they even eat?".
Too bad I hate business, or I'd get on this right away.
Gluten Free
Vegetarian
Vegan
Kosher
Halal
Diabetic
"On a Diet"
low carb
raw foods
local, organic, whole foods
fruitarian
nut allergy
lactose intolerance
juice bar (for people on liquid diets and people with no teeth)
macrobiotic
"gourmet" (only the highest quality, snob approved foods)
That's 16 menus. If each menu has 5 entrees that's 80 options, which is a lot. But I think restaurants like The Cheesecake Factory manage it, so we should be able to as well. And of course, there could be some overlap too, for instance lots of macrobiotic things could be on the vegan menu and so on.
The menu cover would say something like this: "Here at Food For People Who Can't Eat we want to offer a delicious dining experience for all of our guests. Are you tired of going to restaurants where all you can eat is a salad? We know. We know. This restaurant is for YOU. You, people who need wholesome, tasty food, but who can't get their needs met at traditional dining establishments. We aren't here to judge you or call you picky or roll our eyes when you question us about the ingredients in our dishes. We're here to serve you! So ask as many questions as you like. Our waitstaff are trained in all kinds of dietary restrictions and are intimately acquainted with the ingredients in all of our dishes. Here at Food for People Who Can't Eat, we love you! And we know you deserve to eat as much as your less discriminating fellows."
And people who have no dietary restrictions may enjoy it as well! After all, we would serve really, truly tasty food. And it might be fun for anyone who has ever wondered "What do they even eat?".
Too bad I hate business, or I'd get on this right away.
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