From the category archives:

Health

If I have a girl I’m naming her Spicy Asiago Ranch Chicken Club

April 3, 2011

In February of last year, I stopped eating fast food (In-N-Out doesn’t count). A few months after that, I stopped going to franchises altogether. It has nothing to do with being a vegetarian, food allergies or Morgan Spurlock. Simply put, fast food made me feel awful. And the food from casual dining franchises didn’t make me feel much better.

So I swore it off. Fast food was easy since I never really liked the stuff anyway (You’ll always be my baby, Burger King Croissan’wich). But franchises were harder to shake since they typically know just the right mix of carbohydrates, fat, and stone veneer interiors to make you feel fancy. To move the process along, I started a mental ‘never again’ list of franchises that I banned myself from after particularly bad visits. The first draft looked like this:

Olive Garden – Diarrhea. Again.

Red Robin – Experienced severe headache and nausea after fifth basket of bottomless fries. Should be illegal.

Applebee’s – Found a tag in my food that came from the bag that they microwaved it in.

Red Lobster – Bad service, average food, will miss the Cheddar Bay Biscuits.

Chili’s – I really think they’re trying to kill me with the Southern Smokehouse Bacon Big Mouth Burger.

It seemed that they all had two things in common – unremarkable food and a threat that I might shit my pants. After a while, it became really easy to kick franchises out of my life, too. So I did. And I don’t regret anything. I feel great, my pants fit and I no longer worry that I’ll die in a TGI Friday’s.

However, sometimes I slip up. And by ‘slip up’ I mean that I get something with a lot of bacon on it, dip it in whatever non-dairy based ‘ice cream’ treat I can find and then cry with the wrappers in my arms, wondering why I ever said goodbye to ‘#5 With a Biggie Fry and Apple Pie Aubrey.’

So, about the Biggie Fry. It showed up this past Friday night and brought along a Spicy Asiago Ranch Chicken Club, made just for me by Wendy’s.

Get your tissues or socks or banana peels ready, because I’m about to describe what’s going on with this sandwich. First, there’s a tenderly breaded chicken fillet. That’s topped with a sultry bundle of crispy applewood smoked bacon. Dripping down all of that is creamy ranch and melted asiago cheese. Then there’s lettuce or something, but I take it off because otherwise I wouldn’t be able to feel a thing.

This sandwich is the best thing that’s ever happened to me and I say that as someone who has three Safeway Club Cards. It combines the best of what fast food and casual dining franchises have to offer. So basically, it’s quick and there’s a lot of ranch dressing.

To give you an idea of what my four minutes as a demigod looked like, I’ve come up with a rough sketch of my Spicy Asiago Ranch Chicken Club experience:

Fireworks are simulated

 

I swear I’m getting back on the wagon tomorrow.

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I’m going to be a doctor’s wife

March 31, 2011

Since finding my dream doctor about one year ago, I’ve probably had around eleven visits. Most of them carry the theme of “What kinds of drugs can I get for eating brownie batter and sleeping all the time?” Hint: It’s not medical marijuana.

Aside from jumping from horse to horse on the carousel of antidepressants, my other reason for visiting so often has been headaches. If I’m lucky, I’ll go one week without one. Otherwise, they occur almost daily. But no matter what I may be going through, I always look forward to seeing my doctor. She’s friendly, extremely competent, takes copious notes and usually remembers everything about me. She also gives one kick ass pap smear. After my appointments, I usually gush to my boyfriend about how great she is, how I’ve never had a doctor who actually cares and urge him to see her if he ever needs anything.

I started to hear myself masturbating with my own words. “She actually listens, you know?” “She doesn’t rush the appointment – she really takes the time to understand your needs.” Oh, and the final red flag, “She really makes it feel like I’m the only one in the room.” I could see the concern on his face, but I ignored it. I didn’t have a problem. What I felt for my doctor was completely normal and he just didn’t get it.

But after a few fruitless visits regarding my chronic headaches, my boyfriend finally expressed his opinion, which is never welcome unless it’s about how good my skin looks. He said, “I’m not sure about your doctor anymore, maybe you should look for a second opinion.”

Almost immediately, I wanted to scream, “YOU DON’T KNOW HER LIKE I DO, SHE’S TRYING HER BEST I MEAN, IT’S NOT LIKE SHE CAN PRESCRIBE PAIN PILLS TO A PATIENT ON ANTIDEPRESSANTS. RIGHT? I MEAN, RIGHT? DON’T YOU EVER TALK ABOUT HER LIKE THAT AGAIN YOU’D BE LUCKY TO EVEN MEET A WOMAN LIKE HER.” Instead I calmly said, “Yeah, maybe you’re right.”

I definitely had a problem.

But, luckily, I’m able to play it cool around her. When she comes into the exam room and asks how I’m doing, I’m all like “Sup?” When she leaves and says it was nice to see me, I totally don’t say anything because that means I have all the power.

Then I go through a series of giddy screeches once I get out to the car.

But the point is – I’ve somehow developed a somewhat unhealthy relationship with my doctor. So unhealthy that she has no idea that it even exists. Now I’m left with two choices -laugh and forget about it (like everything else) or see her again so I can get a referral to see someone about being obsessed with her. Ultimately, I’m fairly certain that I can solve this like a rational adult and understand that my feelings are a result of finally experiencing safety and trust in my medical care.

And no, seeing another doctor is absolutely not an option you take that back.


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America deserves to be fat and poor forever

January 26, 2011

Well, it happened. The number of people afflicted with chronic depression has finally intertwined with an overall lack of funds, resulting in the production of one truly heinous product.

The idea here is basic. Deliver as much shitty food in one box as possible, offload cookie dough contaminated with rodent feces and prove how useless the FDA is for letting a word like “WYNGZ” take the place of “RAT MEAT.”

But come on, something as authentico as DiGiorno wouldn’t steer us wrong, right? Roughly translated, it means ‘day’ in Italian. It’s not the most inspired choice but, “We use mechanically separated chicken parts for our pepperoni and sausage pizzas” is way, way too long. Oh and their slogan, “It’s not delivery. It’s DiGiorno” essentially means, “It’s not this awesome thing you love. It’s kind of a parody of this awesome thing you love but hey cheap ass, you don’t have to tip a delivery guy so just choke down your chicken beaks already.”

What’s ultimately upsetting though is that they come in the same box. Buying a frozen pizza and a slat of pre-made cookie dough separately says, “John Hughes movie night” or “Slumber party with friends.” Buying it in the same box says, “I’ll write my suicide note right on the back, next to the heating instructions and I’ll be all like ‘Life Instructions: Don’t do it, they’ll never love you back.’”

But for all of its repulsiveness, it is idiot proof for the $4.99 frozen pizza buying demographic. And if I’ve gleaned anything from recent eating habits in the U.S., it’s that convenience will always outrank substance and in some cases, eradicate it entirely.

DiGiorno: One pan, one oven, endless tastiness*.

*bowel obstruction

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I’m only half sure I have the plague

July 6, 2010

I went to Stanislaus National Forest to celebrate America’s independence and pizza and other things but mostly pizza. But before the pizza, I went hiking and probably caught the plague.

There’s an inherent danger when it comes to any outdoor activity. Things like sprained ankles, dehydration and sun burns. Those are just the things that can happen to you without even having to try. I’ve done plenty of stupid things intentionally – swam in nearly freezing water, approached an 1100lb bull elk, and one time, even mixed some Country Time into tepid water and drank it. But walking straight into an area infested with plague is so stupid it may as well be referred to as the rhythm method.

The sign circled in the photo is where I saw the, “You’re about to get plagued” warning. It basically tells you to stay away from small woodland animals and ticks, since they’re the major carriers. Armed with this gentle suggestion that, for most people with functioning risk assessment faculties would translate to “Don’t do it,” I sprayed myself down with 100% DEET, gagged because of the sudden gust of wind that directed the poisonous mist into my mouth, and went on my way.

After around the 11th time of thinking that the same patch of dirt on my ankle was a tick, I ditched Plague N’ Save in search of pizza. From there, the rest of the weekend was a blur until I woke up with a sore throat the morning after returning. In other words, I had swollen lymph nodes – one of the main symptoms. I rushed around my apartment looking for the thermometer, which is what I do in order to know whether I’m going to overreact by taking an ice bath or drinking eight cups of green tea. I couldn’t find it so instead, I wondered if the plague was the kind of thing where, assuming I didn’t die, I’d get to eat a lot of ice cream during recovery. Eventually, I did what any medically ignorant individual would do and resorted to Google.

Check out the guy whining about having the wrong tax code. Dude, I might have the plague. You just have a minor inconvenience. Predictably, my Google search didn’t yield much more than a barely literate Yahoo Answer and lots of links leading to information about the plague over 600 years ago. So not only was I kind of swollen and achy, but I was also grossly anachronistic.

But I’m fairly certain that I don’t have the plague. To be safe, however, I’m clearing my search history before I go to bed.

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