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Health

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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Well played, Jill

July 26, 2010

Today, I ‘liked’ Planned Parenthood on Facebook. As with most things, I didn’t really know what that meant. I figured that at best, it would stir up some suspicion that I just came home from an abortion, half drugged and thankful that I didn’t have to say goodbye to Peanut Butter Nipple Wednesdays.

Instead, I got this:

This is gonna be good

Alicia has either missed the point entirely or well…that’s about it. I thought about sharing my reaction so I could be part of a mob for once in my life, but I couldn’t put this into words:

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You’re not the only one who cares about being regular, Jamie Lee Curtis

June 23, 2010

I didn’t start shopping a Costco until about 11 months ago and even then, it was largely motivated by the fact that I was living in Oregon, where the job market was about as reliable as Nicolas Cage starring in a movie worth more than the hair product he uses to convince everyone that he’s not balding. Shopping at Costco – being a Costco-ite – fomented this irrational fear in me. I knew that Wal-Mart was hell on earth, so anything bigger had to be like living in the laundry bin where Richard Simmons deposits his workout shorts and leotards. Luckily, I was only partially right.

For those of you who cut your toenails on a semi-regular basis and therefore are not completely familiar with this bargain mecca, Costco is a giant barn-like structure selling everything from $11 Men’s leisure vests to $5 pies that eclipse the size of most hot tubs. Basically, if you are planning or thinking about planning some sort of carnival, Costco can provide the sub-standard cotton candy maker, food service wax paper, 64 pack of hot dogs and, depending on the day, some guy who will at least tell you that he can paint faces. The subject matter will probably lean more toward poorly done Harvey Pekar-esque doodles instead of glitter butterflies but a bargain is a bargain.

Despite their hygienic shortcomings, people who shop at Costco are kind of brilliant. And I don’t say that because I shop there. Because while I do have the hygiene thing down to a science, I am hopeless when it comes to putting things in my basket that I’ll actually eat. The only way I even know whether or not I need to go to Costco again is when all of the stuff I failed to eat from the previous trip has expired. It’s like,”Oh, that ream of deli meat is starting to get slimy, better go get a new one so the 10lb bag of potatoes doesn’t get lonely.”

So yeah I’ve been tricked by the 3lb packs of heart-shaped ravioli (twice) and 126 count boxes of instant oatmeal. But a few months ago, I hit on something incredible. My boyfriend and I were nearing the end of our monthly return to play the part of fiscally responsible but clearly snack obsessed couple and, among all of the candy in the food slip ‘n slide (or aisle for those of you content with buying only one gallon of mayonnaise at a time), he spots a jug of 220 Fiber Choice pills for something like $16.

He then says, “This is a much better deal than buying them in smaller quantities at the drug store for nearly the same price.” At this point I start to suspect that he doesn’t really get why we shop at Costco and maybe just likes the variety implied in being able to buy an entire glazed ham and its own fitted captain’s outfit, including hat, all for under $30.

He starts going on about being irregular and I stop listening, wishing that I could go flip through the poster-sized slabs of cheese instead. But then, while realizing the scheme that Costco puts on by packing the front of the store (or rather, city-state) with food that will have your body storing shit as if you need it to survive the winter, I start thinking that it might not be a bad idea to haul this intestine insurance into the cart.

I resisted them at first, armed with the arrogance that I got plenty of fiber from my diet of butter and ice cream. They sat untouched on top of the fridge for about two weeks before I took the plunge, thinking that they so closely resembled candy that I had to be able to trust them. It’s probably the best decision I’ve ever made for the future of my rectum. I did, however, make the mistake of eating something like five in one sitting because they are just that good. The suggested dose is two pills for adults while not exceeding six in a day. To me that says, “Have seven.” But unless you want your abdomen to rumble like the concession stand floor during a Twilight premiere, don’t do this.

Try not to do it twice, anyway.

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There’s no ‘i’ in charlatan

March 23, 2010

I’ve been depressed.

It’s not funny. That bothers me. Most (all) of my successful methods in coping with something difficult involves carving out the humor of a situation, which leaves me fundamentally impotent when dealing with this problem. For the last month of my absence, I’ve been trying to think of a way to make my depression funny so I could finally have a story to tell about how I overcame it and maybe give someone at least a modicum of hope. Unfortunately, sitting in the shower until the hot water runs out doesn’t have a punchline.

My depression has, in the past year, become my companion. In recent months, we’ve been inseparable. This thing that is always there, encouraging me to sit on the couch and watch an entire afternoon of Dr. Phil and I’ll be like, “But I don’t even like Dr. Phil, he’s a charlatan” and the depression will quip back with, ‘I bet you don’t even know how to spell charlatan. Now finish your tub of pudding.”

And I will. I did. I watched the days go by without writing anything, knowing that it was the only authority that could halt the progress on the hole I was digging for myself. Periodically, I would comfort myself by running errands or blow drying my hair. Depressed people didn’t run errands or care about their appearances, they didn’t even get out of bed. I got out of bed. But no matter what I did, I never dared to be happy. Being happy in front of my depression was embarrassing. Like having someone walk in on you while you’re peeing in a gas station bathroom. Or in my case, mid-tampon insertion.

I only recently recognized the pervasiveness of referring to it as my depression. Implying that it belongs to me – something I earned, something I intend on keeping. But externalizing it almost made it easier to deal with than if I had admitted to it as a state of being. I still had a chance to give it away, but with each opportunity I negotiated it back into my life much like I would an ill-fitting sweater. What if I need to watch the same Gilmore Girls rerun on two different channels within two hours of each other? What if I need to nap in the middle of the day for no apparent reason while listening to the same maudlin tune on repeat? What if I need to pretend that none of it is cause for alarm?

I couldn’t just place my bets on maybe being productive and excited about life. I could easily fail at that. I knew being miserable was a sure thing and based on how much I had already invested, I decided to maintain my life of latency and negativity. But the cool thing about deciding to be miserable is that I can also decide to not be miserable.

Which is what I’m doing. My mandate to decide came a little over a week ago, when one of my few trips outside found my path intersecting with Dave Chappelle’s. I told my mom about the happenstance meeting. About how it was just the two of us at the same table, since everyone else was inside shielding themselves from the recent downpour. About the cigarettes he smoked and the pleasantries we exchanged and how thoroughly he kept to himself, even when a few fans came up asking for autographs. She asked only one question:

“He’s depressed, too, isn’t he?”

I didn’t know what to say. Too? I hadn’t talked to anyone about being depressed, least of all my mother. I wondered how she could’ve known and couldn’t believe how ridiculous I was for thinking that I was anything but painfully transparent. Not wanting to fall into a trap of semantics, I briefly paused and responded with, “I don’t know. Maybe.” Then I offered an empty bit of trivia in hopes of resetting the conversation and remarked that he was shorter than I expected.

For the first time since it was inaugurated as my justification to defecate on everything I could possibly care about, I wasn’t embarrassed of this depression – I was embarrassed for it. Of course, there were days following where I still found it impossible to do much more than put a bra on, but I eventually built up the nerve to refuse my penchant for self-induced pity. I’m just now getting to the point of breaking my routine and discarding all of the pseudo-comforts that depression can sometimes bring. I’m still depressed, I’m just finally letting myself recover.

And you know, I actually don’t know how to spell charlatan. So yeah, this is at least a little funny.

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