Soylent Allergy

I've been on an elimination diet for a couple of weeks now. Good times. Said diet consists of meat (good), rice (acceptable), fruit (eh, depends on which ones), and vegetables (ew). Yeah. No spices. No sugar. No flavor. No delicious, delicious tositos. No frosted cereals, the love of my life, and main staple of my diet. I SHALL DIE A PAINFUL DEATH WITHOUT MY BELOVED FROSTED FLAKES.

Aside from discovering that one should not drop both coffee and sugar simultaneously, as it will cause near-death experiences in the form of running over the curb, snow piles, and anything else with your auto, it's been....fine. Except for one thing. Apparently, MAH BODY HATES TEH FROOT. AND VEGETABLES. Every day, I awaken with abdominal cramps, and have to run to the toilet. DO YOU KNOW WHAT THAT DOES FOR YOUR OVERALL MOOD, KIDS? I am a POOP MACHINE. Seriously. NOTHING BUT POOP. This diet is supposed to HELP with allergies, NOT CREATE GASTRIC WOE. Also, am becoming fashionably gaunt. Why isn't it bathing suit season?

Anyhow, the likely culprit at this point? FRUCTOSE. Seriously. What else?

I've already had reactions to DAIRY (makes me congested, sneeze), WHEAT (migraines), and EGGS (vertigo, migraines). WHAT THE HELL, BODY? I am going to get scurvy at the rate we're going at. That or beri beri. Or rickets. Or some other old fashioned disease, like when I got scarlet fever as a kid.

Oh, the horrors. Anyhow, I cut back on the froot, supplementing with the healthy exchange of POTATO CHIPS (natural variety, no additives). Lo & behold, feeling MUCH BETTER.

In short, my body can only handle MEAT, MEAT, RICE, POTATO, LARD, MEAT, LARD, SALT. AND COFFEE. Go figure. Oh, and bananas. I ate about 10 of those in the past 2 days as well. So there's that.

Off to the allergist with me, as one of my friends noted that at this rate, the only food left on the list is soylent green.

Old Dog

Hobo is the name of our family dog. My dad, sister and brother went to the pound one day to get a cat in 1994, but when they came back, they had a dog who had mange, a cone and flies buzzing around him. They were all "they were going to euthanize him! but we had to save him, look at his face! He's so sweet." When my mom and dad died died, I took over running the house, the teenage brother and Hobo, who was about 11-ish at the time. Needless to say, it was very difficult trying to maintain a large house with a useless. . . er. ..troubled teenager and a dog who was bordering on elderly and often escaped from the yard to defecate on other lawns, thus making all the neighbors want to get together and lynch us. Then, after many years, I bought a condo and my sister took the dog. Now, my sister is selling her place and I live in a house, so Hobo has returned (thankfully minus the useless teenage appendage who is away at college).

Hobo is now officially OLD. We don't know how old he was when we got him in 1994, but at the minimum, he would be about 16 or 17 now. Which is ELDERLY. He is:

• Mostly deaf
• Sort of blind
• Somewhat incontinent (conditions apply)
• Lost a lot of sense of smell
• Underweight, possibly because of some teeth issues where he can't eat
  
• Crippled (right rear leg is completely useless, front left is bowed)
• His farts smell like he's just taken a dump, which leads to. . .
  

. . .the poop issue. My theories are that he is either:

• Incontinent and can't tell when he has to go
• Too crippled to get to the door to let us know he has to go out
• Too deaf/blind/smell impaired to realize he's not outside
• Forgotten his house training
• Just decided that he's too old to even bother and just says "ah, fuck it"

Also, he can't really squat or lift his leg to pee, so it looks like he is just standing there, staring into space, when you notice that he's peeing.

On a sidenote, our other dog is totally using this as an opportunity to remind us how great she is. She ostentatiously goes to the bathroom in appropriate places, with triumphant glances at Hobo (who really can't see them anyway). She is totally overcompensating by doing every cute trick she has in her repertoire.

So this dog. This dog. He is not in good shape. The question would be "why don't you put him to sleep?" which is a logical step. However, every time he gets sick or we decide he's miserable and take him to the vet, he KNOWS and is all "I want to live! And DANCE! I love you and you and you so much and see? I only have a little bit of a limp! I am so happy and joyful, let me just put my head on your lap!" So we decide, well, he seems happy and then he is spared because I can't bear to put a dog to sleep who wants to live.

When he came, I was like "Husband will be able to put him to sleep, I'm too emotionally involved." Alas, this is not the case as the Husband has fallen under the spell that is the poor, sad, lovely, sweet, decrepit dog. He does have a sweet face. So we are investing in rug cleaner, towels, a crate and a lot of patience.

It's 10 AM, Do You Know Where Your Ovary Is?

So, had to have an ultrasound, and what a joy that was, let me tell you. First off, said procedure involves drinking fluids and NOT PEEING FOR HOURS. They say drink, oh, ELEVENTY-TWELVE OUNCES of water, and then go to the appointment, and, you know, just HOLD IT, since this is the SAME TEST USED ON PREGNANT LADIES. WITH BLADDERS THE SIZE OF THIMBLES. Anyhow, this time, I learned, and just had a cup of coffee, and proceeded as usual, figuring, hell, they wouldn't notice that I was flagrantly disregarding their rules. I was correct. So let this be a lesson: coffee fixes everything.

Anyhow, I proceeded to the appointment, whereby they where searching for our pals, the Rice Cysties, the harbringers of pain and doom. Said pals are small, and usually to be found on the right ovary. Which, as far as I know, is located in my abdominal cavity. Somewhere nearish to my uterus. Or something.

Everything was going according to plan, my belly beginning to itch dramatically from the ultrasound fluid (note to self: HOW IN HELL CAN YOU BE ALLERGIC TO AN HYPOALLEGENIC GEL?), and as I'm talking to the tech about my issues, she notes that my ovary appears to be rather small. Well yes, part of it was peeled off in a surgery, removing a prior Cystie, but hey, there should be THREE MORE THERE.

The radiologist then enters the room, and looks at the images, and announces, that NO, THAT IS NOT MAH OVARY. Okay. What is it then? A ghost? She then asks me if I know where my ovary is. Dude. Really? I mean, yes, I've had a few anatomy classes, but this is a pretty small organ, and I'm retroverted, so mine's not exactly in the normal placement, and it's a little smaller than average. So no, I can't just POINT TO IT FOR YOU. And HELLO, YOU ARE THE ONE WITH THE HOITY-TOITY DEGREE.

My confidence rapidly falling, she then states that maybe I don't have a right ovary at all. Hmmm. 6 months ago I had one. Did I somehow lose it? Did I leave it in the car last week? Or in the office? Did something EAT IT? I don't know. Then she claims to see a fallopian tube. Yeah...those were sort of burnt out, in a surgery, last I was told. So what are we seeing, exactly?

At the end of this, she tells me I have no Cysties....but riddle me this, Batman: IF YOU COULDN'T FIND MY DAMN OVARY, HOW DO WE KNOW THERE AREN'T ANY CYSTIES?

To be honest, I'm a bit perplexed. And ironies of ironies, it's acting up today, and I think I actually could point to it this morning, hahaha.