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.

Two words.

When will people learn that 'a lot' is two words? If you don't already know this, consider this your lesson, America.

That's all.

A Pot To Piss In

So, my building has been undergoing a wonderful pipe-lining project. Run by chimpanzees. The project entails cutting large holes in the wall, scratching one's head confusedly, and then leaving taped up holes in the wall for the cat to investigate.

Oh, and did I mention that they couldn't figure out how to open the door to my deck so they chose to jump through the window, Dukes of Hazzard style? Awesome!

The project was supposed to consist of lining the pipes with some space-age polymer that would prevent pinhole leaks. This was supposed to be completed with a minimal amount of wall holeage, dust, damage and the like. The first few rooms went as planned, save for replacing my washer and dryer right justified, so that I couldn't open my dryer.

Anyhow, when they reached master bathroom, a little snag was encountered. Namely, the pipes, they weren't there, where they thought they were, because, you know, RESEARCH? Not their strong suit. So, another chunk of wall was removed, and taped over, for decorative effect, and then they left, for, oh, let's say, three weeks or so.

When they returned, the seasons had changed, and so had my temper. Needless to say, I was not amused by the clown college sent in to fix my bathroom. Reassured by the building manager, they set about their job, speaking to "El Gato" in Spanish, who entertained them by running back and forth at top speed and trying to sleep in the bathtub while they were working. They also spent an inordinate amount of time attempting to chat me up while I was attempting to work. Hello? See the multiple laptops and files strewn about? This means I have a JOB.

In the afternoon, I was called in to glance at their handiwork, they turned on the faucets and I was sent away. Satisfied, I hurried back to work, not noticing what lurked in the shower. When I returned to clean later that weekend, I noticed that the spigot looked a little...odd....off kilter, perhaps....more like....three sheets to the wind. It was decidedly listing to the left. Poking at it, it MOVED. That ain't right. That's when I noticed a GAPING HOLE under it. about the size of a piece of Trident Gum. Yes, large enough for plenty of water flow. Visible. Also around the plate surrounding the handle was a cracked tile and a small gap. NIIIIIICCCEEE.

CLOWNS HAD INSTALLED MY SHOWER PLUMBING. I think *I* could have done a better job with some gum and some wet sand. Seriously.

So we get that repaired, and then the following Monday, the building engineer appears at my door, to let me know that my batty underneath neighbor's bathroom has flooded. HOORAY!

MY TOILET BROKE. The one in the same bathroom, where Team Chimp has recently hooked up some hoses. Coincidence? I think not!

So now, no pot to piss in for the master bathroom for a couple of days! WOOT!

General Kvetchery

Things that are bothering me today:

1. Supermarionation. Beyond creepy. One day, I will be released from my torment when God wipes away all vestiges of this unnatural and wrong television technique.
2. ETS. They have such a racket going. I need to PAY them to take a test for graduate school, that won't accurately predict my acumen for graduate school, but rather will add stress to my life while I try to remember math I never really understood in the first place. And of course I can't use the LSAT for grad school because then they would be out the $150 I have to pay for the GRE.
   
3. People who can't write cursive. Speaking of the LSAT, we had to write a pledge at the end of that test in cursive. Hands flying up when this is read because these are college graduates who DO NOT KNOW HOW TO WRITE CURSIVE. I know it's really not the most useful thing to know if our texting/Twitter/Facebook/IM society, but how do they sign their names? I love cursive personally. My notes written in cursive are now going to by cryptologically secure. I'm like a code talker.
   
4. X8, X3 buses. Why don't you ever come? I should NEVER have to go onto the Next Bus site and see that the next bus is in 87 minutes during rush hour. And the B2? You come every 3.7 minutes, a lot of times two at once. But the X3 can only come every 80 minutes?
   
5. WMATA's Trip Planner. Thank you WMATA for having a trip planner. However, stop telling me to take the B2 bus the 10 feet to the end of my street, even when I use the advanced options and tell you I am willing to walk almost a mile. Is the B2 bus like PHARMA to WMATAs Congress?
   
6. Congress. The President gave you the bill. Mandates without fines? No public option? This was your chance to restore American's faith in our government. A chance for me to start believing that I am represented in government and that reelection prospects and big corporation lobbies come second to what the American people want. That was the dream. And it has been defecated on. And can you PLEASE stop putting Abstinence clauses on everything? Get a grip, you know that is just going to delay everything more. Let's just work on healthcare so that Americans can stop going bankrupt and that we can maybe move above Easter Bloc countries in terms of health care spending v quality of healthcare (and would you look at that? it's the same with education and taxes in general - we are spending tons of citizen money and getting nothing for it - do you see a pattern yet?)
   
7. Seven Corners. WTF. The population density of your area is 12,773.2 per square mile. And each person owns a car and drives around Seven Corners 24 hours a day. Can you PLEASE vote for someone who will give NoVA more than three roads and possibly even another bridge and possibly some metro access? I understand that you don't want to pay more taxes, but you only have three roads and 100 billion cars. If you don't, then Virginians have no right to complain about traffic any more. I have decreed this.
   
   

Perhaps This Will Explain Why I Kvetch

So, my Grandfather, he is 92 years old. Interestingly, he has ALWAYS been this cantankerous, as far as I can tell. We cannot blame the following story on age.

Anyhow, my grandparents are the sort that frequent those diners that have 1,000 items on the menu and have names like "The Nautilus" and the like. You know the sort of places of which I speak. Bland, non-offensive establishments that cater to the masses.

As of late, my grandad has switched between multiple diners for these reasons:

Left dining establishment #1 due to a 40% increase in the price of coffee, also known as 10 cent hike in price. Yes, over a DIME A CUP.

Left establishment #2 over ordering a pork chop sandwich, which was a BONE-IN pork chop sandwich (okay, yes, this IS a bit odd. You could BREAK A TOOTH here, people.) However, the real issue was that there was NOT ENOUGH SORROW ON THE PART OF THE OWNER.

Left establishment #3 as a lady patron, who eats at the same time as my grandparents, has the audacity to say hello and ask how my grandmother is doing. EVERY DAMN TIME THEY GO THERE.

So now they are returning to establishment #2, as it is under new management, who might express more sorrow. Because we all know it is ALL ABOUT THE SORROW.

This is also the same man that complained that a bratwurst he ordered had been "downsized."

And people wonder where I get all this rage from?