Tag Archives: diet

My Cardiac Health Risk Screening: A Video Reenactment

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So, remember when I talked about how I have 7 legitimate, self-diagnosed diseases? Well, one of those was heart disease. I was having chest pains, shortness of breath, tightness in my upper back and fatigue. I mean, you tell me? As any responsible citizen, I set up a cardiac health risk screening to see how many months I have left on this earth.

Yesterday was the Day in question. I have created a video reenactment of the interaction between the doctor and myself. I have also included the results at the end, so that you know if you need to craft your goodbye letters.

First, I’d like to give you a few instructions, if you decide to set up your own screening.

#1. Make sure it is the gloomiest, rainiest day in the history of days. This way, you can be even more depressed as you contemplate your imminent death. In fact, you might even purposefully drive off a cliff before you make it to the doctor’s office.

#2. Make sure that you buy a pack of pretzel M&Ms the day before and accidentally leave them in your car. This will test your self control as you drive a half hour to your appointment on an empty stomach, after fasting for 12 hours. Also be aware this might cause severe road rage.

#3. As you glance up at the heavens, vow to no longer buy pricey makeup and to give all your clothes to the needy in the event you find our you’re going to live.

Alright, and now what has brought us all here:

[kml_flashembed movie="http://www.youtube.com/v/x7YqZ_cUwUk" width="425" height="344" allowfullscreen="true" fvars="fs=1" /]

I’m Not Paranoid. I Have 7 Legitimate Diseases.

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I was really perplexed the other day. While browsing through Twitterland, I noticed a trending topic of #RIPJackieChan. I mean, I’m not a huge fan of Jackie Chan, but when someone dies I gotta know why. Cus maybe he had the same symptoms I’m having and maybe I’m about to die too. So I clicked on the category to see what happened.

Well, he didn’t die. It was all a ploy by his fans to get attention.

Now. I’m pretty sure it’s obvious why I was so upset: nobody’s fake tweeting about my death.

What up with that? All of the sudden I’m not even as cool as Jackie Chan? Since when? You know I can’t help the fact that I’m not Chinese, right? And I’m still perfecting my roundhouse kick – it takes TIME people! As I sat there, saddened, I decided to play with my new camera phone, while remaining very sad.

In the depths of my despair, I sent out a tweet saying that if people truly loved me, they would fake tweet about my death. It might have been the Tweet equivalent of fishing for a compliment, but whatever.  Sure enough, they tweeted. Thus, my confidence was restored and I wasn’t forced to close my Twitter account.

Anyway, all of this death talk reminds me that I have 7 legitimate, self-diagnosed diseases. And I say legitimate, cus I don’t think I can consider Diverticulitis and Restless Leg Syndrome to be diseases. Or can I?

My fiance thinks that I’m 90% hypochondriac and 10% lunatic. If you ask him, he will give you two specific instances as to why he thinks this.

Reason #1: I call him at work, from MY work, on the verge of tears. I tell him that I am certain that I’m having pre-heart attack symptoms. He then asked me if I’d been spending a lot of time on WebMD lately. I decided that question wasn’t pertinent to the case and pleaded the fifth. Gee, I don’t know: sharp pains in my chest, left arm and upper back, waking up in the middle of the night with shortness of breath, extreme fatigue… you tell me. I never exercise. Heart problems run in the family… sounds like a statistic in the making, right?

The next morning, when I was lucky enough to wake up, I ate carrots for breakfast and pleaded to the heavens that I would start doing my Jillian Michaels 30 Day Shred if I could just bide a little more time. Then I did what any responsible person would do and started myself on an Aspirin regiment.

Reason #2: This next one, I admit, was an all-time low. I was mulling over the probable heart attack I was about to have and the possible Type 2 Diabetes scare, when the fiance had slowly passed out on the couch while listening to all my ailments. Suddenly, I shook him awake and said, “I just need you to take a pic for me real quick.” Knowing that he was seriously going to send me packing on the crazy train if I told him why, I said, “Don’t ask questions. I just need to see something.” I turned around and lifted up the back of my shirt while handing him the camera. He goes, “What am I taking a pic of?” I said, “The mole on my back,” as I leaned in toward the lamp so he could get a clear shot. “You’ve got to be KIDDING me.” I don’t know what had overcome me, but in that moment, all I could see in my head were flashbacks to Grey’s Anatomy when Izzy found the tiny mole on her back and it turned out to be metastatic melanoma.

So sue me.

UPDATE: My Cardiac Health Risk Screening [A Video Reenactment]

 

Dear Jillian Michaels’ 30 Day Shred Workout DVD,

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Two weeks ago, you entered my home with all of the optimism of Christmas morning.

But lately, I feel like we’re at odds. I can’t exactly put my finger on it, but the other night your eyes looked a bit more angry than normal. And I sensed a hinge of animosity in your voice as I was doing my side lunges (with weights, of course, cus the big muscles don’t burn enough calories on their own).

Oh, I’ve been listening.

And I know if I asked you, you would say nothing is wrong. But do to my extensive experience with complicated relationships, I think we both know that’s not the case. So in attempt to salvage what we have left, I feel the need to explain to you what might seem like a lack of commitment on my part.

jillian-michaels-30-day-shredDAY 1: Jo and I did the workout, sans weights. We fell to the floor laughing when you said, “People tell you ‘Just take the stairs’ but that is a FALSE MESSAGE OF LETHARGY that won’t do you any favors!” We then had a glass of wine, watched Grey’s Anatomy and talked about how we wanted to die.

DAY 2: Jo and I did the workout. I used the weights except I only had 5 lb ones instead of the recommended 2 lb ones. We made fun of your eyebrows a little bit.

DAYS 3-5: I lost the ability to use my arms. So did Jo, which confused both of us, considering she didn’t use weights. We decided it best to take a few days off, as not to cause further injury. We’re still waiting on our health insurance from Obama.

DAY 6: Jo and I regained feeling in our arms, so we worked out. She walked in with 2 cans of baked beans in lieu of weights. I marveled at her genius, and found 2 cans of my own to use, however, they were re-fried beans. All was well, except for the fact that I forgot to wear a sports bra.

DAYS 7-9: Due to some intense crying, I figured it best not to workout in such a dehydrated state. Jo figured it best to empathize with me on the couch. She’s a good friend.

DAY 10: My head was still aching, but Jo was determined to workout. I sat on the couch with my laptop. Then, I grabbed a box of Snickers ice cream from the freezer and just watched her, cus man, it was funny. Afterward, when Jo got up to go to the bathroom, her legs gave out on her and she did a face plant into my floor. She said, and I quote: “That’s how you know the workout is working.”

DAYS 11-14: Thought about working out. A lot. But it’s the holidays, so our absence is 100% LEGIT.

I hope this clears things up as I do hope to maintain at the very least, a friendship.

XOXO,

Blunt.

P.S. New blog design coming this week, plus a bunch of other random announcements that you won’t care about!!

Problems? Why Yes, I Can Provide Those

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It’s really too bad,  you know? I had a decent shot at being normal.  My childhood had all the ingredients to cook up a perfectly functional adult woman.  I spent my days running a successful lemonade stand on our dead end street, eating Leave It To Beaver family dinners, and following my dad around in sweet overhauls.  Growing up, I never had self-confidence issues, or body-dysmorphic disorder, or the desire to be a promiscuous teen, or to cut myself,  or to run away, or to be a rebellious troublesome child.  But then, later on, I had to start interacting with things other than caterpillars and sheep [blog soon to follow]…and more unfortunately, men.

That being said, I did some cleaning today and think I’ve figured out what my problems are after analyzing a few sections of my house.  I encourage you to do the same, because you’ll never believe what your freezer could reveal about you.

A. The Freezer:

1. I’m a cheap bastard with no self control, who will throw away the last three [and only] weeks of working out at the first sight of a 5/$10 Edys ice cream sale.

2. I’m lazy. I’ve been eating Eggo waffles since 8th grade. I mean, how long does it take to pour milk onto cereal? Apparently time that I am not willing to give up.  This also further proves point #1 under section B – I don’t like change.  What if I get something different and it sucks? That is a fate I’m not ready to accept.  Also, you’ll notice that my ice has formed into an indestructible mountain because I couldn’t be bothered to use any since my Christmas party last year.

3. I’m stupid. I believe that getting the “herb roasted chicken” TV dinner will somehow balance out the fact that I just polished off 5,325 grams of sodium… and most likely that bag of buffalo fries.

4. I am “Type A.” I have a bag of industrial size pre-cooked mini Italian meatballs on the off chance I need to attend a work potluck and forgot to pick something up.  Except I haven’t had a real job since November.

B. The Closet:

v-neck-sweaters

1. I don’t like change, nor do I make any attempts to accept it. Now, please draw your attention to the circled column of sweaters in my closet for a brief illustration.  These are not only all V-neck sweaters, but they are all from Express.. and they are all the exact same style.

2.  The left column is entirely made up of turtlenecks, which tells me I’m not only constantly freezing – but come wintertime I turn into a bit of  a prude.

I’m not exactly sure where my commitment-phobia stems from or the fact that I keep my blinds permanently shut, but I have more cleaning to do so there’s still hope that I’ll discover the answers.

Happy searching.

 

 

Dear Midwest, Without You I’d Be Famous

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You know your hair is too long when you have to start using conditioner meant for a horse.  Gees, people.  I’m just saying.  But on a side note, it works rather nicely.  So I’ve heard.

horse-shampoo

People always ask me, actually they harshly criticize and often yell at me, for the fact that I’ve never moved out of this God-forsaken craphole of a town. For those of you who don’t know, I live in a suburb outside of Chicago, where nearly everyone is a loser with zero motivation or aspirations in life.  So when I put it that way, I guess I can see their point.

Friend:  But you could be a big time writer in New York and travel the world.

Me: I’ve already traveled everywhere I want to go in the world.  And New York has too many rats.  And snobs.  And pricey food that comes on a giant platter but is the size of what I can only consider, a midget snack of sorts.


Friend:  But you could move to L.A. and write for tv shows and movies.

Me: I’m brunette, no one would take me seriously in L.A.  Besides, I can’t deal with the fakeness.  I would call everyone out and then they would hate me.  And then I’d run home to my lonely, roach-infested apartment, where I’d cry big, fat elephant tears and eat myself ugly. 

Friend: But you could move to the downtown and work for the Tribune.

Me:  I hate the news.  It’s depressing.  Plus, I probably wouldn’t get by with throwing in sarcastic comments when I was writing about the Korean missile crisis.  That job would blow chunks.  Give me a break, I’d never move to any of those places.  Seattle.  Now there’s a place I wouldn’t mind moving.

Friend:  You know that Grey’s Anatomy isn’t actually filmed in Seattle right?  So you wouldn’t be meeting McDreamy, or McSteamy, or any of the Mc’s?

So could all these people be partially right? Perhaps.  Is it true I want to continue my writing career on a larger scale? Mmm hmm.  Is it possible for me to accomplish all my dreams living here?  Heal no.  So what on earth could possibly keep me sandwiched here in the middle of the country, suffocating for air, slowly dying from lack of culture and white-trashy influences, you ask? 

Is it the ice-cold winters, which seem to get longer with every passing year, that make me contemplate roasting my own dog [or I guess my neighbor’s cus I don’t have one] over a rotisserie just so that I won’t have to leave my house for food?  Not exactly.  It’s much more complex than that.  But when isn’t it?

The other day, I was bronzing myself on the back porch, as the landscapers were mowing my yard.  I arose from my position to make sure I was decent as they were mowing right in front of me.  The last thing I need is a sweaty, landscaper-stalker.  But on a serious note, could they possibly point that grass blower thingy in another direction?   Then as I was gazing at all my patches of dead grass, a thunderbolt of realization occurred to me.  Um, why can I see those?  Where is the tangled pile of hose that has been laying in my backyard and covering the dead grass since I moved in?  Wait a minute. THESE PERVERTS STOLE MY HOSE! @#$!  And now they’re blowing grass at me.  What the?

As it turns out, my father had slithered outside at some point and drilled a bracket into the side of my house and wrapped the hose nicely around it.  BONUS: he was smart enough not to install one of those plastic roller pieces of crap that break after two seconds, which would result in a lifetime of frustration and ultimately, the death of more grass.  EXTRA BONUS:  He planted grass seed.

Folks, I’m sorry, but with quality service like this, the Midwest has a hold on me. 


Dear Universe,

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Why dost thou continue to sabotage me? Here I always thought you were on my side.  For the first time in my miserable, out-of-shape existence, I’m trying to do something about it.  This week, I turned a new leaf. Whitestrips, here I come.  Jogging, here I come.  Well… I’m not really sure what whitestrips had to do with the whole being-out-of-shape thing, but they certainly have a way of making me feel more fit.

Come Monday, I wanted to jog, but SOMEONE decided to make Monday a holiday full of tasty treats, lounging in the sun, and irresistible bbq delights didn’t they?!  Oh please, don’t even think about looking over your shoulder.  What did you expect me to do, dishonor the veterans?

Come Tuesday, it was my mother’s birthday and even though she hates birthdays, I was forced by guilt, only child syndrome, and the powers that be to make her pies and other delectible things.  And who’s fault is that? I’ll tell you one thing – not mine.

Come Wednesday, I wanted to go jogging, but you rained, which forced me to stay inside and do nothing but lay in bed and watch Tyra Show reruns all day. Since I couldn’t jog, I decided to make it vegetable night so I could at least save on a few calories.  Again, the amount of effort that I’m exuding here is incredible.  But then you ever so gently whispered sweet nothings in my ear regarding the delectible things that were inhabiting my fridge from the day before. All I can say is that I was brought up to believe that you don’t waste food, okay?  So I had a giant bowl of ice cream.  No biggie.  An hour later, I decided that if I just ate the rest of the box then I wouldn’t be tempted for the remainder of the week.  Again, brilliant.

…Then about ten o’clock, I decided that I could really go for a bacon-grilled cheese sandwich with a side of pasta.

Look what you freakin did!?

Come Thursday, I rounded up my support system, actually drank some water, and went to the bike path.  But after I reached half way around the track, I got a stabbing pain in my stomach.  The pain was followed by dizziness, which led to nausea, which led to me collapsing in the middle of the path.  An old man came by and said, “Are you okay DOLL?”  When my support system, who had long since jogged away without me, realized I was lying in the grass, I discovered I had a migraine.

Oh, well isn’t that just cute. What’s it gonna be tomorrow, ha?  A bio-nuclear attack?  My liver suddenly explodes and I become a horrific, but interesting scientific rarity?  My car gets hijacked and I’m left for dead in a nearby ditch?  What?

Dear Matthew McConaughey,

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Dear Matthew McConaughey,

Can you make a different movie already?  Wait.  What was that?  OH, you can’t.  It’s physically impossible?  Okay.  So I can just expect the same movie with the same plot and same actress, where you discover you were some sort of “bet,” and then you get fake mad, and then storm out, only to read an article that the girl wrote in her column about you saying that she really was in love, so you chase her down via boat or scooter at the end of the movie, in a outdoorsy scene set to a cheesy made-only-for-a-girly-movie song?

Well that just hurts my heart,

Blunt.

As you can see so aptly demonstrated in this picture, I have set lofty expectations for myself in 2009.  Obama isn’t the only one ushering in “CHANGE,”  kids.

One thing I’ve left off the list is working out.  I always thought there was no need to work out unless I was borderline obese.  Well, after sitting at home and being subjected daytime talkshows for the past 4 months, I’ve realized there might be reasons other than just the threat of morbid obesity why I shouldn’t sit in my chair for 12 hours straight everyday, eating assorted leftover holiday candy.  But is that gonna stop me?  The fact that you even ask that question makes me realize that we aren’t as tight as I thought.

So check it.  One of the few only downfalls of working for yourself, is that you have to shovel out money for health insurance.  And you better believe, I’m not doing that.  Nonetheless, my father feels otherwise. 

Dad: You’ve got to get insurance.  What if you have a big accident?

Me: I sit in my office 24/7 and I never leave the house.  What’s gonna happen?

Dad:  Diabetes from your sedentary lifestyle?

Me:  Okay. Fine… I’ll look into it.

Well, my dad knew there about as much of a chance that Angelina Jolie would stop adopting exotic children than there would be of me actually following through with that statement.  So about a week later, I get a text from my friend/insurance agent saying that my dad picked out a policy for me and I need to come sign it.  Oh. Seriously?

A couple weeks later, I begrudgingly go to sign the papers.  As I’m sitting there shooting the breeze and answering questions about my gastrointestinal family history, I notice a fax cover sheet on top of my file.  From my father.  And it reads:

To: Justin   From:  Denny

Subject:  Please call me if my daughter “forgets” to come in and sign the paperwork.

For a split second, I had to recover from the whiplash I experienced from my dad throwing me under the bus, until I realized that my dad was absolutely correct in assuming that I’d probably blow this off and then tell him I forgot.  Then, just when I thought I was in the clear – I got a call from the insurance company:

Insurance:  Hello, this is the insurance company, we’re trying to process your request for a policy.  Can you clarify some things?

Me:  Sure.

Insurance:  So, your records show you were admitted to the ER in 2006.  Can you explain that?

Me:  [honestly, not even remembering that happened….]  Um, I really don’t remember.

Insurance:  It says something about shortness of breath and hyperventilation?

Me:  Oh… oh.  Yea.  Anxiety attack.  Forgot about that, sorry.  Crazy boyfriend, don’t ask. 

Insurance:  Ok. Well has the problem been resolved?

Me:  Well, he’s across the ocean now, if that’s what you mean. 

Insurance:  Okaaaaay.  What about the x-rays you had on your leg in 2007?

Me:  Oh… yea.  Forgot about that, sorry.  My hip pops out of joint at random times and I can’t walk.  Hurts like a beotch.

Insurance:  Pops out of joint?

Me:  Yes.  They told me I need to exercise to strengthen the ligaments.

Insurance:  So has your exercising resolved the problem?

Me:  [I don’t recall saying that I actually took the advice?]  Uh, suure.  Why yes, it has.

Insurance:  Good.  And lastly, why did you go to an ear specialist?

Me:  Good question.  He didn’t fix crap.