It’s So Bright in Here

In bed this morning, I stirred. Mistake. The dogs think that it’s time to get up when I stir. It’s not. Especially not today. My head was so cloudy. My eyelids seemed weighted. I raised my eyebrows to see if the momentum might make it a little easier to open my eyes. Nope.

Feeling the thunk of Redford’s chin on the bed, I flopped an arm over and scratched his whiskers before tucking my hand back under the warm covers. Violet came in and did her morning shake. I could’ve stayed in bed all day.

Because yes, I indulged this weekend. I threw caution to the wind and decided, I’m a grown-up, I can consume whatever I please.

And now I’m hung over.

Not from beer. No hard liquor for me. No champagne toasts.

GLUTEN. That’s right: pita bread, lasagna soup, olive rolls. Mmmmmmm.

(Worth it.)

(Not worth it.)

(Fighting with myself over whether it was worth it.)

Dear Redford, Part 4

It’s late, and I’m tired, so this will be short. But you know how you run over to people when they’re standing, say, at the dog park or in a back yard? And if they reach down to give you a little scratch, you about-face and sit on their feet? On your right butt-cheek? And then how you tilt your head up and look straight at them and smile and pant? And if they lean close enough, you give ’em a big smooch on the face?

Yeah.

Love,

Amy

Squeal

What is it, 47 million people in this country that don’t have health insurance? That sucks.

You know what else sucks? Being one of the ones that does and still getting screwed by the health “care” system.

I have a friend who doesn’t quite blow her knee out, but messes it up pretty good training for a marathon. At the orthopedist, the insurance billing lady gasps, “Your health insurance plan makes you pay 40% of all specialist charges?!” You know when the billing person, who sees every conceivable plan, is aghast, your health plan is crap.

So, anyway, at the orthopedist, she bends over, if you know what I mean.

At the physical therapist, totally rogered.

Then she goes home and waits on hold for AN HOUR AND A HALF with BlueCross/BlueShield, and they tell her, just kidding, you pay 40% after you’ve met your FIVE-THOUSAND-DOLLAR deductible. Up until then, you pay 100%. That’s 700 bucks to the ortho, and 500 to the PT. Squeal, pig.

But the good news, they tell her, is, “preventive care” is covered in full, so that colonoscopy her doctor keeps saying she needs because her dad got colon cancer at 48, the one she’s been wanting to put off: gratis.

How many ways can my friend take it up the ass from the health care industry?

Lots, apparently.

For All My Gs Out There

“Gs” being gluten-freaks, of course.

Yes.
Yes! Even better than plain.
No. Reader Margo makes a sublime gluten-free pancake. Unfortunately, to Namaste Foods, I have to say, "Namaste,"---no, I meant, "Yo nasty."
Eh. Kinda mushy.
Nom nom nom.

Most Larabars are just nuts and dates mushed up together. All food, no unpronounceable ingredients.

For your records:

YES! Coconut (fave), lemon (second fave), tropical tart (third fave), PB&J, Cherry Pie, Cashew Cookie, PB Cookie, Cinnamon Roll, Carrot Cake

NO! Apple Pie, Banana Bread, Ginger Snap, and any that try to be a candy bar: Jocalat Chocolate Hazelnut, Chocolate Coconut Chew, Chocolate Chip Brownie, Chocolate Chip Cookie Dough…blech!

All are scrumptious. However, the yogurt-covered ones are too sweet for breakfast.
Yes. Yes. Yes yes yes yes.

Gluten-free bread leaves something to be desired, mostly. I mean, I’ve never met a gluten-free baguette (and if I do, I’ma make sweet love to it). I miss it. The other day, my sister and I were at Costco, and I was enjoying what we call trailer-park tapas. That is, delightedly taking one of every sample they were passing out. One of those sample-handing-out angels had French bread—certainly not gluten-free—with butter, and I took it, oh yes I did. It was like magic in my mouth.

So Food for Life’s Brown Rice Bread is no baguette, but toast it. Slap some butter on there. Slather in with peanut butter. Get my sister’s mother-in-law, Grandma Barbara, to give you some homemade blueberry jelly. Top it all with that, and oh my gah! Delish.

(smiling) You’re a Jackass!

Why won’t people stop telling me I’ve lost weight? You might recall, I fucking hate it.You might recall, when they tell me I’ve lost weight, I’ve never lost weight. You might recall that I think people just remember me as a jiggly behemoth and are surprised when they see me and I’m fat but not that fat.

I’ve had three people in the last three weeks tell me I’ve lost weight. Guess what! I haven’t! And they’re so pleased with themselves, like they’re paying me a compliment.

One of my co-workers asked about my gym and said, “You look good. You look like you’re losing weight.” So what you’re saying is I should be losing weight. What you’re saying is that I didn’t look good in your mistaken memory. Thanks, bitch.

It makes me so mad. So, so mad.

I’m realizing my rage is unhealthy. So in the future, when they say, beaming, “You have lost weight!” I’m going to say, “No. Not at all. I guess you’re just not remembering since last time you saw me how ridiculously fine I am.”

Or maybe I should try, “Wow, it’s a good thing you got your hair cut—it looks so much better now!”

Other suggestions?