Barking Mad

How to Kick Your Coke . . .a'Cola Habit in ONE EASY STEP!

Get the stomach flu.

Not just any stomach flu mind you.  No, this has to be the mother, the mack daddy, the big pimpin, the-end-of-the-world-is-nigh-break-out-your-Armageddon-panties, nuclear powered stomach flu!

I'm talking the kind where you're so sick that you're rocking back and forth, crying, and foaming at the mouth while your wonderful husband is running like his life depended on it, looking for something to hold under your face because he knows you will not make it to the bathroom.

I'm talking about the kind of stomach flu where things are not only shooting out of your upper digestive system at  speeds that rivals an F15 Eagle (which is mach 2.5+, just so ya know!), but the velocity at which bodily fluids are blasting out of your ass makes a fire hydrant seem like a drip!

I'm talking about the kind of stomach flu where the initial pre-vomit and subsequent waves of nausea wash over you, making you feel like you need not only a flotation device to stay atop them, but some as-yet-to-be-discovered-invented anti-nausea medication for elephants, just to get a grip on the misery. 

Then, when you realize there is absolutely nothing left in your body, nay - not even enough moisture for a lone little tear drop with which to belay your absolute pathetic state to your husband, you're whisked away to the emergency room where they find you as dehydrated as a WalMart sponge left in the Sahara Desert at high noon in the middle of July.  You're so thirsty you're willing to suck the condensation off of the inside of the car windows on your way to the ER, if only you could keep it down.

You realize that you're so dehydrated that you're skin is peeling off in sheets large enough to type an entire economics dissertation on!     You beg the ER nurse to let you guzzle the contents of the IV bag, and possibly that of the person in the next room, yet still, she insists on hydrating you through a vein in your arm.   That is, after she finds one, which takes her several tries because your veins are in hiding and refuse to come out and play.

Once you're fairly certain you're not going to die of dehydration, you're painfully aware of another burning problem coming from the artist formerly known as your ass.    Whatever deadly virus you contracted that caused bodily fluids to launch from your bottom at a speed that would make Danica Patrick look twice (why she'd be looking at your ass is anyone's guess!), has also made your round, bright, red, rear feel like it's been kicked, whipped and then for good measure, branded.  My mother helpfully texted me with the suggestion to pick up some "Tuck's Medicated" pads or some "Preparation H."   I weakly replied back, "Screw that!  I want an epidural!"

That m'dears is how sick I was.

That m'dears is what it took to make me dry heave at the mere scent of Coca Cola.

That m'dears hopefully means I am done with that shit once and for all!  

Famous last words and all.

Seriously...Saturday, I wasn't feeling so great.   I didn't eat much at all.   Sunday morning I felt awful.  Woke up with a horrible stomach ache and was a bit nauseated.  Plus I had a miserable headache.   I hadn't had a Coke in two or three days and I thought perhaps the headache and nausea had something to do with caffeine/sugar withdrawal.   Being that we were supposed to go to the Y and go swimming, I decided to have about 5 ounces of a cold Coke to see if I felt any better.  I didn't feel like eating anything at all. 

The Coke sort of helped with the nausea but still left me feeling a bit wobbly.   We went swimming and by the time I did my fifth lap I cried Uncle.   I told Gareth I was going to go sit in the hot tub for a while and after ten minutes in the hot tub I wanted to lay down and die.   My stomach hurt, my head hurt again, and I felt achy and really crappy.  Not only that, but I kept having "Coke burps."   Terribly unpleasant! 

We stopped at the store on the way home from the Y and I asked Gareth to see if he could pick up a cold ginger ale for me, thinking it might help calm my stomach.    I had a few sips and found the sweetness was too much.   

By the time we got home my entire body was aching, my head pounding, and the diarrhea had started.   By the time I finally got into bed, the waves of nausea washing over me were constant.  I was sitting on the edge of the bed, hanging on for dear life because I knew what was coming.  Gareth took one look at my face then literally ran and grabbed a tupperware bowl and sat there while my entire upper digestive system flung it's contents into the bowl.  I'm pretty sure I saw my esophagus and tonsils come up as well.

My darling husband didn't gag once, held my hair back and was as gentle as a lamb, but still as manly as anything I've ever seen.  Even amidst the really ugly dry heaves, during which I'm pretty sure I broke a rib, or four.

A lot of what I vomited was that Coke and the ginger ale.  As a result, I don't ever ever ever want another one of either.   Of course, immediately after the worst of initial vomiting was over, I was struck with a total sense of euphoria and I felt better than I had in years!  I was ready to order a T-bone steak with all the trimmings...for about 60 seconds.   And then I ran for the bathroom and hung on for dear life in hopes that whatever was coming out of me so fast and with so much fury, was not going to launch me entirely off of the toilet and into my neighbor's back garden!

I always think it's a little amusing, how, right after you're sick, you feel really good for a few minutes, and then, once that feeling passes, you're right back in the trenches of viral warfare, battling the evil green meanies (well that's how I picture the "vomit virals" anyhow - I even picture them having outrageous cartoon mustaches like the villians from the roaring '20's!).   Gareth looked at me once I was able to lift my face out of the tupperware bowl and I believe I might even have smiled, a gruesome, slimy post-vomit smile at him.  I hate to throw up.  HATE IT!  I'm terrified of it.  Yet once it was over and done with I was just so glad to finally have it out of my system.   Of course, like I said earlier, that feeling didn't last.   I did throw up a few more times later that night and into the next day, but nothing like the initial declaration of war that my body threw in my face. 

Thankfully, the worst of it's over.  I still feel a bit like I've been run over by a herd of rabid toddlers and then pelted with gigantic Legos for good measure.   The worst is over.   The "Vomit Virals" and their nasty mustached gang have left the building.  I sure as hell hope so anyhow!  I'm pretty sure I'm no where near well enough to hold the bucket so-to-speak if Gareth comes down with the manly-man version of this.   If he comes down with it (Gaby's already had it), I'm pretty sure I'm calling the in folks in the bright yellow HazMat jumpsuits to deal with this!

When all is said and done, I don't recommend this sort of intervention if you have a wicked Coca Cola habit.  

But...if you really wanna kick it, I'm just sayin'!

 

Well Hello There Grinchypoo!

There is always someone out there who has it worse.    That's been my mantra all day long.   In the grand scheme of things, an eczema flare of epic proportions that seemingly showed up out of nowhere isn't really on anyone's radar as a great tragedy.   It's just a serious annoyance right now.  I think it was brought on by the fact that Gaby's first cheerleading competition is tomorrow and I'm a huge ball of nerves for her.  I'm sitting somewhere between excited and terrified.    And before you comment on how much of a pansie sport cheerleading is, you need to see just how tough these kids are.     Granted, we are always going to push academics, because that's where her true passion seems to lie right now (this kid loves to learn.  She'll read anything.   She wants to know everything!); as long as she loves cheerleading, tap and ballet, we're going to continue to let her take them.     Cheerleading on the all-star level is seriously competitive and there's so much that goes into getting ready.   I worry that I won't have everything as together as I need to by 5;45a.m. when we leave tomorrow morning.

Kids in competitive cheerleading work extremely hard to not only perfect their routines, but they also have to be talented gymnasts, possess coordination and athletic grace.  It's definitely not a sport for pansies.   You don't just wake up one morning knowing how to do a successful basket toss or an around-the-world-toss-up-to-third tier.    These kids spend hours and hours perfecting every part of their routines.  

I'm grateful that this flare is confined to my right hand this time around and not both hands.  But between wanting to take a flame thrower to my hand while drinking an entire bottle of Benadryl just to get the itching to stop, it's left me feeling a little raw and a bit seriously grouchy!  I don't know if my mood and the re-emergence of heavy-duty topical steroids played a part in it, but I decided to bring back hairstyles of the 80's and went and got myself a perm.  Granted it's a really loose spiral perm, it's a perm nonetheless.   What the hell was I thinking?   It doesn't look awful but it sure as hell smells heinous.   And I can't wash my hair for three days.  THREE.DAYS.    I don't know what made me decide I wanted a perm.    I have a lot of natural wave but perhaps it was a bit of jealousy over Gaby's head full of beautiful golden ringlets that made me decide to do it.    Whatever it was, the nasty smell of the processing chemicals is making me even grumpier.

Despite my chemically curly hair, my gross itchy hand, and my all-day impression of The Grinch, I did manage to find something to do for someone else.    A couple of things actually.  

I double-tipped the girl that does my hair.  I usually tip pretty generously because I know they don't make a decent hourly wage as it is.  I felt she really deserved it though, especially after listening to me gag to the point of almost vomiting when she took the plastic cap off of my head once the perm was done processing.  

While I was out running errands I grabbed a couple of things for Gaby's Christmas stocking.   On my way out of one of the shopping centers I took what I bought Gaby and dropped it in a Toys for Tots collection box.    Gaby has a lot.  Others don't.   

What sorts of things are you doing to make someone else's holiday season a bit brighter and a little more cheerful.

One more thing. . . .  Tracey D., I hope you know how much you brightened my day.   Thank  you for your generosity.    I will definitely put the iPod to good use! 

**********

Join me in taking the 31 Days of Giving challenge and enter for a chance to win a $150 VISA gift card from Barking Mad!

 

Dear Tim Gunn, Does It REALLY Matter What Size Her Dress Is?

Because I'm still under the weather and have eaten what amounts to possibly 500 calories all day long, I'm foregoing my daily photo-round-up of my meals (there was only one meal to be begin with and it was simply an egg sandwich with a cup of yogurt and so far that's not sitting real well!), and instead am going to get something off of my chest that's been bothering me since I first read about Tim Gunn's comments on what he thought was Kirstie Alley's "actual dress size."

**********

Dear Mr. Gunn,

May I call you Tim?  You can call me Audrey.   I figure the less formal we are, the better chance I have of being able to convince you that there is a real person underneath the additional 200lbs I'm carrying, and worry less about what double-digit dress size I am.  

Before we move any further though, please know that I'm not comfortable at all wearing my customized fat dress around.  Up until recently there were 150 additional pounds of flesh to be heaved here and there.  It's slow going, but the point is,  it's going going and soon to be gone!   While I am one of the many morbidly obese that you see walking around,  I'm not one of these ladies who choose to flaunt my flesh so-to-speak.   I'm starting to believe that the real beauty is what's inside and how I see myself.  I don't believe there's anything beautiful about being obese.  However, I also don't believe it's what people should focus on when meeting me for the first time, or basing their initial reaction to seeing me, on.   I don't believe it's OK that they gasp in shock and horror when imagining what size I wear.  Alas, they do.   The focus is the number . . . whether it's my weight or my dress size. 

So, Tim, I happened to come across a couple of comments you recently made about Kirstie Alley's dress size.   Can we take a moment just to laud Kirstie's accomplishment of achieving a healthier weight?  Can we say a little prayer that this time she's able to keep it off and has dealt with whatever demons she was battling that caused her to balloon to an unhealthy weight and then yo-yo back and forth?   Maybe we can just sit here for a minute and admire the fact that for a 60 year old woman, she looks pretty damned amazing?   Actually let's forget the fact that she's 60, it's just another number! 

Kirstie Alley looks spectacular! 

Now that we've established in the affirmative that Kirstie looks insanely great, let's backtrack a little to what prompted me to get up on my [industrially reinforced] soapbox and direct my thoughts your way.

Back in the October 3rd issue of  the People Magazine interview with Kirstie Alley, she claimed to now be in a size 6 dress.  You argued that she probably wasn't actually a size 6, yet closer to an 8 or a 10.  Then after making a cutting comment like that, probably realizing you sounded like a condescending superficial fashionista, you added that you thought she "looked fabulous!"   You went on to state, "People are too size conscious."  And then followed it up with another zinger, "More importantly, how do you look in your clothes?"

Why did you feel it necessary to even argue Kirstie Alley's claims about what size she wears?   You live in world dominated by men and women who don't wear realistically sized clothing anyway!   Your world consists of women like this, and then labeling it 'haute couture' . . .

While this might be the norm in your world, in the world I live in, I can't figure out whether she's got a role in a movie about third world starvation, or if the outfit she's modeling is being marketed to anyone larger than a premature infant?  Only a man in your world would make a comment like the one you did about Kirstie Alley's dress size and then mention how fantastic she looks! 

Your world reinforces the notion  (a notion that millions of pre-teens and teenagers the world over think is the ultimate desire)  that the number on the label is the most important thing, only then followed by how great someone looks, and of course how great they look is a direct result of that number. 

Who cares what Kirstie Alley's actual dress size is?   For that matter,  you, more than anyone should know that the American women's sizing system is skewed beyond belief.   Your world is focused on fashion that the average American woman could not even get one leg into, let alone her whole body.    A Costume National, Dries Van Noten, or Alexander McQueen creation would not be marketable to the average American woman nor is it designed to.  Perhaps that's part of the problem.  A problem which you no doubt condone when you insist on focusing on a woman's size first, rather than who she actually is, inside that size.   

Incidentally, the three designers I picked above, would be who I'd choose to outfit me, if I were to ever get back down to my pre-pubescent weight.   While that's a pipe dream, and one I don't even harbor wishing for, there are millions of girls and women the world over, who do.   When you think about it, and consider what they're doing to themselves in the name of attaining that ideal, it's heartbreaking.

Going back to your comment, "People are too size conscious,"  let's ponder for a moment why that might be?   Could it perhaps be that the first thing out of your mouth when responding to Kirstie Alley's claims about her current size, were to doubt it?   Could it possibly have anything to do with some of the earlier points I mentioned?   You consistently reinforce the superficial and then condone the notion that the number matters first and foremost.  

Before we go any further, I did see your little guest stint on NBC's The Biggest Loser and for a brief moment was lulled into believing that maybe you weren't as superficial as you appear.   Then you went and made the pompous and patronizing remarks about Kirstie Alley's dress size and officially removed all doubt from my mind that you are in fact, as superficial as I've believed you to be.

Isn't it bad enough that anyone who isn't a perfectly proportioned woman, but who happens to be overweight, or obese, is relegated to fashion that has all the comfort and style of... oh wait, it's impossible to use the words "comfort and style" when describing plus-sized clothing because they don't exist!   Melissa McCarthy was right when she recently said, "Trying to find stuff that's still fashion-forward in my size is damn near impossible. It's either for like a 98-year-old woman or a 14-year-old hooker, and there is nothing in the middle."

I'm hopeful that even though I'm finally getting a handle on my personal demons - the things that led me to gain an outrageous amount of weight,  that I won't always be dependent on jeans that make me look like I have Redwood tree stumps for legs,  blouses that don't fit my proportions, bras that have so much wire in them I could probably fence my entire backyard with it, and dresses that make me look . . . well, every bit as fat as I am . . .

Image of me from July 2010 that was initially submitted with my Biggest Loser application process, that got me in the door and had that ball rolling...I swore I would never ever post this, but what have I got to lose?

I'm also hopeful that one day I'll live in world that isn't dominated by arrogant, judgmental, and dismissive individuals like you that contribute towards making the obese, or those that aren't model-perfect,  feel less-than because we are more-than what you consider ideal.

The focus of your comments to Kirstie Alley were dismissive.   Only after you made your point did you bother mentioning how breathtaking she looked.  Why couldn't you have just begun and then ended your comments with the positive rather than debating and emphasizing her size? 

Oh, that's right, because in your world, size is everything.   Size is the Diety that rules the fashion world. 

In my world, health is everything and I'll be damned if I'm going to let people like you make me feel like I'm unworthy because I'm not your version of idyllic.

Tim, if you  (or anyone else for that matter) still don't get it, then please feel free to kiss my plus-sized ass.