Caution: May tear easily

It's the small slights that make the lasting impressions. That symphony of tiny hurts the reverberate through your mind, casting doubt and worry.

For me, it's the worry that my ass is too big.

I cannot claim to be waif-like. I have a booty. You cannot bounce a quarter off of it. A quater can sit on it, if you like, but eventually I'll have to grab it and use it to buy a Dr. Pepper. (Dr. Pepper = Love, just FYI.)

I know my ass-titude is robust, but I don't need the reminder.

Take, for example, this morning. The day started well. Everyone was up on time, somewhat cheerful, well fed and ready to walk out the door. The ball of fire, as per usual, hadn't stopped talking since he woke up and continued his banal chatter down the stairs into the car. As I slid the ass in question up into my seat, I heard a telltale shredd that gave me pause.

I looked at the kid and said, "I just ripped my pants."

He said, "Let me see!!"

I am not going to lie, I wear panties that are not appropriate for a 6-year old. I grabbed my jean shards and pulled them together to show him the split, while trying to hide the slip of pink that was showing through.

He said (I'm getting a little weepy here) "Momma! Your bottom is too big for your pants!"

By way of a public service announcement

I tend to over share. You may have noticed. I sometimes think my life is one giant melodious screw up… if it’s not one thing, it’s another.

And then sometimes I seem to go out of my way to make it a mess. Take for example, my recent fun-filled joy ride with yogurt.

Before I tell this story, I will apologize. It will be thinly veiled references to my lady parts. If you can’t handle that much intimacy, please stop reading now. Which should leave my sister, a few lovely cousins and my girl, DG.

I believe in the power of a good diet. I eat lots of soft ripe fruits and veg. I drink lots of water and I chew gum like there is no tomorrow. Each has their own benefits in my mental inventory of good vs. bad in the body wars.

One shining star is yogurt. Good bacteria, tastes good, nice bump of sugar without all the negatives. And sometimes, when I feel less than fancy, I use yogurt for other purposes.

Recently, I had a not-so-fancy feeling so I decided to apply the yogurt method. I will insert a personal note here: Has worked in the past to ward off further un-fancy problems! This is not untested ground.

But I digress.

Here is where my problems began. I did not have plain, but rather strawberry yogurt. I was in a hurry. I made a snap decision.

Oh. Good. God.

Turns out the extra sugar will actually GROW other bacteria at a quicker rate. Less-than-fancy as suddenly turned into itching-inappropriate-places-while-in-public.

So I turned to the patented, USDA-approved, over-the-counter helpmates.

Further aggravation ensues.

Finally I turn to my last resort, Dr. Stirrups.

Now my doc has a great sense of humor. He also has a loud voice and likes to laugh at me. I told him my little home remedy problems and he … well, he howled, he laughed so hard.

Then he took a peek, and solemnly looked up at me and said, “I’m sorry, but you have actually have the most advanced case of herpes I’ve ever seen.”

To which I replied, WHAT THE FUUU…!”

He laughed, slapped my knee and said, “I’m just kidding ya.”

I tried to kick him, but Dr. Stirrups is sly and uses a nice little toe strap. He has obviously been kicked before.

With prescription in hand and a stern lecture on the values of the pill form for Lactobacillus acidophilus, I turned to leave the office, I looked back and said, “Surely this isn’t the strangest thing you’ve heard in all your years.”

With a straight face, he replied. “No, it’s not. But I’ll never be able to eat strawberry yogurt again without thinking of you.”

Great.

Moley Russell's Wart

In the rush and push to pack and move, I noticed a funny little mole on my shoulder.

Now I am a girl with lots of freckles in lots of places. I take very special care of my skin, lots of sunscreen, large hats and I never lay in a tanning bed. But I wasn't always this careful. In my teens and 20s, I too lusted after warm, sun-kissed skin and would lay in the sun and bake .. or rather burn. I never really tanned. I pinked. At 24, I had a mole removed and I never baked again.

So this mole is bothering me. It's right under the bra strap on my left shoulder so it tends to be pink from the constant friction. I have looked at it up close. I've had the hubby look at it. Even the ball of fire has peered at it, looking for signs of irregular growth, discoloration or any sign of CANCER. Skin cancer is scary shit, people. I am right to be cautious.

Thus far, it's just a mole.

Last night, I popped into the grocery store for a few, last minute dinner items. We move on Thursday. We're literally scrapping the fridge for fragments of food. We needed some stuff.

As the ball of fire and I were traipsing down the meat aisle (he holding his nose because he hates the smell of fish) I glance over and happen to notice the wart standing at the counter.

Ok, so it was attached to a person but I couldn't see past it. Huge, dark brown, slightly fuzzy -- it was eating this poor woman's chin!

I followed her down the chip aisle, stopping when she stopped to get a good look at it. Yes, my mole is pink. It annoys me. It's coming off as soon as we move. But I don't have a catepillar climbing my face, so there are worse things in the world, right?

Stuck in her thumb, pulled out a ... ewww

Watching my body change after my celiac diagnosis has been ... interesting.

On one hand, my weight settled easily into my ideal weight range. In fact, I'm a tad on the shallow end. I lost a whole bra size in that deal though, which is depressing. My digestive irregularities disappeared almost completely. My skin is glowing and my hair is actually growing. Believe it or not, that is a problem for curly hair. It doesn't grow so much long, as out and into a bush.

Despite being gulten free for almost a year, I still find funny ways to torment myself.

For example, last night the ball of fire --who was feeling very under-the-weather -- wanted to make chocolate chip cookies. I gave in. As I was scooping tablespoon-sized globs of gooey sweetness onto the cookie sheet, I noticed my thumb was itching like crazy. I finished the sheet, slid it in the oven and washed the cookie dough off. My thumb was red. Within minutes, three little hives popped up. I took a shot of Benadryl and sprayed the hives with Benadryl spray (best invention EVER).

The hives didn't last long, but presented a new layer of body issues. My sensitivity is actually heightened by the fact that I no longer have gluten in my body.

I called my mom, who I believe also has gluten sensitivty, to tell her about my latest discovery. I've been trying to convince her to go gluten-free for months. I think she's finally getting on the bandwagon.

We've been exploring the hereditary aspect of gluten intolerence for a while. I'm pretty sure my granny has some sensitivity, my mom and my sister.

I blame our Irish heritage. It's all that damn beer!

Anxiety ants are dancing in my pants

Lately I’ve had a problem. I have had a series of some of the most severe anxiety attacks of my life. I’ve been anxious before about a job, test, confrontation, etc. Usually I’ll have a high-anxiety moment and then I’ll get a grip. Of late, that grip is elusive.

Most of my anxiety seems to revolve around my health.

Last week I was sure I had a kidney infection that was quickly spiraling into renal failure. Over the weekend I was convinced that I had an ectopic pregnancy. I’m still not 100% sure that’s not a problem. Herpes, HIV, colitis, irritable bowl syndrome, COPD: I’ve got it.

Last Tuesday I suffered a panic attack because I just couldn't breathe. I was sitting at my desk at work trying to take deep breathes but nothing doing. I stood up, and tried again. Every time I felt restricted. I put my hands on my ribs ... and noticed that I failed to pull my skirt all the way down the last time I used the restroom. Deep breath achieved.

Now while this may seem humorous, it is not. I have very real symptoms with these attacks. I have trouble breathing, I can’t stand or sit. My left arm tingles and my back spasms. These are really major panic attacks. Once they subside, I usually have an emotional dump that leaves me in tears, shaking and exhausted.

The stress on the body leaves physical problems behind including skin bumps, fever blisters, itches, upset stomach and a loss of appetitie. All of those things cause me to panic further about my health.

I seem to be stuck in a downward spiral that no one -- including myself -- knows how to break.

This is one instance where my lust for information has been a detriment. Researching the symptoms of this malady or another usually leads to cancer, AIDS or some other life-ending, body-invading illness. Of course, my logical mind reasons that my chances of having any of these killers is so slim, it's not worth the worry. But worry seems to be exactly my problem.

And when it comes to worry, apparently I perform in my usual manner: balls to the wall.

I expect to be institutionalized by the end of the week. I'll give you the address so you can send me soduku books and paperback Danielle Steele novels.

King of crap

Whenever I tell people I have celiac disease, I hear one common statement, "Oh, I could never give up bread. I love bread!!" (Insert pasta for bread if you prefer.)

Yes, you could. In fact, you would be thankful, on your knees praying to the goddess of skinny jeans, for finally figuring out why your body hates you.

I had no problems with switching my diet. It was worth it to lose the ulcer, irritable bowels, achy joints and the unexplained skin bumps on the back of my arm. Knowing that one donut would cause me days of cramps, bloating and the inability to leave the house for more than 20 minutes is more than enough encouragement to skip the glaze.

What I do miss is dinner out. I love to eat in restaurants, especially pan asian. For those of you who have known me for a while, you understand the loss I've felt when I realized that crab rangoon was no longer an option. My moaning could be heard for days.

Fortunately, over the past eight months, I've slowly figured out how to work the system. I know which restaurants have decent food that I can eat. I can order a sandwhich and pull the bun off -- and the top layer of lettuce -- and still have a nice lunch.

Last night, we were rushing to church and took a quick stop at Burger King. Before celiac, Burger King was the only fast food place I allowed. After celiac, well we still don't eat fast food.

Whopper with cheese, no onions, no mustard. I stripped the bun and sliced it up in the perfect little bites. It took 20 minutes before I knew that I had made an error.

Sometimes gluten hides in other foods that you don't consider wheat-based, including mayonnaise. It's used as a thickner to bulk up a usually runny product.

So here I was stuck in a room with 16 4th-6th graders practicing Christmas music. It always starts as a sharp pain on my left side, right under my ribs ... the former home of my much-maligned ulcer.

From there it rolls down the side and swells into jean busting bloat. Do you see where this is headed?

Luckily I made it home before final meltdown, but just barely. I've only had one incident where I was forced to explode in a public restroom, which I avoid at all costs.

Crapping my pants in front of a room full of kids? Oh God. That's just middle school all over again!

Float like a butterfly, but stings like a mothafu..

I must admit, I am a lazy, lazy girl.

Earlier this year, when I went through a particularly stressful time with my body, I discovered I have celiac disease. I can't remember if I ever mentioned that here, but that was the cause from my giantic hives. It's not uncommon to trigger this disease after something particularly stressful happens, such as surgery or giving up a girl's trip to Italy. Please also note that teenagers with this disease can have growth issues which make them short (argh, mom!) ... but that's just an aside.

I can say that eliminating gluten from my diet has resulted in some very positive changes in my health, which include eliminating the ulcer that I've had for years, clearing up some skin issues, oh, and losing 30 pounds. That's right. Thirty big ones off my hips. I was never a chunky person before, more round and soft in those special girl spots. Now I'm still fairly soft, but much less round, but a lot more -- how do you say -- swingy. I need to firm up, and soon.

Here's where the lazy part comes in. I don't do much excercise. My surgeon mentioned that this kind of invasive procedure could make me fairly tired and sore for up to a year. Well, I took that as the perfect excuse to do some really low-impact yoga as my source of excercise. And that's about it.

It's been almost 8 months. I could probably step it up a little at this point.

So Saturday I agreed to attend a kick-boxing class with my friend JC. Holy fuck. There are no names for the places that are sore on my being at this moment. My bone marrow is sore. I'm not freaking kidding!

I had bruises on my knuckles and my ankles from kicking the bag. I was doing a lot of eye rolling at the instructor at the beginning of the class when he made us dance on our tiptoes, ala Mohammed Ali. By the end of the class when we worked the bag with uppercuts, hooks and punches, I was feeling pretty damn confident. So much so, that I will probably take the class again.

And then I have one or two people I want to punch in face if I can get them to stand still at just the right angle. "No, not there, over to the left. Yeah, that's it. Right there. Now close your eyes for a big suprise, asshole!"

Love for sale

You might remember that a few months ago I had a little trouble with my liver. Trouble that was snipped in the bud with little or no reprecussions -- other than I had to give up sugar for the rest of my life.

Ok, so that sucks a bit. No more Starbucks orange mocha orgasms or 8 a.m. Dr. Pepper. I can live with that. I actually benefited from this slight restriction, a bump in my weight loss efforts. I'll take it!

As with all our diet changes, I put the ball of fire and hubby on a reduced-sugar diet as well. They still get those small mints at the Italian resturaunt or the chocolate goodies at the local pizza place, but generally, they live sugar free.

So after all these months, why would the hubby bring home not one, but two liters of Dr. Pepper to sit in my refrigerator?

The obvious answer: He no longer loves me.

Why else would he bring home one of my all-time favorite drinks to taunt me with its sugary sweet goodness and fizzy bliss? What other reason could prompt such a blatant attempt to make me break down into a puddle of tears and cravings destined to bring me to my knees?

Alright, so we did have some friends over for dinner and DP is her favorite drink as well. He was trying to be somewhat considerate to our guests. But, I've still decided to sell his golf clubs on eBay.

Ninety degress today? Too bad, no golf for you. You'll just have to play with the balls you have. But how about a nice Dr. Pepper while you brood!

I just need it

I've spent the week flying under the radar, letting my hives find their way out. I'm on a very modified diet until my test results return to make sure I don't have a gluten allergy, which I doubt very seriously. The most likely cause for my flare ups seem to lie in irritated tissues that were futher irritated by .... everything on the planet.

I have learned something very important about myself this week, I don't like to be told no. I knew this before but it really pissed me off this time.

No sugar. No bread. No milk. No soy milk. No wheat. No rice. No cheesburger. No. No. No.

Ok. So I sacrafice a few things to give my body a little more time to heal. But of all the things I've put on hold this week (including ROME) one thing seems to irritate me the most. That one carnal pleasure that has been on hold too long. I miss the taste, the heat, the rush of adrenaline, the feel of my fingers running lightly down the side of a STARBUCKS ORANGE MOCHA ORGASM!!

By Monday, hives be damned. I will be back.

To hive or hive not

The body strikes yet another blow in our continuous quest for corporal dominance. I woke up this morning with some of the worst hives I've had ... well ... ever. They are always worse in those secret places that are hard to itch, such as the crease of the elbow, back of the knee or just along the panty line. Everytime I stick my hand down the side of my jeans to scratch furiously, I wonder what hapless passersby may think.

On the bright side, I had an e-mail from Amazon waiting for me today touting the latest Lenny Kravitz album. Why yes, I will take some love, love, love!

Stuck in her thumb, and pulled out a plum

I'm pretty sure my body hates me. We've been doing this fat-roll limbo for years -- where I'm not really fat, but I'm not as skinny as I used to be -- but neither of us will give an inch. It's a battle of the wills, one I'm intent on winning, but so far I'm hanging on by fingernails.

Recently, the body has pulled a one-two punch. During my recent appendecotomy, my surgeon discovered a beautiful, plum-sized tumor on my liver. I do have a photo, if you're so bold. But be warned, it's magnified and in technicolor.

Such things should never be shared, but then again, I'm not one to stand on propriety. Plus, I know my sister wants to see it. She's freaky that way. She likes that weird medical shit.

This particular lump of goodwill is a benign tumor known as a hepatocellular adenoma. They are fairly rare (which makes me special, right?) and most common in women my age who have taken large amounts of estrogen.

So because I want to have condom-free, spontaneous sex and therefore chose the appropriate birth control option, this is my punishment? Sometimes, having ovaries sucks.

Needless to say, my only real option for treatment is surgery ... again. Next Wednesday, the knife and I rekindle our one-time romance.

On the bright side, my surgeon thinks he can reuse the hole I have in my belly button from the appy.

Oh. jolly. fucking. glee.