No Bees, No Bats, but Fancy Feces Abounds

So, I was just reading the old local rag from Utah when I came across a story for a new kind of "beauty treatment," one gaining popularity.

Or "poopularity," in this case.

That's right, it's a feces facial.  A "fecial," you could say.  And not just ANY feces--this is bird feces.

And not just any ol' bird poop, either--no, no, there's no runs-of-the-mill (get it?  Runs?) house finch or boring pigeon poop here.  No, this is imported Asian Nightingale shit.

Apparently, shallow, bored, over-cashed women in New York City (which rhymes with--well, you know) are FLOCKING (oh, someone stop me!) to Shizuka (Shi-what?) New York Salon to indulge in this disgusting "treatment."  In New Mexico, folks are paying $129 a splatter for this.

Remember when I went nutty on the Civet Cat Shat coffee?  Well, same thing, only bird on the face instead of cat in the belly.

How decadent, how bored, how self-indulgent and desperate to impress does one have to be to drink coffee from beans shat by cats or pay 129 bucks to have bird feces smeared over the face?

Oh, the ennui!

How embarrassing!  Imagine someone saying, "Hey, here's 129 bucks--you can either fund lunches for 65 kids at the local shelter OR you can pay to have someone smear bird shit all over your face." Because, really, that's what this is.  And if that doesn't disgust you, I don't know what will.

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Blood sugar is still a mess--really can't afford the bills right now (we're just barely nostrils above water right now, no way a gaggle co-pays can happen right now).  I woke up to 138.  Ate a low-glycemic Builder's Bar and now I'm at 166.  But later in the day I'll be between 80 and 100 for hours.  Some nights I'm going to bed at 105 or less (was 103 last night).  I know, "Dawn Phenomenon."  I haven't been working out at all since early June because of my blown knee.  I may have to bite the bullet and start again, knee be damned.  Because there's a problem here, and I need to get it under control.

A small update on that--it crept up to 199, so I got up and spent ten minutes loading the dishwasher.  It dropped 96 points in ten minutes.  Back up to 115 now.  I have no idea what's going on.  I'd say I need a new monitor, but I have been testing on two different monitors, one brand new, and they agree.  What a freak show my glucose has become lately.

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With all of the things I've got to worry about lately, one that's really been howling has been the lack of bees this summer.  Our back yard is an explosion of flowers--from petunias to verbena, lavender to crocosmia, you can't turn around without crashing into something blooming.  Heck, even the grass proper is more clover than grass, with a profusion of puffy white blooms practically crying for bees.

And we have none.

Seriously, none.  I've been looking, I've been searching.  I've seen exactly TWO honeybees this entire summer, and only one was in our yard.  I've only seen two bumble bees.  All told, I've seen a total of three bees (one honey, two bumbles) actually gathering pollen.  

Not weeds between the stones, but thyme.

Cukes on the left, tomatoes on the right.

We've been hearing about failing hives and bees dead by the millions for years, but it really is coming home.  The United States is losing an average of 33% of its honey bees each winter. Colony Collapse Disorder, along with newer pathogens and parasites, are, quite literally, killing off our bees.  I've heard people say things like, "Good, I hate bees!" or "So?  Maybe my daughter won't have to carry her epi-pen anymore!"  

Oh, please, save us from ignorant people!

If you like almonds, cucumbers, tomatoes, macadamia nuts, strawberries, blueberries, apples, pears, broccoli, peppers, sunflower seeds, tangerines, or any other of a huge number of foods, then you need BEES.  Because without bees, there are no crops. 

Except CORN, of course.  Don't need bees for CORN.  No, I'm not going to go into a "Monsanto kills bees AND grows corn, wonder if there's a connection" rant.  Surprised you, didn't I?

We've been seriously considering hand-pollinating our cukes and tomatoes because--well, because we want more than three or four fruit in a season.

Another thing we need?  BATS.  And we're losing bats so rapidly to White Nose Syndrome (a fungal infection) that we could, realistically, see the total demise of various bat species in just a few more years.  Again, there are people who don't get what the big deal is.  "Who cares, they just carry rabies, they're just flying rats!"

I care.  And so should you.  Bats are the great nighttime pollinators, especially in the southwest and climes farther south.  If you like mangos, guavas, bananas (or any of 300 other tropical-type fruits), you like bats.  In addition to pollinating, bats eat bugs.  Your average bat will eat 600-1000 bugs (many of those mosquitoes) in just one hour.  And with the proliferation of disease-carrying non-native mosquitoes like the Asian Tiger Mosquito (which feeds all day and all night-no more sleepy-in-the-day skeeters), we need all the bug eating we can get.  

So, if you've been thinking that bats are gross and scary and awful, just remember:

These cute guys

Eat these disease-bearing bastards

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And that's about all.  I was going to write something about student loan rates, ag-gag laws, and the terror facing gay athletes at the upcoming Russian (Soviet?) Olympics, but tomorrow's anothah day.

Here, have something awful:

Not a fan of pools in the desert (what a waste of water!), but if you're going to have one, keep it CLEAN.  This thing is a breeding ground for mosquitoes!

It's always something . . . bad.

So, I went to the doc's office today--annual physical.  I was supposed to be fasting, and what did I do?  I popped a damned mint in my mouth while waiting in the examination room!  I spoke to the nurse about it, but, honestly, he seemed sort of . . . dull.  Nice, but only a thin hair shy of "box of rocks" territory.  His name?

Acquilleys.  That's pronounced "Achilles."

I kid you not.

Acquilleys said that the mint wouldn't affect anything, but, looking around online, I see it might.  So I called the office and asked them to make a note that I had screwed up.  That way, if the results are a mess, we'll maybe know why.

The doctor, who seems quite nice, agreed to a "once every six months" visit schedule.  I'm not thrilled about it, but I'm better with that then the "every three months" schedule Madame "There's No Mass/That's Why He's Your Husband and Not Your Gynecologist" tried to force me into.

It'll do.  I'll let you know how the blood work went.

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Next up (in about an hour) is the dentist appointment.  You know what I remember?  I remember the days of my dentist (Dr. Grover Hoopes, and the man ROCKED) looking to save his patients money.  I'd go in, he'd do the x-rays, have his assistant clean my teeth while waiting for the x-rays, and then fill right then if it was only one or two.  These days?  Holy cow, the money grubbing is breathtaking, it's astounding, how broken this system is.  What am I going in for?

I have no idea.  They say they want to see me twice a year.  Except that's for cleaning.  I have to make two more appointments each year for x-rays.  So that's four appointments per year, because they won't clean and do x-rays at the same appointment.  And if I need work?  That's more appointments, and they won't fill more than one cavity a day, so if you have two?  That's two more appointments.  So, for two cavities, they could conceivably have you in for a minimum of four appointments.  

Yes, I "get" what they're doing.  They're trying to maximize the insurance payout by spreading out the billable procedures.  

And it sucks.  It sucks for me, time-wise, nerves-wise, and money-wise, because each visit is a copay.

Universal health care, folks.  Like they do it out there in the civilized world.  And don't give me any of that dippy "I don't want to wait five months for an appointment!"  I had to wait four months for an appointment with the urogynecologist, and I had to wait six for my initial dental appointment here.  And my insurance?  The medical ROCKS (the dental is ehhhh).  Seriously, my husband's employer insures the hell out of us.  Well, there is that pesky 500 bucks a month we have to drop, but the point stands--here, in the U-S-of-A, with grade-A insurance, I had to wait MONTHS for treatment.  FOUR months just to have someone examine an unidentified, growing MASS.  

Yeah, universal health care, baby.  Now.

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So, today's the day I take a day off from the new way of eating.  Not totally losing it, no beef or pork or anything crazy like that.  But Chinese with Chicken (first non-fish meat in over a month) and cupcakes.  What's the bet I feel like utter hell tomorrow?

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So, we were at the Farmer's Market the other day, and found ourselves smack in the middle of a railroading festival.  The usual parking was full of additional booths, and so we hit the nearby parking terrace.  Now, there are very specific rules about parking here--Monday through Friday, the entire terrace is reserved for permit and city-worker parking.  However, on weekends, the top level (level 5) is for non-permit, non-city folks who are hitting the Farmer's Market.  

As we pulled in, we marveled at how crowded the first two levels were--every spot taken.  As we ascended, there were more and more open spots, until we reached level 5, which was almost empty--aside from us, there were, perhaps, a half dozen vehicles.  All bearing hippy-dippy stickers, Obama stickers, "COEXIST" stickers (I'll talk about my problem with those someday), and other nuevo-peacenik-type things.  Noting the stickers, I decided to keep an eye open on the way out, see if there was, perhaps, a trend there, politically-speaking.  We hopped on the ELEVATOR (yes, elevator--so parking illegally downstairs didn't really save any time or walking distance) and hit the market.  And when we got back, laden with our treasures?  Even fewer cars up top, even more on the lower levels.

And the stickers?

Of the ten cars parked closest to the entrance?  The "most illegally" parked, if you will?  One had a Romney-Ryan sticker.  THREE had Cuccinelli stickers.  There were two NRA stickers.  One strongly anti-Obama sticker, and one Tea Party sticker.  And some various sports team stickers.  

Certainly not a scientific sample, but it sure does make you think.  Makes you wonder about the mentality that can't be bothered to park where they're supposed to.  It's clearly marked, it's not like they missed it.  It's not like the free parking up top was full and they had nowhere else to be.  No, this is an oblivious sense of entitlement, a "don't you tell me what to do" kind of bent that I've commonly observed in the bagger/right crowd.  

Maybe there are some research dollars in that, huh?

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And finally, I did good.  First I did bad, but then good.

Friday night, the lice-kid from down the street, the one who pathologically lies?  Showed up after 9 p.m., wanting to do a sleepover.  This kid blew our boy off for months, and even before that, made it clear our kid was a "last resort."  This boy and his brother brought LICE into our home!  Most scarily, this boy has been hanging out with the frightening animal killing/kid beating group.  

Oh, and he's three years younger than our boy.

Anyway, he shows up and wants to overnight.  Wanting to save my boy the discomfort of having to beg off, I sent him upstairs--and it got ugly.  I had no idea why, so when the lice-kid had left, I asked.  And our boy said, "I wouldn't mind if he came over."

Understand, our boy can't stand this kid, which means he must be really desperate for companionship.  

Problem is, I'm not willing to have the kid over here.  When he comes, he's not here for our boy, he's here to walk through our house inventorying our possessions while he makes up stories about his rich grandpa and rich uncles who have stuff that's so much better than ours.  Instead of hanging with our boy, he hangs on the adults, telling whopping, incredibly stupid lies about things like "electroid soundproofing curtains."  The kid proudly proclaims that he's gone over a year without reading ANYTHING, and every time he's come over, it's been followed by a return visit claiming he's lost some expensive bit of electronic equipment over here.  

That's the bad.

What our boy didn't know is that I had scoped out an open house for a local Radio Control Flying club.  See, since we moved here he hasn't been able to fly because the laws are pretty nasty around here on flying in parks and the like.  He's missed it.  Terribly.  In fact, I was reading a writing assignment I gave him recently, and he was describing flying, and then how much he missed it.  So, when he was yelling at me on Friday night, he didn't realize that his Saturday was going to be RC Flying.  We've made arrangements now for him to fly most Saturdays.

That's the good.  I hope I redeemed myself.  Hubby said there were a lot of kids there, and I hope that brings him some joy, too.

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And that's that.  Oh, except we got an email from the landlord, a very vague "The HOA says there's a problem with the fence, fix it."  Yeah.  Some clarification, please.

Oh, and here's something ugly:

And finally, the bad news.  The small cavity in the lower left canine?  Not a problem, 27 bucks to fill.  The crack in the molar on the only side of my mouth I've been able to chew on since I was 13?

Over six hundred.  Over six hundred, and that's if the tooth doesn't break between now and the appointment I have no idea how we're going to afford.

Oh, and that's six hundred-plus AFTER insurance.

And that's my day.

Pain

So, I haven't written for a couple of days. Shouldn't be writing now, but my hits are crashing and I feel compelled.

I completely blew my hand/wrist/arm yesterday. Not doing something exciting or athletic, but rather by holding a heavy book cracked open in my left hand for three or so hours straight. The pain is astounding. Like shouting out loud, can't hike up my own pants astounding. Any twist, jar, or gravitational pull is agonizing.

Gonna make finishing that names/addresses list for the class reunion thing really hard. Already is making it hard, and I have until Wednesday.

Skelaxin has no effect. Ibuprofen only a little. And the more I clutch the arm to my side and struggle to keep it immobile, the more my back and neck hurt.

What a mess.

Watched "Fat, Sick, and Nearly Dead" tonight. A little woo, but a lot of inspiration, too. It's good to see people succeed. Wondering how juicing and blood sugar go together without that fibrous pulp.

That's all. Tapping one handed on the iPad hurts.

The week between Christmas and New Years

Is looking like the one that's going to end me if I'm not careful.  Went nuts on dinner tonight--not so much calories (well, until the homemade milkshake for dessert), but astounding carbs.  Like "blood sugar pushing 200" carbs.

I know how to do this better.  I know how to make smoothies that don't load my carbs or spike my blood sugar.  I know not to have garlic bread AND pasta the same meal with breaded chicken.  I KNOW this stuff.  So stop it.

Just stop.  It's enough.

I'll do a proper entry tomorrow.  Maybe even with paneling.  On the iPad right now, makes for irritating blogging.

G'night.

I need to be a loser again . . .

At my heaviest, I weighed over 400 lbs.  I don't know how much over, because I stopped weighing.  Judging by the rate of loss when I first started taking it off, I'd say I was around 425.  I felt like hell.  All the time.  My back, which was mangled in a car accident back in 1993 (back when I was a skinny girl), was a constant source of pain and worry.  I had sleep apnea.  My blood sugar was starting to be a real problem.

Over the course of a year-and-a-half, I lost 180 lbs.  I felt great!  I was still fat, but I felt amazing!  I could walk for hours (though the plantar fasciitis would give me grief the next day)!  I used a program called My Fitness Pal to log calories and exercise, and I was religious about it.  Very dedicated!  My blood pressure was amazing, my resting pulse 60, my A1c down to 5.4. 

And then I just stopped.  I don't know what's happened.  I have spent the past seven months just eating.  Is it because of the surgery, the stress, the fearing it was cancer?  The relief of it just threw me into a celebratory pig-out that I don't know how to climb out of?  I don't know.  I do know that, for months, I kept being "good" but kept not losing--I plateaued and, no matter what I did (add calories, subtract calories, increase exercise, decrease exercise, etc.), I just couldn't lose.  Three plus months of 1250 calories a day, and no loss.  I kept telling myself that it didn't matter, that being healthy was the reward, regardless of the number on the scale, but that's not true--the number on the scale mattered, because when you're holding yourself down to that few calories a day, that number is your only tangible reward. 

It's not just me--yeah, I've gained almost 50 lbs, but my husband's gained a good 30 lbs, too, and he's never been "big."  We're just eating everything we want.  Ice cream with Chambord and black raspberries, gourmet cheeses, jalapeno poppers, and peanut butter!  Constant peanut butter!  See, I used to have one Clif Builders Bar (chocolate mint) a day--I would actually break it in half and have half for breakfast and half for lunch.  Then it became two bars a day, one for breakfast, one for lunch.  Then it was two for breakfast, and two for lunch.  Understand, these bars have 270 calories a pop.  In an effort to break that one, I switched to yogurts.  I started with light yogurts, one for breakfast, one for lunch.  But then I developed a taste for the Greek yogurts--Chobani Cherry, to be precise.  That's almost twice the calories of the light.  And then I wanted two.  And then?  Granola on top.  And suddenly my low-cal bar replacement was worse than the bars.  So I cut that out, too, and it was replaced by an overwhelming urge for peanut butter.  I would just slather it on bread and eat four pieces.  Yes, it's low cal, low carb bread, but still.  And I'm left wondering--is the urge for peanut butter (which I went YEARS without eating) a way for my body to make up for the protein I'm not getting from bars and yogurt anymore?

I don't know.  But I'm sinking myself, and it's devastating.

I did come across a blog today, a very nice lady who's lost a good bit of weight and talks of going back to daily logging/journaling to keep track of her weight if she should begin to gain again.  I know she's right--I have to start daily logging again, even if I'm screwing up.  Because then it's there, in black and white, and I can't deny or pretend.  And from there, maybe I can get this turned around.

But I'm scared. Terrified. I don't want to be contemplating wheelchairs again. I don't want to be unwilling to go to movies because my ass is too big for the theater chairs. I can't do that again. Please!

About 25 lbs shy of my heaviest, on the upswing

Obligatory duck-face, about 170 lbs down

About 180 down

WEIGHT LOSS MIRACLE!!! LOSE WEIGHT LIKE MAGIC!!!

So I came across a post on Facebook today, and I just couldn’t help myself. The post read, “I lost 2 pounds in three days using HCG! It really works!” My response?

“I’ve lost over 150 pounds in 12 months, and I didn’t have to shell out for pills, go under the knife, break the bank on prepackaged meals or liquid diets, starvation plans, or any urine from any sort of pregnant creature. In fact, I didn’t have to buy anything at all. It’s called ‘diet and exercise,’ and it really works!”

No, I’m not a bitch. What I am is someone who is sick to death of having people approach me with, “What are you using? How are you doing that?” only to walk away shaking their heads in dejection when I tell them the truth. I am sick of hearing, “Oh, you’re just stronger than I am” or “I could never do that.” There IS NO MAGIC PILL, KIDDIES. There is no wand to be waved, no surgery to do it for you. There is work.

Now, it would be a lie if I said I had no “miracle” to aid me. I do. It’s called “keeping track of everything.” I use a free website called “My Fitness Pal.” There are others. The site also has an android and an Apple app, so I also run it on my phone, my iPad, and my Galaxy Tab. With this program, I keep track of every scrap of food that passes my lips and every bit of exercise I do. I plan out my meals, usually a day or so in advance. It’s a numbers game, and sometimes I don’t get to have that freshly grated parmesan and asiago with my pasta because I just don’t have the calories for it. Sometimes I decide to pop on the exercise bike or go walking in order to earn those calories. Sometimes I trade off and decide that I’ll skip the smoothie for dessert so I can have the sausage with dinner. It works, and it didn’t take long for me to figure out how to maximize those calories.

Maximize them? You bet—instead of a heaping pile of 2-3 servings of spaghetti, I have ONE two ounce serving plus julienned carrots and squash. Bulks up the serving size, gives me a nice serving of veggies, and makes that meal filling without being gluttonous. I used to have two pieces of butter and garlic-slathered bread with pasta. Now? I have a salad with spring mix, dark green leafies, zesty sprouts, tomatoes, cucumbers, and black olives, topped with a serving (carefully measured) of light dressing. If I want chicken strips, my husband breads the boneless, skinless breast strips with homemade breading and we bake them rather than fry. Same with fish. Cuts the calories in LESS than half, nukes the fat, and our son calls them “Epic.” Not bad for “health food.” Other favorites? Toasted ham and gruyere, toasted roast beef and fontina, rotisserie chicken with veggies, homemade 3 bean chili, grilled steaks with onions, mushrooms, and cheese, tuna roll-ups in lavash bread, homemade tyropita and sambusa, and good, old-fashioned hot dogs. And hot chocolate with melted peppermint and dark chocolate. Yummmmmy.

Now, I do have another inspiration, something that helps keep me in line. My diabetes. See, I ate myself into Type 2 diabetes. Yes, there’s a hell of a family history (mom, grandpa, uncle, sister, etc.), but fact is, it likely never would have appeared in me, had I not been morbidly obese. But watching that blood sugar and those carbs has made all the difference. I’m unmedicated, and in just a few months managed to pull my A1c down into normal range. Hey, I’m still heavy—I could lose another 75 pounds and still be called “fat.” Another hundred, and folks might refer to me as “the chubby one.” But that’s not my goal anymore—this isn’t about fitting into “skinny” jeans or hitting a particular size. No, this is about not ever needing to be on insulin. It’s about no taking medication for blood pressure. It’s about living to see as much of my son’s life as I possibly can. My “pretty” days are long over, and that’s fine—when did our society forget that people get old, and that old has a place, too? Who wants a silicone grandma with rock hard abs and plunging necklines?

Not me.

Am I “not diabetic” now? Of course not—if I eat a half a loaf of bread (or forget and pair stuffed clam shells with potatoes), my blood sugar shoots up into the 180s and 190s. That’s not cured. But it’s controlled. And before you think, “Oh, God, she never gets to have anything goooooood,” hush. Yes I do. Tonight, I’m having a cheeseburger (5 ounces of beef) on toasted oat bread (it’s not dry, it’s moist) with two slices of 2% cheese, ketchup, mustard, and dill chips, with a salad (see above), spinach, and slow-braised carrots with caramelized onions. Oh, and a strawberry-banana smoothie for after. My blood sugar will come in around 120, and all will be well with the world.

Don’t fall for the fads. Don’t buy into the gimmicks. And do NOT tell yourself that, short of a miracle, it’s “too late” for you to lose weight, that you’re “too fat” to get healthier. It’s not true—I could barely walk from car to apartment door, I could only do museums in wheelchairs and shopping in electric carts, and now I’m walking miles and spending hours on my feet. In just a year. So don’t—don’t look back a year from now and wonder sadly what you might have done. Do what I did—just DO it, then look back a year into it and say, “Wow, look what I did!” You can, you know. Promise.