shoulda been a geologist

I had an ultrasound a week ago today to check for gallstones.  I've been having pain under my last ribs on the right side for nearly a year and Dr. Google suggested it might be gallstone-related.  The technicians aren't allowed to share their conclusions on ultrasound pictures, so I've been patiently waiting for my doctor to get around to reviewing them and contacting me.  The clinic is very technological and the tech assured me that the doctor would receive the results that morning.  So, seven days later, I'm feeling really neglected.  At first I was understanding and patient -- after all, she has a lot more patients than just little old me, and besides, my symptoms had subsided (which probably means I passed a gallstone?).  After a few days I was a little miffed.  By today I'm fed up and thinking she obviously doesn't give a shit about me...especially because she hasn't followed up with me on the hives I've had for over a month now with no trigger identified.  I swear I'm not a hypochondriac and I haven't had any medical issues since she became my primary doc, at least three years ago, so it's not like I'm crying wolf here.  So I got fed up and changed to a new doc...which might be the only benefit of the managed health care system my insurance uses.  In the meantime, she's ignoring me, her usually-healthy-but-currently-very-itchy-and-in-pain patient.

I suspect the hives are due to a soy allergy, so I'm treating myself with a soy elimination diet.  Did you know that soy is in FUCKING EVERYTHING?!  Soy lecithin is an emulsifier added to pretty much everything that comes in a box or a bag, in addition to pretty much all sources of chocolate, baked goods, cereal, peanut butter, cheese, and ice cream.  Soy is also added as a source of protein and fiber to the "healthier" prepared food choices, such as, say, oatmeal.  I'm an adequate (read: not talented) cook and perfectly capable of feeding myself, but my sweet tooth refuses to be satisfied by brown rice and vegetables.  Coming up empty-handed after searching my kitchen high and low (and there are some really inaccessible cupboards in which we store our baking ingredients) is immensely disheartening.  I work full-time and tutor kids afterward, husband is in school four days a week in addition to his full-time job -- we just don't have time to cook a full meal from scratch every damn day.  I'm hoping the allergy tests (waiting for them to call me back so I can schedule an appointment for a skin prick panel) will identify something specific -- I guess some people are allergic to soy protein but not to soybean oil?

I'm especially ornery about this because I'm spoiled: I'm generally remarkably healthy.  I recognize that itchiness and pain after eating are somewhat first-world problems.  But I'm a fucking vegetarian with a moderate lifestyle who really tries to take care of herself, and was recently (also!) found to have familial high cholesterol.  I was advised to give up red meat (haven't had any in 15 years) and nuts (can't eat them -- I'm allergic).  So that's a fail.

I know this blog doesn't have a following, but if you're here because of a relevant search and have any experience/advice, I'd love to read it in the comments.

Oh, yeah -- the title of this entry comes from the remarkable ability of my anatomy to make rocks: in addition to these alleged gallstones, I also make piles and piles of kidney stones (even though my doctor assures me that there's no correlation between gallstones and kidney stones).  Clearly I could have been a contender in geology.

80 degrees is booby tassel weather

I'm sitting at my desk at work listening to my coworker scarf down his afternoon snack: microwave popcorn. I know there are varied and righteous opinions surrounding the production of microwave popcorn in an office environment, but I won't address them here and now. I just wish he'd use a damn bowl because the rumpling of paper and rustling of kernels every time he shoves his grimy little fist into the bag to extract a handful is making me crazy. Not to mention that it's 79°F (26°C) in this office and has been for MONTHS despite the fact that it's mild and mid-fifties outside. I'm just as miserable in a chilly office as the stereotypical woman, but doesn't thirty degrees of heating seem excessive for a city that doesn't freeze?

We've called the facility management folks out countless times and they've concluded there's nothing to be done except to bring in fans. Now we have two fans circulating all the time and now it's 79°F and windy, which really doesn't help much.  We have learned, however, that our office was never designed for human occupation.  Three of us are stuck in this windowless hellhole roasting away when it was really just supposed to contain files...super-secret confidential files that are so important they require three humans to guard them.  My job is so stupid.

I went to a bachelorette party on Saturday night -- my first one if you don't count the one the Big Boss threw for my old boss, which, while it did involve lingerie and tequila and took place in a bar, was hardly risqué.  Saturday's party was a burlesque dancing lesson, and it had the potential to be as risqué as desired.  (Let me interrupt myself here to say that I detest dancing, I never go to the clubs, I have at least two left feet and no sense of rhythm whatsoever -- no, really - it's why I learned the flute instead of the drums, which is really kind of a shame because it'd have been so much more fun to date my ex-boyfriend if I could have been the drummer in his band.  So picture me attempting to dance as resembling those doggies that dance with their human owners: precarious balance, no idea what to do with the forelimbs, only as much hip-area motion as is required to ambulate in something approaching a rhythmic fashion.)  The Burlesque Professor, as the instructor called herself, brought feather boas and elbow gloves and pretty fans for all of us, taught us some moves, outlined some strategies, tips, and tricks, and then made us perform for each other at the end of class.  Like, right then and there, I'm supposed to come up with something sexy and beguiling, and I don't have a fucking clue what I'm doing.  It was so. much. fun.  Of course, whatever I came up with couldn't hold a candle to what some of the other girls did (or maybe it could precisely hold a candle without spilling even a drop of wax because I imagine it looks like I have a steel rod shoved three feet up my ass when I try to dance) but let's just say I wasn't the least talented one there, and women can be soooo supportive of each other when they desire (almost as catty as they can be to each other at other times).  I don't know why I'm using "they" to refer to women there because I certainly fit the category but maybe I want to believe I'm above it or something.  Clearly, I'm deluding myself.

The point, however, is that it was fun and silly and witty and sexy and unpretentious all at the same time, and I think everyone had a good time.  At the end of the lesson we all got the opportunity to purchase hand-made booby tassels from the teacher.  They were really cute. :)