Category Archives for "Health"

Quiz time! Their shit or their weight: which one do women lose faster than men?

Directions: Examine the photos carefully, read their descriptions and then answer the question below to the best of your ability

Along with healthy portions of fresh fruits, raw vegetables, grilled chicken, ground turkey, protein fortified pasta and low fat peanut butter, the above photos show what Andy eats and drinks every week to maintain her weight. In addition, she still runs two miles a day several days a week, despite Jack Frost getting drunk on power and heaving his guts up all over western New York for months on end.

Andy has been in the throes of maintenance since she reached goal weight nine months ago at which time she stopped taking up the entire eastern hemisphere of a photo and saw her feet without use of a mirror for the first time since her uterus was a virgin. She has discovered that one throe lasts an eternity plus twenty minutes and while daunted by the task ahead of her, she is determined to persevere and remain a size six and not give in to the temptation to drive to Wegmans and lick their bakery department until it sparkles or sues her for sexual harassment.

It is a struggle every single day to remain focused on her goal and not lose her shit when Valentine’s Day rolls around on ganache-infused, chocolate covered wheels.

Andy has recently gained four pounds.

Along with frozen pizzas, fourteen inch cholesterol-laden subs, Bill Gray’s, McDonalds and enough chocolate chip cookies to make Cookie Monster beg for mercy and become a vegan, the above photos show what Nate eats and drinks every week in an attempt to lose the extra twenty pounds he’s carrying around so that he can win the Biggest Loser competition at work. His exercise regimen consists of talking about exercise, making sure the couch doesn’t run away and playing ONE TWO THREE FOUR, I DECLARE A THUMB WAR with the remote.

Nate has recently lost two pounds.


Based on the above photos, where do you think Nate’s genitalia will wind up?

  1. Not in Andy
  2. Buried under the deck
  3. Pittsburgh
  4. Who cares?
  5. All of the above



My parents’ TV is going Helen Keller all over me

I’m still down in North Carolina but only for another day or so. The weather is gorgeous, everyone I meet is outrageously nice and I basically want to pack up Nate, the kids and Oliver and run away from home and move down here. I love everything about this place except the traffic lights. I know that life down here runs at a slower pace but yesterday, I think I could have gestated a small human while waiting to make a left turn. Even with my shitty, enlarged uterus.

I meant that my shitty, enlarged uterus could have gestated a small human being period, not that I could have used it to make a left turn. My shitty, enlarged uterus has no sense of direction and wouldn’t know its left from its right. If it were allowed to navigate, I’d be typing this from the South Pole and crying because hello? WHERE THE HELL IS SANTA AND WHY HASN’T BE BROUGHT ME A GPS FOR CHRIST’S SAKE?

Just a few updates:

  • I’m happy to report that my father, who last week suffered a stroke and was *this* close to putting for birdie on that great big manicured green in the sky, is steadily improving. We hope it won’t be long before he’s back home, sitting in his recliner next to Mom and slowly turning deaf by watching TV at 180 decibels. Dancing with the Stars is so much better when the Paso Doblé breaks the sound barrier, isn’t it? I don’t watch that show myself so I couldn’t say. I’d ask my mom but I probably wouldn’t hear her response since my ears were blown off during Glee.
  • Nate informed me last night that they might have to resort to doing their first load of laundry. Operative word being “might.” Did I mention I’ve been away from home for eight days? This conversation fell under the category of STOP TALKING. I DON’T EVEN WANT TO KNOW.
  • I tried to relieve some stress by running the other day. I soon discovered that all the roads in my parents’ neighborhood go up hill. Both ways. After one mile, I had to shimmy home on my stomach because my thighs and knees had exploded forty-two  times.

Once again, thank you so much for all your kind thoughts and positive energy during the last week or so. You guys made a huge difference for my family and I am so grateful.

I should be home later this week. If no one hears from me in a couple of days, please check the laundry room and send help.

And a gas mask.



It’s like Weekend Update! Except it’s not Saturday night and I’m better looking than Seth Meyers. I think.

I’d like to thank all of you for your comments and emails this week. I wish I could thank each of your personally for bringing a smile to my face but there aren’t enough hours in the day and this in and of itself is a huge testament to how supportive the Internet can be. Your thoughts and words of encouragement have been the highlights of what has essentially been a festival of shit this week.

And all of you spammers who sent me Viagra coupons and offers to enlarge my penis and rock my girlfriend’s world? You guys have got to learn how to use spell check. I’m not going to take you seriously if you can’t spell the word “orgasm” correctly. And if I had a girlfriend, I’d bet she’d feel the same way because I only hook up with really smart people. The first thirty years of my life notwithstanding.

My dad is hanging in there. I won’t bother giving a play by play of the roller coaster we’ve ridden this week but suffice it to say that carotid artery surgery, hematomas, strokes, aspirating on vomit, pneumonia and ventilators suck big, fat, staph-infected orangutan balls.

As of last night, he was coming off of sedation. He blinked on command and moved his hand and both his feet which was very encouraging. We hope he can come off the ventilator today so that they can start conducting a neurological exam to determine the extent of the damage from the stroke. I suggested to the doctors that they ask my dad a simple question like Is it true that if F(X) is an antiderivative of f(x) and c is any constant, then F(x)  + c is also an antiderivative of f(x)? They could assess his analytical prowess and help my sixteen year old with her homework at the same time. It would be a win/win! They suggested we start with something like “Is your name Peter?”

Way to set the bar low, guys.

My brother Tino is down here with me. So all you single ladies living in North Carolina, here’s your chance! And no worries of my mother hovering in the background, yelling FOR GOD’S SAKE, JUST MARRY ONE OF THEM ALREADY as she’s got a lot on her mind these days and can’t plan a wedding at the moment.

Some highlights of this past week:

  • Tino and I got lost on our way from the airport to our parents’ house, proving once again that I have no earthly business navigating, be it by map, GPS, someone hollering WHAT DO YOU MEAN, THE EXIT WAS “BACK THERE,” or the northern star.
  • My mother had Nutella waiting for me in her pantry. I almost wept with joy. She said she tried to get me Anderson Cooper but apparently he’s not taking her calls either. At the risk of sounding rude, Anderson … Whiskey, Tango, Foxtrot? Pardon my French.
  • We brought the day shift and night shift nurses boxes of candy because they are full of awesome. The nurses, not the boxes of candy, although candy is pretty awesome but nowhere near the level of nurses. I think nurses ought to get their own holiday. And parking spaces.
  • I was forced to venture into a Walmart down here and for the first time in my life, I did not feel the urge to douse myself in Purell from head to toe. The Walmarts down here are actually nice! And clean! And make me want to use exclamation points! And I’m not just talking about the employees! Not sure why the south has such a distinct advantage over the north when it comes to Walmart? Maybe it’s God’s way of compensating them for that whole Civil War thing.
  • Actually, everyone down here is incredibly friendly. It’s like North Carolinians are on a perpetual endorphin rush. I’ll have whatever they’re having.
  • My sixteen year old decided that this would be the perfect time to let her brain fall out of her head and make some pretty stupid choices. Nothing like coming home from the hospital at 9:00 at night only to charge up your cell phone so that you can use a good chunk of your minutes to discipline your teenager from 800 miles away, all while having your twin brother stand behind you, reminding you of that time when you were sixteen and your own brain did a free fall out of your head and crashed to the floor and exploded into a million pieces. SHUT UP TINO, YOU ARE NOT HELPING.

Before I leave, one word of advice. Please, please, please, for the love of white garlic pizza, tell someone where your original wills and powers of attorney are hidden. It may come as a surprise but it is entirely possible for a person to experience the whole spectrum of human emotion 582 times in one morning, leading her to seriously consider having a bank drill through a safety deposit box to the tune of $150 even though she knows nothing is in there but at least it’s doing something other than standing in an office and yelling to no one in particular JESUS CHRIST IN BIRKENSTOCKS, WHERE THE HELL ARE THEY?



A pictorial essay on why my bi-polar bladder should be arrested for arson

This was my bladder on Monday morning.


This was my bladder two hours later, after bacteria crawled up my bahoodle doodle and threw up all over my urinary tract system.


I felt uncomfortable and bloated, as if I was eleven months pregnant. One good sneeze and I think I could have given birth to my uterus right there in my kitchen.

Worst of all, it burned like a futhermucker to pee.

Good thing I only had to do that every minute or so.

I wasn’t too happy to discover that I had run out of my trusty old antibiotic, Cipro.

I called my urologist to get a refill and was told that in order to get a new prescription, I had to come into the office and give them a sample via a catheter because this is the method they prefer when you are the owner of a schizophrenic bladder.

I wasn’t happy. Why an office visit? Why couldn’t they just renew my prescription over the phone? I mean, if I hadn’t let my prescription run out, I’d still have enough Cipro refills to last me at least another five infections or a small scale Anthrax terrorist attack. So, what the hell, you big meanies?

But they have to make money off me somehow, don’t they?

So I paid a $40.00 co-pay for the privilege of placing my legs in stirrups, assuming the position and having tubing shoved through my urethra up to my bladder.

It hurt.

I was sad.

Who knew I’d ever miss peeing in a cup?

Not me, that’s who.

But in the end, I got my Cipro which makes me nauseous and sluggish, like I’ve drunk seven too many beers.

I’m always debating on which is worse … the symptoms of a bladder infection or the side effects of the antibiotics.

It’s kind of like a “which came first, the chicken or the egg” scenario.

Or maybe not. It’s hard to make sense when you feel like you’re going to heave up dinner from last week.

I also got some more Phenazopyridine, which is a fancy name for a pill that makes me pee neon orange.

I think you can see it from space.

The neon orange pee, not the pill.

((waving HI to the space shuttle astronauts))

To sum it up, this week has been total suckage so far and all I’ve wanted to do is lay on the couch and fondly remember the good old days, when I felt somewhat human.



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