The (American) Civil War began on April 12, 1861.
Today has been somewhat quieter.
But I did make a veterinarian appointment for the Pom, who has a skin bump under his front leg that I want her to look at, just to be sure. I know it’s nothing, but it’s scary. I also deposited a small check for e-book sales through Amazon. From there, we went to Macy’s for a bathroom scale . . . but when I got it unpacked, I found a sticker on the glass. “Persons with implanted electrical devices such as pacemakers should not use this.” Since it was primarily for Mama to weigh on every morning to see if she is retaining water weight (if her P. pill does not take it out, she has to go to the doctor immediately), we’ll be returning it tomorrow.
We went to the doctor earlier this week, and he read me the riot act. He didn’t like my numbers (diabetes and cholesterol), and he wanted me to see the lap-band surgeon. Finally he agreed that I should go on Medifast instead. It has worked well for me in the past.
Everyone knows that society is currently campaigning against fat, and we also all know that calories in doesn’t necessarily equal calories out; other factors come into it, including genetic predisposition. Some people are programmed not to be mesomorphs, but to be plump. I don’t want to argue or discuss that. I’m just ready to stop looking “fat” and stop shopping plus sizes and have my diabetes type II “go into remission,” which is what the doctor keeps saying will happen at a certain weight. The stress of the last few months has really done a number on me. Maybe now that it has eased just a bit, I can do the diet/exercise thing seriously.
All those poop tests they ran turned out fine–no parasites (!) or unusual results. He no longer suspects Celiac sprue. But he says I should eat nothing but Medifast until I’m a size 8. He really scared the heck out of my mother with all that. I’m tougher than he knows, but still, I might as well do this while hubby is dieting as well and doesn’t expect a dinner meal for himself.
Short version: I’m going back on Medifast. I really don’t mind it–the dilemma of choice and the possibility of “oh, just try one bite of this–it won’t hurt you and I’ll be offended if you don’t” is eliminated. You just eat five Medifast packets and one small salad with 6 oz of meat every day. And that’s all.
So we packed up all the food I got the other day at Whole Paycheck Market (non-gluten bread, pasta, and crackers–when we were testing for celiac reaction after my LAST appointment) to take to the Food Bank (overdrawn–they were glad to see it all, including several cans of chili and boxes of biscuit mix), and then we ran over to the Medifast store to get boxes of sludge. Menu for foreseeable future: sludge. In chocolate, mocha, strawberry, and Crunchy Frog. (They were out of Anthrax Ripple.)
Now they make pancakes and soft-serve ice cream versions of the “supplement” (which is what they call your foodstuffs). I’ve got to dig out the blender so we can try them.
He also put Mama on Medifast, but after three days of it (all the while with her sneaking crackers and an orange because she simply does not understand the chemistry behind going into near-ketosis, meaning you can’t cheat with minor consequences as you can on a regular diet) she’s munching Cheez-Its and eating chicken salad from Cafe Max. She says she can’t do that diet while on insulin (and I agree) and that she has too much wrong with her to do it (I agree). She says he just put her on it for meanness, which MIGHT be true . . . he can be that way. But he didn’t prescribe it for her and insist, the way he does for me.
I looked into the lap band online again and noticed that there are stories on the ‘net about people who have had a lot of trouble, the way my cousins have. Really, you could do the same thing if you didn’t eat any more than they do . . . we’ll try it the sensible way first.
But if I actually got to be a size 8, I would run away to Disneyland.