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Feb. 17th, 2008 02:34 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
helblingWow, a lot of my folks on my f-list have come out with posts regarding religion, beliefs, death and lots of other stuff I normally like jawing about while I’ve been away. Once brain is in gear, I may attempt to reply to them in a sensible and logical fashion.
For now, you will have to put up with my ramblings about the trip. Firstly, something I’m surprised hasn’t shown up on at least one brainless-female-orientated magazine.
Emma’s Patented Weight Loss Diet!
Here it is folks! Guaranteed to loose you a ridiculously large amount of weight in a time period that is ridiculously small, in a way that guarantees you’ll put it all back on with extra once you go back to eating normally but hey, short term results are what we’re interested in, right? And what’s better is you need absolutely no willpower for it whatsoever! (Although a small amount of oh-god-kill-me-now suffering may be involved.) Just in time for the ski season, which all our preceding articles will have made you feel crap, insecure and inadequate about, despite the fact that ski gear covers just about everything and disguises all manner of lumps and bumps.
How to:
Forty-eight hours before you are due to depart: Catch gastroenteritis, and catch it hard.
For full effect your disease of the day should be caught fresh as you walk out of work, knackered, but still due to pack this evening and then do a full days work the next day. Also, you should be due to help your other half tidy the flat, as he is due to have guests in your absence. Walk through the door and feel faint, be unable to eat half your dinner, and then decide to be a good person and help with the tidying anyway. Ignore the bf’s entrities to go rest. Wash up badly, slopping dirty water everywhere, and then don’t have the energy to care. Eventually admit defeat, and go to bed.
Start hallucinating; ask the bf whether he’s recently gotten a new moving background for his desktop before realising that stuff outside the screen is moving as well. Try to sleep, when your brain starts going in funny directions. Go along with it, ask it questions. Outloud. Startle the bf resultantly, particularly when you come out with the phrase
“Before you apply that anaesthetic, you should know that I’ve been breast fed!”
at loud volume, with no warning. Decide it’s not worth psychoanalysing the above phrase, and finally succeed in going to sleep.
Twenty-four hours before you are due to depart: ring in sick for the day, then inform your parents about your illness, and have them decide to come pick you up. Pack in a rush, forgetting at least three key items, and discover your favourite heels, which have been languishing at the back of your wardrobe, have sprouted mould. Sleep as much as physically possible, gaining you some vicious scratch marks down your leg when your cat decides he is unpleased with your latest hi-honey-I’m-home offering (read: nothing), but feel no better. Try to say hi to the rest of the family, but mostly fail; embarrass your little brother horribly by not being entirely coherent upon introduction to his latest girlfriend, especially when he’s just introduced you as ‘the smart one’. Eat lightly, because anything with more substance than watered-down fruit juice makes you feel queasy.
On the day of travel, you should start passing out at random intervals, mostly while sitting down so no one notices. Have your family ask you obvious questions like ‘are you not feeling well?’ while you are clutching your armrest, looking green and fondling an in flight vomit bag. Upon arrival at your ski destination of choice, after some 10 hours of travel, do not allow yourself a chance to rest, but instead go to get your ski gear sorted before you even check into the hotel. Eat as best you can, but be prepared to turn down suspicious looking hunks of meat in a goulash sauce in the name of a very unstable stomach.
Stay up most of the night with a dodgy stomach, before finally giving up on sleep at about 8am, reaching the slopes after no breakfast (you felt too bad) at 10am for your lesson with your mother and sister #1. After managing 90 mins of the lesson, wherein you concuss a small child and go out of control down a blue run several times (for a full report, you will have to wait for my next entry) give up and go and collapse into bed.
Sleep heavily for 3 hours, and feel marginally better when you wake up, so decide to try having some lunch. Filch a small amount of spaghetti off your little sister’s plate, then go rest some more. About an hour after consumption, be woken with a jump when your body rejects the spaghetti.
Give it about 3 hours for your stomach to calm down, then try a small amount of clear broth, and try to keep that down. Fail.
Give it another 3 hours for your stomach to calm down, then try and keep water down. Fail.
As a matter of fact, fail to keep anything in your system, whatsoever; spend most of the day in the near-vicinity of the toilet.
Decide this is ridiculous, and decide to try and ring for the doctor, after much nagging from your mother. Find the nagging slightly ironic, as she has previously been a great one for ignoring doctor’s orders – make a mental note to one day write about the incident that took place in the Cairo Museum and involved a carton of apple juice and a blood transfusion. Be told that they’ve gone home for the night, and your only option is to wait until tomorrow, or go to the hospital, some 80 miles away.
Decide to wait.
Finally, the next morning, go see the doctor, this being the fifth day of your digestive shenanigans. Feel mildly unnerved when she doesn’t even let you sit down before ordering you into an examining bench and reports your temperature to be 39.8 oC, which is over 103 Fahrenheit.
When the doctor says ‘I don’t want to panic you…’, try not to panic.
When the doctor says ‘…but I’m worried you’re going to go into renal failure…’, fail.
When the doctor says ‘…within the next 24 hours…’, fail harder.
When the doctor says ‘…unless you get some fluids into your system, and soon…’ calm down slightly.
When the doctor says ‘…so I’m going to put you on a drip.’ Panic again.
Bonus points if, at this point, you too have A Thing About Needles.
Have the doctor place a tourniquet on your arm while making soothing noises while you contemplate the pros and cons of having a drip ‘installed’ versus making a run for the first floor window, less than 5 m away from you, and taking your chances with death by dehydration and hypothermia.
Have your panic change slowly to amusement when the doctor can’t seem to find any veins in your left arm. Have her switch to the right.
After five minutes, have her huff in frustration, replace the tourniquet on your left as well as your right, and huff of to find some kind of spray which is supposed to make the veins rise up.
After another tens minutes, spray or no, have her reach the point of prowling around you with a slightly skewiff look on her face, while she mutters under her breath ‘…but HOW can you have NO veins?!’
Mentally label her Stephanique Irwin, Capillary Hunter.
Do a mental voiceover, adding a distinctly Australian twang to her German accent. Trace her route through the dangerous lower region of the surgery, through the rainforest of the supply cupboard and into the desolate regions of the treatment room in search of her prey, the infamous vein-big-enough-to-stick-an-IV-needle-in. Share her failures, and exult in her successes as she stalks the rare creature, finally tracking it down in the unexpected location of The Right Hand. Picture an immense fight to the death between a giant pulsing blood vessel and your doctor – who is bearing a distinct resemblance to Indiana Jones – when you are suddenly jolted out of your fantasy by the doctor shoving a great needle into the back of your right hand.
Decide that telling your mother the truth about how you’ve ‘suddenly overcome your issues with needles’, as she’s cooing, might not be the best idea, even if you do so under the heading ‘good stuff that’s a side-effect of being a roleplayer’.
Have the doctor add several syringe loads of liquids to your drip in the name of stopping you from being so violently sick at *everything* you put in your system. Once she’s put a full litre and half again into your system, have her boot you out of the surgery, having loaded you down with half the pharmacy (don’t forget to use all your persuasive skills to steer her away from giving you all of them in suppository form) and having charged you several hundred quid for the privilege.
Make slow progress for the next 5 days, eating little and not-so-often, paying hideously on the one occasion you forget to take your anti-retching tablets before you ate, but the progress is *slow* so don’t expect to be able to eat anything worthwhile. Clear soups all the way for you – try not to mind as the rest of the family chows down on 5 course meals in the evening and the occasional steak for lunch. Manage to get onto the slopes once, much to your father’s disgust. Make it onto solid foods in time to go home, at which point the stress of the journey back causes you to have a mild relapse.
Get home. Collapse onto bf. Decide you are at least taking Monday off, because, damnit, you need a holiday from your holiday.
End result: I have lost so much weight from my stomach area, my underwired bras are causing me rather a lot of pain as they now dig into my underarms as my breasts are not what they were previously - have had to unearth some old non-wired ones.
Oh well, I said I wanted to diet. This at least kick started me.
Full details of my holiday that are not illness related will probably go up tomorrow at some point.
For now, you will have to put up with my ramblings about the trip. Firstly, something I’m surprised hasn’t shown up on at least one brainless-female-orientated magazine.
Emma’s Patented Weight Loss Diet!
Here it is folks! Guaranteed to loose you a ridiculously large amount of weight in a time period that is ridiculously small, in a way that guarantees you’ll put it all back on with extra once you go back to eating normally but hey, short term results are what we’re interested in, right? And what’s better is you need absolutely no willpower for it whatsoever! (Although a small amount of oh-god-kill-me-now suffering may be involved.) Just in time for the ski season, which all our preceding articles will have made you feel crap, insecure and inadequate about, despite the fact that ski gear covers just about everything and disguises all manner of lumps and bumps.
How to:
Forty-eight hours before you are due to depart: Catch gastroenteritis, and catch it hard.
For full effect your disease of the day should be caught fresh as you walk out of work, knackered, but still due to pack this evening and then do a full days work the next day. Also, you should be due to help your other half tidy the flat, as he is due to have guests in your absence. Walk through the door and feel faint, be unable to eat half your dinner, and then decide to be a good person and help with the tidying anyway. Ignore the bf’s entrities to go rest. Wash up badly, slopping dirty water everywhere, and then don’t have the energy to care. Eventually admit defeat, and go to bed.
Start hallucinating; ask the bf whether he’s recently gotten a new moving background for his desktop before realising that stuff outside the screen is moving as well. Try to sleep, when your brain starts going in funny directions. Go along with it, ask it questions. Outloud. Startle the bf resultantly, particularly when you come out with the phrase
“Before you apply that anaesthetic, you should know that I’ve been breast fed!”
at loud volume, with no warning. Decide it’s not worth psychoanalysing the above phrase, and finally succeed in going to sleep.
Twenty-four hours before you are due to depart: ring in sick for the day, then inform your parents about your illness, and have them decide to come pick you up. Pack in a rush, forgetting at least three key items, and discover your favourite heels, which have been languishing at the back of your wardrobe, have sprouted mould. Sleep as much as physically possible, gaining you some vicious scratch marks down your leg when your cat decides he is unpleased with your latest hi-honey-I’m-home offering (read: nothing), but feel no better. Try to say hi to the rest of the family, but mostly fail; embarrass your little brother horribly by not being entirely coherent upon introduction to his latest girlfriend, especially when he’s just introduced you as ‘the smart one’. Eat lightly, because anything with more substance than watered-down fruit juice makes you feel queasy.
On the day of travel, you should start passing out at random intervals, mostly while sitting down so no one notices. Have your family ask you obvious questions like ‘are you not feeling well?’ while you are clutching your armrest, looking green and fondling an in flight vomit bag. Upon arrival at your ski destination of choice, after some 10 hours of travel, do not allow yourself a chance to rest, but instead go to get your ski gear sorted before you even check into the hotel. Eat as best you can, but be prepared to turn down suspicious looking hunks of meat in a goulash sauce in the name of a very unstable stomach.
Stay up most of the night with a dodgy stomach, before finally giving up on sleep at about 8am, reaching the slopes after no breakfast (you felt too bad) at 10am for your lesson with your mother and sister #1. After managing 90 mins of the lesson, wherein you concuss a small child and go out of control down a blue run several times (for a full report, you will have to wait for my next entry) give up and go and collapse into bed.
Sleep heavily for 3 hours, and feel marginally better when you wake up, so decide to try having some lunch. Filch a small amount of spaghetti off your little sister’s plate, then go rest some more. About an hour after consumption, be woken with a jump when your body rejects the spaghetti.
Give it about 3 hours for your stomach to calm down, then try a small amount of clear broth, and try to keep that down. Fail.
Give it another 3 hours for your stomach to calm down, then try and keep water down. Fail.
As a matter of fact, fail to keep anything in your system, whatsoever; spend most of the day in the near-vicinity of the toilet.
Decide this is ridiculous, and decide to try and ring for the doctor, after much nagging from your mother. Find the nagging slightly ironic, as she has previously been a great one for ignoring doctor’s orders – make a mental note to one day write about the incident that took place in the Cairo Museum and involved a carton of apple juice and a blood transfusion. Be told that they’ve gone home for the night, and your only option is to wait until tomorrow, or go to the hospital, some 80 miles away.
Decide to wait.
Finally, the next morning, go see the doctor, this being the fifth day of your digestive shenanigans. Feel mildly unnerved when she doesn’t even let you sit down before ordering you into an examining bench and reports your temperature to be 39.8 oC, which is over 103 Fahrenheit.
When the doctor says ‘I don’t want to panic you…’, try not to panic.
When the doctor says ‘…but I’m worried you’re going to go into renal failure…’, fail.
When the doctor says ‘…within the next 24 hours…’, fail harder.
When the doctor says ‘…unless you get some fluids into your system, and soon…’ calm down slightly.
When the doctor says ‘…so I’m going to put you on a drip.’ Panic again.
Bonus points if, at this point, you too have A Thing About Needles.
Have the doctor place a tourniquet on your arm while making soothing noises while you contemplate the pros and cons of having a drip ‘installed’ versus making a run for the first floor window, less than 5 m away from you, and taking your chances with death by dehydration and hypothermia.
Have your panic change slowly to amusement when the doctor can’t seem to find any veins in your left arm. Have her switch to the right.
After five minutes, have her huff in frustration, replace the tourniquet on your left as well as your right, and huff of to find some kind of spray which is supposed to make the veins rise up.
After another tens minutes, spray or no, have her reach the point of prowling around you with a slightly skewiff look on her face, while she mutters under her breath ‘…but HOW can you have NO veins?!’
Mentally label her Stephanique Irwin, Capillary Hunter.
Do a mental voiceover, adding a distinctly Australian twang to her German accent. Trace her route through the dangerous lower region of the surgery, through the rainforest of the supply cupboard and into the desolate regions of the treatment room in search of her prey, the infamous vein-big-enough-to-stick-an-IV-needle-in. Share her failures, and exult in her successes as she stalks the rare creature, finally tracking it down in the unexpected location of The Right Hand. Picture an immense fight to the death between a giant pulsing blood vessel and your doctor – who is bearing a distinct resemblance to Indiana Jones – when you are suddenly jolted out of your fantasy by the doctor shoving a great needle into the back of your right hand.
Decide that telling your mother the truth about how you’ve ‘suddenly overcome your issues with needles’, as she’s cooing, might not be the best idea, even if you do so under the heading ‘good stuff that’s a side-effect of being a roleplayer’.
Have the doctor add several syringe loads of liquids to your drip in the name of stopping you from being so violently sick at *everything* you put in your system. Once she’s put a full litre and half again into your system, have her boot you out of the surgery, having loaded you down with half the pharmacy (don’t forget to use all your persuasive skills to steer her away from giving you all of them in suppository form) and having charged you several hundred quid for the privilege.
Make slow progress for the next 5 days, eating little and not-so-often, paying hideously on the one occasion you forget to take your anti-retching tablets before you ate, but the progress is *slow* so don’t expect to be able to eat anything worthwhile. Clear soups all the way for you – try not to mind as the rest of the family chows down on 5 course meals in the evening and the occasional steak for lunch. Manage to get onto the slopes once, much to your father’s disgust. Make it onto solid foods in time to go home, at which point the stress of the journey back causes you to have a mild relapse.
Get home. Collapse onto bf. Decide you are at least taking Monday off, because, damnit, you need a holiday from your holiday.
End result: I have lost so much weight from my stomach area, my underwired bras are causing me rather a lot of pain as they now dig into my underarms as my breasts are not what they were previously - have had to unearth some old non-wired ones.
Oh well, I said I wanted to diet. This at least kick started me.
Full details of my holiday that are not illness related will probably go up tomorrow at some point.
