Showing posts with label health. Show all posts
Showing posts with label health. Show all posts

Tuesday, October 23, 2012

Unsalted nuts

Auntie Mame wisely observed that “Life's a banquet and most poor suckers are starving to death!” Well, I’d amend that to say that, in 2012, life’s a banquet and most poor suckers are eating unsalted nuts on their way to their CrossFit class.

Like a dinner roll, nuts are a vehicle for something else. Rolls need to be buttered and my nuts need to be salted. Come to think of it, my buttered rolls need to be salted, too.

These days, many diets sing the praises of nuts, saying they are great sources of protein and energy. So I snack. Trader Joe’s trail mixes, almonds, pistachios—these all have a place in my laptop or workout bag.

But whether or not I’m sweating out the sodium and electrolytes, I need salty nuts. Yes, I meant to say that. Salt in any form is necessary to enjoy a handful of toasted pecans or a schmear of almond butter.

Eschew the raw cashew and unsalted pistachio. They may provide fuel but so do packets of GU energy gel and you don’t see me squeezing that stuff into my gob, do you? I want to enjoy every single thing I put into my mouth, not munch on boring, flavorless nuts in the name of health. I may be fit, but unsalted nuts make me sick. I’m bringing some flavor back into my life, one honey-roasted peanut at a time.


Monday, July 9, 2012

Skin tags

I accept that that hard living, the environment, the passing of years, and, in my case, a certain lack of balance, can take its toll on the body. Sunburned skin, puffy eyes, scars, moles, a tattoo from a certain Tijuana blackout… You name it, our body is a unique constellation of oddities and quirks that make us, well, us.

I can live with that.

For the most part, anyway. When I can see a clear cause and effect, I can suck it up and bear the dairy-driven rosacea or escalator scar from a New Year’s Eve gone terribly wrong. But I can’t wrap my mind around skin tags.

These tiny growths create a flesh-colored necklace around my neck, or pop up in an armpit or under a boob. Skin tags are basically body barnacles. And I want them scraped off my hull lickety-split. I’m all for personal growth, but that doesn’t mean I want little bits and pieces of skin rubbing against pendants or chafing against an underwire. While punching doesn’t help much in this case, clipping, burning, and excising in my derm’s office will teach these outcroppings not to rear their ugly heads. Tag, you’re hit.


Friday, July 8, 2011

Calorie-laden beverages

I've long suspected Starbucks mochachocalattes are chock full of death but like most people, didn’t think that hoovering one once in a while was a big whoop.

I was reading my Glamour mag in the tub as I’m wont to do when I came across this atrosh fact (see photo). One 32-ounce Dunkin Donuts Coffee Coolatta® with cream plus whipped cream is—wait for it—904 calories and 57 grams of fat. NINE HUNDRED FOUR FATASS, ARTERY-CLOGGING, LOVE-HANDLE-INDUCING CALORIES! There’s not even any booze in it! A company has to work hard to add that many calories to a cup. If you’re on a diet and counting calories, that’s 3/4ths of your day’s total caloric intake. I’m all for personal responsibility, but chucklehead companies like Dunkin Donuts and Starbucks are reprehensible for putting this gutbomb on the menu.

With a nod to Jeff Foxworthy, you might be drinking your doom if…
  • there’s whipped cream on top of cream
  • the cup could be used as a planter or a punch bowl
  • if the beverage® has a registered symbol after its name
  • the beverage’s name is nothing found in a dictionary
  • the drink contains nothing found in nature

I know this isn’t exactly a laff riot, but neither is your health.

Monday, March 29, 2010

Waking up with a headache

For the second day in a row, I’ve woken up with my head throbbing. Yeah, I know I ate like crap yesterday. I got the memo about the pollen count. Yeah, I know I’m stressed. Yeah, I know I need to exercise. Yes, I’m aware that Tax Day is approaching. There’s no need to remind me, Body. I don’t need a subdural Post-it note slapped on my brain. Message received, loud and fucking clear. In fact, I can’t get it out of my head.

I want to beat my headache in its annoying face with a jumbo bottle of ibu but sadly, I’d be whacking myself between the eyes. Instead, I’m going to draw the blinds, turn down the volume, and hope that my brain pain recedes and that I can look at my MacBook without having to don my sunglasses.


Friday, May 8, 2009


I know plants need you to grow and shit, but do you have to rub it in our faces (especially my right eye, which is almost swollen shut because of your need to be front and center)? I swear, you’re just like John Mayer or Speidi: stop talking about you for a minute and you have to whip up a new controversy to get carried along in the wind. Get over yourself and let something else shine for once. Have you ever considered that mold spores might like a moment now and again?

I don’t mean to be a major ragweed but enough is enough. I’m tired—seriously, I need a nap—of breathing only through my mouth. It’s time to make hay, not hay fever, while the sun shines, which means I need to wash you and your allergen pals outta my hair, off of my skin, and down the drain. I’m going to drown your greedy sinus-squatting ass in vats of antihistimines and decongestants. Maybe that’ll teach you to keep to your turf and fertilize flora, not my nasal passages…microscopic bitch.

It feels good to finally get that out of my system.


Thursday, April 2, 2009


Word around the cottage is that you're irking everyone's shit. Snow White's too much of a pussy to say anything so I thought I'd spell it out for you.

Quit stopping to smell the roses. Every fucking time you do, you start sneezing. When are you going to catch a ride on a clue bus? You have allergies, you immune-challenged twit. Frankly, I'm tired of asking if you have a cold only to be told, "I don't know what it is. I've never had allergies before but it seems like something in the air has been bothering me over the past couple of years."

Duh. Are you Dopey?

Your nose is red and chapped, your eyes are watering, you're running through Kleenex, and you're giving Grumpy a run for his whiney money. I'm starting to think you like the attention.

Quit trying to steal the thunder with your thunderous eruptions. Down some Claritin, rock a neti pot (I bet you could borrow one from Doc, who I understand is dabbling in homeopathic treatments these days after concocting an herbal poultice that was quite effective in leeching poison out of Snow White), and get a humidifier. And for the love of whatever god you worship in the forest, please stop the sweeping; dirt floors are not exactly ideal for someone of your delicate disposition.

If this continues, I'm going to have no choice but to go boy-in-the-plastic-bubble on your wee ass and stick you in a dust-free sphere, away from your peeps. If this sneezing continues, you can call me Punchy as I break your nose and hope the blocked nasal passage stops the sniveling. Or maybe I'll just put us all out of the misery by smothering you with a hypoallergenic pillow. Sneeze on that, bitch.


Wednesday, February 4, 2009

My GI tract

Probiotics, Prilosec, six GI repair pills a day, visits with a gastroenterologist, and an endoscopy. What’s a girl to do to calm the acid reflux, the rumblings, and the Barney-like burps in her digestive tract? Change my diet and reduce my stress level? Hells no! Punch my lower intestine in the face, that’s what. Oh, and order some Thai food, 4 stars please. Suck it, duodenum.