The Mormon Diet Plan Journal Day 1: I Will Not Suffer Alone

By now, you are probably wondering what ailment I have, and checking my Facebook page for my DOB to see if I am under the age of 75. Well, those of you that give a shit. And this time...let me tell you ladies and gents, the “suckage factor bar” has been raised. Apparently, I have done an amazing job of ignoring a raging sinus infection, and some sort of acid reflux. The doctor was soo impressed with my denial and avoidance that he offered me an award for all my needless suffering. You know, like they do for new moms that decide to have a natural delivery. Part of my treatment involves some bitchin’ steroid nasal spray, antibiotics, and some other drug that I have never heard of....but has a shit ton of refills, so I have plenty of time to figure out what it is that I am putting into my body. The other part of my treatment is a simple diet. Yes, simply restrictive. I have dubbed this new diet: The Mormon Diet Plan. And from now on, I will be recording my daily distaste for what I am denied. Here is what I can no longer have...well, at least for the next month or so. Drinks: No alcoholic beverages, coffee, tea, any soda or carbonated beverage, no caffeine, and no citrus juices. So, just apple juice and water. Cue Pac-Man dying sound. Food: No eggs, dairy, red sauce, or chocolate. And no eating after 7:30 in the evening or at least three hours before I go to bed. This fun little rule also applies to drinking ANYTHING in the evening. It may be time to turn to a pill mill. Activities: No whispering, and no sex without a condom. Shhhh.... The point is, I will not be suffering alone. My children will have deal with my mood swings from caffeine withdrawals, and my husband will have to revert back to the hassle of putting on a prophylactic.

It’s official: I use IV drugs

For the first time since I was 16, I am able to put my shoulders back, or sit up straight in a chair without looking like the housewife version of Hugo’s Quasimodo. I was recently diagnosed with Psoriatic arthritis (PsA). At first, my reasons for going to the dermatologist were strictly cosmetic and a matter of discomfort, but turns out...I had all the signs of arthritis. I’m 36. Autoimmune disorders run rampant on both sides of my family. And believe it or not, there is a very deep dividing line between taking snake oil and eliminating certain foods in your diet to treat this disease, and the other side (the actual sufferers) that casually exchange stories about the latest biologic drugs like we’re poppin’ Tylenol. However, it was my sister’s fight with Rheumatoid Arthritis that has led the way for me (and my dad) to take some pretty powerful drugs with possible side effects that scare me, and most people shit less--well you’ve heard the commercials. Thank God I’m not afraid of needles, because the drug that I have gone through hours of phone calls with insurance adjusters, and a bit of hell to get approved, works. OH and it’s a pre-filled injectable biologic called, Enbrel. For the past two weeks, I open my fridge door, push aside the cottage cheese and snag what looks like a marker. A quick alcohol swab to my extremities, and I’m jammin’ that baby into a thigh, forearm or buttock. You would think that the strangest part would be prepping my forearm to receive a needle without consulting a former drug addict, but it’s been the absence of pain that has been the realization of its existence.

Luke Shops for Father's Day Cards

I just returned from my world wind blogging adventure in Chicago, and I didn't have the energy to write a blog. So, I decided to share this cartoon instead.

Who the Hell Shoots a Horse?

Each afternoon, I have had the pleasure of being distracted by two gentle equine creatures that grazed in a small pasture while I waited in what seemed like the longest carpool line in history. The horses were a great distraction for my daughter, and we even gave them names, Strawberry Shortcake and Buzz. As you can guess, the children choose those names, and were particularly fond of them. Upon returning from Christmas break, this sign was hanging where the horses normally nibbled on grass and feed. The first thing to go through my mind was, who the hell would shoot a horse? Second was that I hoped my son would not read it before I got a chance to come up with a lesson about who the hell would shoot a horse. Naturally, my seven-year-old son (who cries anytime Sarah McLachlan starts crooning during the Humane Society commercials) read the banner before I had the time or answers on hot standby. Halfway through reading, his voice began to crack. So here is the story that I whipped up to keep him from suffering from depression over the next week. You see honey, that horse wasn’t entirely 100% horse. It was actually part human, from the land of Skeletor. One day Braeburn got angry that they weren’t sharing their apples with the whole gang. So, He-Man showed up with She-Ra and they turned the horses into part humans and because they were human that made them very flawed and they brought a gun with them to persuade the Skeletor creatures to share. The gun went off during the half-hoofed struggle. Buzz and Strawberry Shortcake were taken to the hospital and found a safer home. My son wasn’t buying it, so I sold him on the little white lie that the horses were in heaven or here. Either way, they are better off not being part human.