“As a child I assumed that when I reached adulthood, I would have grown-up thoughts.” – David Sedaris
Let’s play catch up. Since my last post, I:
Turned 31! Woohoo birthdays! (Never gets old, that day of mine. I keep waiting for my birthday to be some sort of non-event in my head, but… nope. Texts and calls and hugs and Facebook messages! So. Much. Goodness!) I went out to dinner with my bestie and my boyfriend, had like *the worst* gluten-free beer imaginable, and then watched the Cubs lose their asses to the Mets. *Spoiler alert: The Cubs did NOT make it to the World Series.*
Am still eating (mostly) gluten-, dairy-, and sugar-free. It’s not horrible, but… I mean, of COURSE it’s horrible. But I do feel a little better. I went back to the naturopath, and we talked more about diet, and he said that I must be losing weight because it didn’t seem like I was eating enough. Well, when most of your meals consist of what you can eat, which is basically, oh, lettuce, then… yes. You might lose weight. And then he wanted to talk about my mind – which he categorized as “psychotherapy in 10 minutes or less”, so… you know… comforting. He asked me to describe myself. I said I was quiet. He said he could see that. I said I was funny. He said he couldn’t see that. He asked me about my emotions, how I process them. About my stress levels. About my outlets. About the way I handle conflicts. Wanted to know about my relationship with my boyfriend. It all seemed very stressful to me, trying to answer questions I wasn’t very comfortable with. And then he gave me homeopathic pills for my headaches, and like 6 boxes of drops for “cleansing” purposes all to the sweet, sweet tune of almost $300.
So, like, here’s the thing: My dad swears by this guy. And my dad’s a strange man at times, but generally, he’s a pretty smart guy. When my dad was diagnosed with diabetes, this dude helped him get on the right track. My dad is no longer diabetic. But even my dad didn’t have to do all this cleansing/homeopathic bullshit. He just was like, “Eat more protein and have some vegetables” and diabetes was like, “Fuck this, I’m out,” and all was right with the world. I, however, was getting very agitated with the dude (Mr. Myagi is what I call him) and just took the shit he gave me and left, deciding I would research WHAT he gave me once I got home.
I researched. To give you an idea, the dude reviewed himself on Google. Douche move, Myagi.
But. The best part. Is. The tablets are, effectively, table salt. So… um… cool. I haven’t researched the cleanse stuff yet, but I don’t think I’ll do anything with that either. Basically, your organs are self-cleansing mechanisms, provided you’re healthy, and I’m working on being healthy…
Which is weird. My boyfriend moved in about a week ago (we officially turned in his keys tonight… awww…), and so far the hardest thing has been trying to cook things that both of us can eat. I think I’ve dragged him to every fucking grocery store in this city (Whole Foods still has the best selection but I’m not interested in sacrificing millions every time I want an apple, Mariano’s and Trader Joe’s were ok, Jewel sucked). As I’ve mentioned many times, I’m not a great cook, and now I effectively HAVE to cook more often than not. And the boy just eats what I make, as if he doesn’t have tastebuds. I don’t get it.
Oh. I also inherited a cat. His name is Shadow, and he’s temperamental as fuck. Every time I walk into a room, he’s like, “You again?” and then runs away. We usually have like a 3am bonding session, because I usually wake up then and he’ll come over and be like, “Yes, now I accept you for who you are; give me all the pettings.” AND THEN IN THE MORNING IT’S LIKE IT NEVER HAPPENED. Such a dude… cat.
But, pets aside, we cohabit quite nicely. He does laundry. And puts dishes in the dishwasher. He vacuums the windowsills for spiders, real and imagined. He showed me how to use a blender. (It’s like reverse-Stepford-y.) Sure, the amount of stuff this apartment has accumulated is kind of stressing me out, but since he’s Mr. Organization, I trust he will sort everything out in the next couple weeks or so. He doesn’t quite understand my stress level, considering I lived here for a year and largely still had a lot of things in bins in random places, but as I explained to him, that was my shit, and that’s what made it okay (Amanda logic at its finest). And sure, maybe he doesn’t exactly appreciate that my alarm goes off and I hit the snooze button three times before I actually get up (“But why don’t you just get up when it goes off the first time?” “Because I’ve been up during the night and usually by the time my alarm goes off, I’ve just fallen back to sleep.” “Well, why don’t you stay asleep through the night?”).
He’s pretty logical, that one. But also stubborn. I’ve been able to crack through some of it, but I assume there are many layers. I did get him to go to the dermatologist for this thing that he’s had on his arm for more than a year (“she was hot,” he said. His co-worker bestie told him he shouldn’t tell me that, but… um… if it gets you to go to the fucking doctor, she could be Jenna fucking Jameson for all I care). The thing just continually scabbed over, and he’d continually pick at it, just rip it off any chance he got (that’s how you know he’s stressed, because he immediately goes to that spot on his arm… but now… no more!). They biopsied the scar tissue on Tuesday, and he now has stitches for two weeks. He’s very curious about the stitches, and yesterday he wanted to rip off the bandage because, he said, there was a lot of blood. I told him it was dried blood, and that – as someone who has been stitched many times – it’s not as fascinating as it might seem.
So. Yes. Somewhat overwhelming, but mostly awesomesauce. Things are good and it’s good that they’re good. Teehee emoji.
Have a good night, friends. Be kind to yourselves.