In Your Face, Facebook!

I love it when scientific studies positively reinforce my choice to neglect something that is supposedly good for me.  No matter that the choice is based on laziness or stubbornness, or both, on my part.  Science. Says.  I’m right.

My sister, Crash, decided that, since I refused to resolve to do anything for the new year, she would decide what I needed to do.  Her goal for me is to join Facebook.  She informed me of this goal a couple of times, and then nagged gently prodded me by sending me an e-mail invitation to view her Facebook pictures.

If you’ve read my highly engaging and slightly entertaining post, “Don’t Hate Me Because I Don’t Like You”, then you are aware of my feelings about Facebook.  If you haven’t read that post, you are probably still aware of my feelings about Facebook, considering that: it is 2013, I am 40-something years old, my sister is trying to browbeat me into using it, and I don’t like anyone.

I was starting to crumble under the pressure.  To be honest, I’m beginning to tire of conversations that go like this :

“Hey, are you going to Selena’s baby shower?”

“What?  I didn’t know she was having a baby!”

“She isn’t.  Her daughter is.”

“Oh my God!  She has a daughter?!!!”

“You really need to check your Facebook.  By the way, are you and your husband having problems?  His latest status is ‘single’.”

Now I know that last one is not true.  Because my husband does not have a Facebook account, either.  I think.

Anyway, the point is that I was starting to feel a bit left out because people keep forgetting to tell me things in person since they figure I already know because it’s posted on their Facebook page.  I was beginning to think I will be the only one sitting in a chair with my bulldog, reading Little Women, while the rest of the nation burrows into bomb shelters – all because the End of the World got announced on Facebook instead of the Emergency Broadcast System.

And then I heard the news report.

“Facebook Makes You Fat!”

I knew it!  I knew there was a reason I shouldn’t do it.

According to the SCIENTIFIC study, Facebook makes you fat because it makes you feel “popular and happy” about your image.  More self-esteem gives you less self-control.

Ah hah!  My evil sister is trying to give me more self-esteem!

I knew she always hated me.

I introduce you to the face of my sister, Crash. She does not have self-esteem issues.  And she’s not fat.  She defies scientific explanation.

Advertisement

Mixed Messages from My Wardrobe

photo credit: http://pleated-jeans.com

The oldest piece of clothing that I own, and still wear occasionally, is a pair of shorts that I don whenever I am painting. Every once in awhile, I throw them on even if I’m not painting, because I might be a bit behind in laundry.  Yesterday was one of those days.  For some reason, I got the lame-brain idea that it might be fun to take the Dog Who Poops as he Walks out for a spin around the block, and those shorts were the only pair that were not in the hamper.  In retrospect, I’m not sure why I cared if I was wearing clean shorts or not, considering the fact that I spent 3/4 of the walk carrying a hefty bag of stinky dog poop.

Those shorts are a size 10.  I hadn’t worn them in a few months, and I was a more than a little discombobulated by the fact that they suddenly seemed to be tight around the waist.  I will be the first to admit that I’ve gained some weight.  But not enough to pop a button in size 10 shorts.  There was no denying, though, that I felt like there was a boa constrictor wrapped around my stomach when I was finally able to fasten them.  According to Painter Shorts, I need to be doing a lot more strolls with the Dog Who Poops as He Walks before I turn into the Girl Who Rolls Down the Street.

My size 2 skirt, purchased 2 days ago, begs to differ.  According to that hot little number, I have nothing to be concerned about.  I should be strutting my stuff more often just to give other people the opportunity to feast their eyes on my lean, slender physique.  The Dog Who Poops as He Walks should be grateful that he is accompanied by the Girl Who Struts Beside Him with Plastic Grocery Bags.

This is what we’ve come to, my friends, a 43-year old body that, ON THE SAME DAY, fits into 2 sizes that should be as far away from each other as Obama and Romney.  No wonder we all have distorted self-images.

Painter Shorts tells me, “This is what happens when you get too big for your britches.  Now, let’s do something before you burst.”

Hot Number Skirt flatters me, makes me feel like a cover model, and pooh-poohs the idea that I might need to cut back a little on the carbs.  It also tells me to ignore the fact that there are Size 00 and Size 000 skirts on the racks that raise their eyebrows in alarm if I even dare to take a peek at their tags.

I’m pretty sure I’m not fat.  And I’m very sure I’m not thin.  I suspect, despite the size 2’s in my closet, that I am somewhere in between.

What would happen, do you think, if we stopped putting sizes on clothing – just stuck them on the rack from smallest to biggest, and shopped for the size that looked like it would fit (instead of the size we hoped or thought would fit)?  Should we start a Size Revolution now, or just wait until the first day we spot a size -1 on the rack?

Humans are Animals, Too

I have found the perfect doctor.  There is just one problem.  He is a vet.  Wonderbutt, our bulldog’s, vet, to be exact.  Don’t tell anyone, but I’m trying to see how I can get this fabulous DVM added to my health insurance plan.

Think about all of the qualities of the perfect physician, and you will be describing Dr. Dolittle.  This man is kind, rational, caring, and smart.  He is not fresh out of medical school, but he also isn’t ready to retire.  He takes his time with his patients, but he doesn’t make you wait 2 hours past your appointment time to see him.

And I think he may have inadvertently diagnosed my recent health issues during Wonderbutt’s annual exam.

I know – it’s typical of me, isn’t it, to make my dog’s medical checkup all about me.

Here’s what happened, though:

Wonderbutt got the usual vaccinations, but the doctor expressed concern about his weight gain and a mysterious hair loss pattern on his sides.  Despite Wonderbutt’s participation in our home version of The Biggest Loser, he has gained 6 pounds since his last visit – making him a whopping 71 pounds.

After checking a skin sample for mites, which would have explained the hair loss, the test came back negative.  (By the way, as we waited for the results, I was keeping my fingers crossed that it wasn’t mites.  That was the wrong approach.  I should have prayed for mites, apparently – a lot less expensive than the alternatives.)  This is when Dr. Dolittle suggested the possibility of Wonderbutt having hypothyroidism.

A million dollars and a few blood and urine samples later, Wonderbutt and I arrived home.  (Happily, Wonderbutt made it to and from the vet without having any “accidents” in the car – probably because Dimples wasn’t sitting in the back seat to scream and wrinkle her nose in disgust.)

I immediately headed to the computer to Google hypothyroidism.

As I read the symptoms, I nearly grabbed the monitor off of the desk to show my husband the list.  They are EXACTLY the symptoms I have right now.

This led me to two conclusions:  I need to somehow switch my blood samples with Wonderbutt’s, and/or see if I can get double doses of his medication if Dr. Dolittle’s diagnosis is correct.

I don’t want to hear about how I’m a hypochondriac with symptoms brought on by Googling diseases.  If you are going to comment, I’d rather get your advice on how to convince Dr. Dolittle that he needs to add humans to his practice.  Or, maybe the President can make some minor adjustments to the new Health Plan.

Yeah. Not Wonderbutt's vet. But he's welcome to join my new health plan anytime he wants. photo credit: Christianny via photopin cc