October 12th, 2007

breeden

Let Them Eat Cheesecake

You know, it's an odd thing.

I think someone mentioned this back when I first blogged about Effexor, and if so, they were right--I have found my appetite has undergone a peculiar shift since I've been on meds.

Namely, I no longer seem to like pasta very much.

This is kind of astonishing, because pasta has long been one of my basic dietary staples. I live on the stuff. It's one of the few things I know how to cook, I eat a lot of pasta salad...and now I might as well be chowing down on newspaper. I stare into a bowl of noodles, take a few bites, and shove it away. (I have done this a half dozen times, because eating pasta is just plain habit by now, and I default to it.)

Noodles seem to be the primary culprit, but ravioli isn't doin' much for me either. I'm not sure if I still like mac & cheese or not. Rice is still fine. I'm hoping that another food group will rise to fill the gap, but I'll have to experiment to see if I suddenly like something I've been avoiding.

This has had another side effect. Having cut out my primary source of carbs, purely accidentally, combined with the much smaller portions that I now eat due to the general appetite supression, plus that two weeks of complete lack of appetite when I started the meds...I've dropped another five pounds in the last month, putting me at a whopping 157.  Oy, vey. I realize that nobody has any sympathy with this problem, and rightly so, but shit. If it was intentional, that'd be one thing, but this is getting stupid.

Deb, who has been trying to fatten me up, is in mild despair, and I'm getting a little miffed, because while it's great to have a trim waistline and all, I want to keep my curves! I like having curves! I'm glad to be a D-cup! I would much rather be a Bougereau than a Nagel, damnit!  I have no desire to look like a twelve-year-old boy!  (To say nothing of the fact that the jeans I bought a month ago that looked painted on are now merely comfy. I've confined my shopping to thrift stores these days for just this reason, so it's only a three dollar loss, but crimony. Worse, I now appear to be in the ugly hinterland that is size 11. This size does not actually exist. This is a problem.)

Time for drastic measures. Since I can only eat fairly small portions of anything, I've got to make them fattening. We're going to try a week of cheesecake for breakfast. It's a cruel regimen, but I think I can manage it.
breeden

(no subject)

I am a post-it note fiend. I scribble notes on them constantly. Then I lose them. Then they turn up six months later in a pile of papers and look important so I save them, just in case. This is a personal flaw, but eh, so what--I don't actually have to get over all of my flaws before I die. So far as I know, there is no prize if you expire with unbitten fingernails.  But that's neither here nor there.

Unfortunately, I have no posti-it notes at the moment, and like any good houseguest, I am trying to minimize my clutter generation, so my note surface is now one ripped sheet of typing paper next to my computer.

After a month, it's gotten a little...odd.

It has phone numbers on both sides, the name of an insurance agent, the URL of the local collision shop, the word "GOGGLES!!" in large letters, underlined twice, a small doodle of a chicken with a sign saying "Cluck!" and, perhaps most disturbing, a carefully labelled chart of the female reproductive anatomy, with an arrow saying "Endometrium, damnit."

Each of these--except perhaps the chicken--were briefly crucial to my existence. This worries me sometimes.