Kimopolis

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Dr. Littleoldman VS Dr. ManI’mtooskinny

Posted by kimlno on September 6, 2009

Dr. Littleoldman as a garden gnome.

Dr. Littleoldman as a garden gnome.

I went to see Dr. Littleoldman (aka Dr. Field, the alchemist) yesterday, and, as always, it was an adventure. He was quite pleased that my back problems have been completely alleviated, and that I’d dropped a few pounds to boot. Personally, I think it’s been all the sweating I’ve been doing this past week because of the damned heat. I am so OVER this hot thing. Bring back my marine layer already!

ANYifIlikedtheheatI’dliveintheValley, because Dr. Littleoldman is actually an old man, he told me a few of the same stories I heard the last time I was in the office. Let me give you a quick rundown of the tales I was treated to, m’kay?

The Lumberjacks of the Northwest Story:

In the 1900s, or there abouts (I’m not good with dates) big men cut down big trees with saws and whatnot and they worked up a mighty appetite. I picture Paul Bunyan at this point, if that helps you. Before heading out to work in the morning, the men would power down an astronomical amount of calories, somewhere in the 4000-6000 range (I am also not good with numbers, apparently). Then, ‘round lunchtime, they’d show up in the mess hall once again and eat another big ass meal. When they were through, more chopping. Eat. Chop. Repeat.

Well, eventually the wood-chopping season came to an end (I assume in winter, when the trees were too wet or too frozen to harvested), and the cooks in the mess hall knew this. So, for breakfast on that first wintery day they served only soup and a few sandwiches. The lumberjacks ate it, and didn’t complain. Lunch and dinner were similarly small in comparison to their usual feasts.

Here’s where Dr. Littleoldman decides to quiz me. I can only imagine he wants to test my powers of deduction or garner if I was even paying attention, but little does he know, he already told me this tale, so I already knew the answer. Ha. Ha. So, how could the lumberjacks survive from eating tens of thousands of calories a day, to only eating a few hundred? (Insert Jeopardy! theme music here.) Because they weren’t chopping down any trees! They didn’t NEED all those calories, and, the point being, their bodies learned to adapt.

Calories in = Calories out.

Now, it’s time for the Auschwitz saga. Again, I know this because Dr. Littleoldman told me practically the same story last time.

Survivors of the Nazi Concentration Camps:

How come some concentration camp survivors lived, while others died and both only consumed about 200 calories per day? Easy. The “Starvation Gene”. Essentially, when calorie intake is below 600 per day, those of us lucky souls who still have this ancient remnant gene, well, our bodies simply refuse to burn those last few calories and store them as fat. So, in the off chance we don’t eat for a few days, we can “live off the fat off the land”, as it were. Oh, happy day. The others who aren’t lucky enough to have this gene (and probably have a high metabolism and can eat whatever they want without gaining an ounce)? Well, they died.

“Starvation Gene” = Fat Storage

Since Dr. Littleoldman is Jewish and has close relatives who survived the camps, he is actual living proof of the “Starvation Gene” in action. He only eats 600 a day. Every day. And he’s at least 80-years-old and in better shape than you or I. Oh, and get this, he HATES exercise. So, he doesn’t. Now, as he would be the first to point out, every individual body is different. This is simply a diet that works for him. And you know what? He’s happy. Always. I have never seen the man without a smile on his sweet, Santa Claus/Garden Gnome face.

Dr. ManI'mtooskinny is actually thinner and meaner than Dr. Cristina Yang (pictured here).

Dr. ManI'mtooskinny is actually thinner and meaner than Dr. Cristina Yang (pictured here).

Do you know who rarely smiles? My previous doctor, Dr. ManI’mtooskinny. Dr. ManI’mtooskinny (aka Dr. Ma) is a very slight, waifishly thin Asian woman in her late 30s (or so I’d guess). She works out and eats healthy, but she’s never in a good mood. Envision Dr. Cristina Yang on “Grey’s Anatomy” and you’ve got a pretty good idea of what Dr. ManI’mtooskinny is like. She and I don’t see eye-to-eye on a lot of subjects, mostly my weight. She believes, and many would say she is also correct, that all of my problems are directly related to the extra baggage I tote with me everywhere I go. My back hurts, it’s because I’m fat. I have a headache, it’s because I’m fat. I’m depressed, it’s because I’m fat. She’s like a broken record. One of the reasons I stopped seeing her is because I already knew what her diagnosis would be. I mean, why bother? It’s not her fault, though, it’s just the kind of doctor she was trained to be (a UCLA HMO drone with a penchant for prescribing Vicodin).

Dr. Littleoldman, on the other hand, is quick to point out that my weight isn’t keeping me from living the life I want to live. In fact, I’m healthy as an ox. I don’t have high blood pressure. I don’t have diabetes. I don’t have heart disease. For all intents and purposes, I am in the pink. Now, that being said, there’s no guarantee that I won’t develop some, or all, of those health problems in the future, and being overweight is a contributing factor to each and every one. However, every body is different. Different enough to laugh in the face of physics and millions of scientific studies?  Well, yes. Dr. Littleoldman had one more tale to tell to help illustrate this very point, and it was surprisingly one I hadn’t heard before (thank god).

Swimming the Catalina Channel:

In 1927, Mr. Wrigley (of chewing gum fame) sponsored a channel swim, from San Pedro to Catalina Island, with various large sums of money to go to the winner and runners-up. One of the swimmers was a woman (whose name escapes me…yes, I am not good with names, either) who made it almost all the way to Catalina, but stopped short with only one mile to go. As it turns out, during her swim she’d lost over 30 pounds in a little over one day. When she reached her stopping point, her body had simply run out of fuel. So, sometime later she decided to try again. Before she went this time, she packed on 40 pounds to sustain her on her long journey. And that time, she made it. She also lost the extra 40 pounds in the time it took her to complete the swim.

Fat = Fuel.

So, what have we learned today class?

  1. Calories in = Calories out
  2. “Starvation Gene” = Stored Fat
  3. Fat = Fuel

But what does that MEAN, Kim? It means anyway you look at it, I’m SCREWED.

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Water, Water Everywhere…

Posted by kimlno on September 2, 2009

THAR she blows!

THAR she blows!

So, yesterday evening, I was walking down the hallway to my bedroom when I heard a curious sound. With my supersonic aural tracking system (Jaime Sommers ain’t got nothing on me), I suspected the odd noise was emanating from my bathroom. Like anything unusual coming from the bathroom, be it sound or scent or sight, I was worried that whatever it was, it was also something BAD, potentially VERY BAD. I poked my head in and followed the hissing sound down and around to the back of my toilet. Like most people, I don’t like to get my head too close to the toilet, but, once I was already down there, I could see, and feel, that the floor was quite wet. Uh-oh. Images of Titanic, The Perfect Storm, and The Poseidon Adventure whizzed (no pun intended) through my mind. And, of course, it was at that moment that I realized…I had to pee.

Fully aware that every second spent locating the source of the sound was crucial, I got down on my hands and knees in front of the porcelain potty. Again, not my favorite position (I’d make a terrible bulimic). Bear in mind, my bathroom is small. Really small. Tiny, almost. Yet, it somehow manages to accommodate a bathtub/shower, a toilet and a sink/vanity, but there’s little- to-no wiggle room between the three. The commode is smack dab in the middle of the three, and I’d guesstimate there’s about 6” of space on either side. This makes seeing what’s going on down behind the toilet about as easy as…well, not pie, that’s for sure.

Armed with two big beach towels, one in each hand, to soak up the steadily growing pool of water surrounding the base of the toilet, I felt around for the source of the leak. Since there’s only one hose going from the wall to the toilet, I knew almost immediately that this was the hissing culprit. After feeling along the length of the pipe (oh, get your minds out of the gutter, sheesh!), the little geyser was located and I put my finger on it to stop the generous flow of water shooting out all over my hardwood floors.

Now, here’s where I was in a bit of a pickle. I couldn’t move for fear that the leak would quickly turn the wading pool I was kneeling in into a small lake. But, I desperately needed to stop the water flow somehow. I swapped hands, and with a mighty twist I managed to move the 35-year-old angle stop a whopping 3 cm. This, of course, was not enough to completely shut the water off, and my situation had not improved. Plus, now the angle stop was at an incredibly difficult slant and pretty much cemented into place. So, I yelled for back-up.

When disaster strikes, I automatically go into “Emergency Mode”. Maybe I’ve watched too many episodes of Emergency! or maybe it has something to do with the fact that I used to be a Lifeguard and I’ve been taking CPR classes on a regular basis since I was old enough to say “Resusci-Annie”. Sure, no one’s life was at stake, but my home, specifically, my toilet, was in danger, so I took charge.

Unfortunately for her, my mom was the first person on the scene. I quickly gave her the run-down of the situation and instructed her to call a plumber IMMEDIATELY. Then, I needed a wrench, more towels, a bucket and some pipe thread tape. She returned with the items (well…sort of, she had no idea what pipe thread tape was, the bucket she brought was ALTOGETHER too large and she brought me some pliers instead of a wrench), but, much to my dismay…she did not call a plumber. Instead, my mom went next door to get our 76-year-old neighbor (NOT a plumber, by the way) to see if she (yes, SHE) could be of any assistance. Does anyone else see that this was perhaps not the best course of action?!?

Trying my best not to scream and throttle, I explained the dire emergency to my neighbor, and she proceeded to get down on all fours to assess the situation herself. I don’t have to tell you that she found nothing I hadn’t already, and was ultimately unsuccessful at even budging the angle stop any further into the “off” position. *SIGH* Again, I asked my mom to call a plumber, and this time she finally conceded. Note that at least 45 minutes had elapsed, and water was still spewing all over my bathroom. I’d managed to swap out the soaking wet towels with dry ones, and place a small pot under the leaky pipe, but it would’ve been SO much more helpful had my mother called the plumber the first time I asked. To say that I was irritated would’ve been the understatement of the year.

Many, many towels later and several completely futile attempts at sealing the hole in the pipe (if only I’d had some duct tape!) help finally arrived. With one swift twist of the angle stop, Mike the plumber (my hero) shut off the water supply and the leak ceased to be a problem. Sure, he charged me $77 bucks to turn a knob, but it was a small price to pay for my sanity. Plus, he was kind of cute (really, and no butt-crack either). After Mike left, I made sure that every extraneous drop of water was sopped up, and began the long, arduous process of wringing out the 17 soaking wet towels that had amassed in my tub. I felt a little like Laura Ingalls, doing the “warsh” in the “crick” (man, that had to suck).

All the while, I still had to pee.

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Looking For Mr. Goodbar, But All I See Are Butterfingers

Posted by kimlno on August 11, 2009

Have you see this man?

Have you see this man?

We’ve all heard it at least once. You are attracted to a member of the opposite sex, and you finally muster up enough courage to tell them, to see if he or she feels the same, and then you get the LINE:

“I like you, but just not in that way.”

Yeah, that one. The one with the big “BUT” in the middle, and all of a sudden you feel less bold and more like you could just die, right there, on the spot. Personally, I don’t like the word “but”. It pisses me off. It says, “I meant everything that I just said except I didn’t really.” It’s a cop out. I think I could happily live the rest of my life and never hear or use the word “BUT” again. However (a fancy “BUT”, but a “but” nonetheless), realistically it’s just not possible. More often than not, “but” is a fact of life.

Recently, I’ve been blathering on about all the qualities I would appreciate in a significant other, and those I would not…perhaps you’ve read them (if you haven’t then you definitely should, just click here and here). In the course of doing so, I was met with yet another unanswered question from the single masses: what’s the deal with the “LINE”? Heck, I don’t know. I didn’t make it up. Sure, I’ve used it and when I did, it seemed appropriate at the time, but looking back, I might’ve just slapped the guy in the face for as much pain as it caused him. Did the guilt I felt after delivering that low blow make me wish I hadn’t said it? No, of course not. It was true. I didn’t like him in that way, but (oh, crap…there’s that word again) perhaps I should’ve been more specific? I don’t like you because I am not physically attracted to you? Would that have made him feel any better? Should I have ignored my feelings and went out with him anyway?

I’m going to go out on a limb here and predict that nothing I could’ve said besides, “I like you, too” would’ve made any difference. Are we agreed?

So, I guess the real question is: what makes us prefer one dude (or chick) over another? I think it might just be some good, old, reliable chemistry. That special, unquantifiable spark. It’s either there, or it’s not. You can’t make it. You can’t fake it. And you certainly can’t buy it. That being said, chemistry doesn’t always mean “good” chemistry. How so, Kim? Oh, I’m gonna tell you.

A long time ago, in this very galaxy, actually, I met a man who I will call “Dick”. No particular reason, it’s just the first name that popped into my head (I am totally lying, can you tell?).* ANYtotalasshatprick, the day we met, I knew I was in for trouble with a capital “T”. He wasn’t particularly handsome, or charming, or, honestly, special in any way. He was just a guy with an attitude. When we met, however, it was like getting sucker punched right in the gut. Lightning may have struck. Thunder may have crashed. Sparkly, little cartoon stars may have flashed in my eyes. I can’t be sure if anyone even noticed, but I did. And so did he.

If this were a John Hughes movie (may he rest in peace), “Dick” and I would’ve fallen in love and lived happily ever after. Well, short story, it’s not, and we didn’t. To be fair, we never even went out on a date, much less had sexy times together. Sure, we flirted, but that’s about it. For us, all the chemistry in the world just wasn’t enough. Which makes me think maybe this chemistry stuff isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. It certainly isn’t practical. I mean, what’s the use in having earth-shattering, sparks-flying, real and tangible physical attraction if nothing ever comes of it? A nuisance, that’s what. A 15-year-long headache.

And here we are again, back at square one. If listing the qualities you’re looking for doesn’t work, and chemistry isn’t a reliable telltale sign that, hey, this guy is the right man for you, then what? Really? I wish I had the answer. I know you were all hoping for some kind of a resolution to all of this, but (ugh) I don’t have one for you. “Dick” is a happily married man, and I am still single. Sucks, huh?

Welcome to MY life.

*As to WHY he’s garnered that stinging alias, well, that’s a WHOLE other kettle of fish. For that story, you’re going to have to buy my book…when I’ve written it, of course.

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Looking For Love In All The Wrong Places

Posted by kimlno on August 3, 2009

What's not to love?

What's not to love?

The other night I went out to dinner with my dear friend, Brooke. As the conversation usually does, it eventually turns to the topic of our love lives. Or, more accurately, our “loveless” lives. Here we are, two attractive, intelligent, witty, engaging, and altogether charming ladies and yet neither one of us has a husband or a long-term boyfriend, or even a date. There we were, on a Saturday night, out together at Souplantation like a couple of old biddies who, between them, have over 400 cats.*

And we’re not alone.

Yesterday, I was checking my Facebook page, and another one of my girlfriends mentioned something about tossing another loser into the boyfriend junk heap. And she was answered with replies from two OTHER friends of mine who are also single and around the same age. What the hell?

I know all you men out there are thinking, “You all must be fat or ugly.” Not so. In fact, the five of us are completely different types of women, all in varying ranges of height, weight, size, looks, and personality. But every single one of us is brilliant, beautiful and funny. You’d think at least ONE of us would be able to find a decent man, but…you’d be wrong.

All the men I meet are either married or in a committed relationship. The one or two single guys I’ve come across recently are single for a reason. They are unattractive or creepy or live at home. I refuse to date a man who, at any time, makes me feel as if he just might chop me up into little pieces and keep me in his freezer. Or worse, they’re good-looking but don’t want a “girlfriend” and are all too happy to keep playing the field. Or, the most dreaded of all, they tell you how beautiful and wonderful you are, and then you find out that they’re married. If you’re married, then WHY ARE YOU HITTING ON ME?!?

I’ve tried internet dating, and it sucks. I’ve tried “speed dating” and that sucks even more. I’ve tried dating the guy I find less then attractive, but that never works. I’ve tried meeting guys in the places I frequent, local shops, the car wash, the waiting room of my therapist’s office, but no one seems even remotely interested. They can’t ALL be gay. I’ve even tried NOT trying, and that didn’t work either. I am seriously running out of options.

So, what’s a 30-something (*cough* almost 40 *cough*) lady to do? Honestly, I’ll take whatever suggestions you’ve got. As long as it doesn’t involve lowering my standards or ordering a man out of a catalog, I’ll try it. Bring it on.

*For the record, I’m not a fan of the cat, so, in theory, I can never be THAT woman. And Brooke just lost a cat (RIP Harry), so she has only one now. Nowhere near the 400 cats you’d think we’d have if you looked at our dating habits.

ADDENDUM: After I re-read this, I decided I should perhaps list the qualities I would consider to be essential in a potential mate. So, for your perusal, here’s a short list of non-negotiable attributes my potential suitor must possess…just in case you’re thinking of applying for the job, or know someone who might be interested.

  1. AVAILABLE: you must be available for a relationship immediately. Meaning no ex-girlfriends lurking around with whom you may “get back together with”, no current girlfriends, no ex-wives, no current wives, no overbearing mother, no children, and no female “friends” who are really just hanging around until you’re desperate enough to finally break down and have sex with them.
  2. EMPLOYED: you must have a career that you’ve been pursuing for more than 3 years that you enjoy.
  3. INTELLIGENT: you must have an education beyond a high school diploma, preferably with at least one degree from an accredited college, not ITT Tech.
  4. FUNNY: you must have a good sense of humor, and be able to see the humor in even the most dreadful of situations (e.g., still being single at the ripe old age of 38).
  5. SEXY: you must have more than just a cursory knowledge of the female body, and a strong desire to practice your well-honed techniques often.
  6. AFFECTIONATE: you must take pleasure in kissing, cuddling, and saying “I love you”.
  7. TRUSTWORTHY: you must be sincere, reliable and decent.
  8. FAMILY-ORIENTED: you must have a good relationship with your family, or at least some of them. You must like children and perhaps even want some of your own one day. Or a dog.
  9. ATTRACTIVE: you must take pride in your appearance, and make the most of what you have to work with. Having all of your own teeth (and hair) is a BONUS.
  10. OPEN-MINDED: you must be receptive to new ideas and new experiences.

Honestly, I don’t think my standards are so incredibly high that no one could ever fit the bill. I don’t need a rich guy, or one who is drop-dead gorgeous. I just want a lovable dude who thinks I’m the bee’s knees. Is that so much to ask?

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Where Is Will Shortz When You Need Him?

Posted by kimlno on July 23, 2009

Merl Reagle: ASSHAT

Merl Reagle: ASSHAT

Merl Reagle is an ass.

Who is Merl Reagle you ask? He is the asshat who has taken over the Sunday Times crossword puzzle.

Ever since I started doing the Sunday Times crossword puzzle, when I had to use a chisel and hammer to write the answers in the boxes (it REALLY sucked when you accidentally put the wrong letter in the box, let me tell you), it was written by a clever little couple called Barry Tunick and Sylvia Bursztyn. Sadly, Barry died in October of 2007. However, because he was a genius, he had enough crosswords stockpiled to last until the middle of 2008. At that point, Sylvia took the reins and did all the puzzles solo. It was obvious that Barry was the real brains behind the outfit, because Sylvia’s solo puzzles were never quite on par with previous editions. They weren’t awful, but they weren’t fabulous, either.

For the record, I only do one crossword puzzle a week. I would do more, as I enjoy working them quite a bit, but that would mean I’d have to venture into hostile uncharted territory that is currently guarded by my mother, the crossword-aholic. My mom completes no less than three crosswords PER DAY: the New York Times, the Los Angeles Times, and the L.A. Times online puzzle. Why the L.A. Times has two different puzzles available daily, I don’t know. I can only assume that there’s a high demand for it. Well, at least in my family there is.

Currently, my mom is the “dealer” for all three branches of our clan. She supplies crosswords to my grandma, who gets a might testy if they don’t arrive on time, my Aunt Judy, and my Uncle Vince. This entails making copies for everyone, including the answers, and then popping them into the mail each week so nobody goes into crossword withdrawal. As you can imagine, crosswords have become a valued commodity and the only puzzle I am deemed worthy of solving is the Sunday Times. Not the one in the magazine, either. Just the one on the back of the Lifestyles section, next to the horoscopes. Perhaps, when I am older, I might earn a spot amongst the crossword puzzle master’s chosen few, but I honestly believe someone will have to die before that happens.

Why can’t everyone do all the puzzles and live in perfect harmony? Well, because life is not like a Coca Cola commercial. And we’re all a bit competitive when it comes to being knowledgeable (see THIS post for reference) and there’s only so much room at the top. As it is now, all four puzzlers live in four separate households and there’s no chance of any cross-contamination. There’s very little chance that a crossword clue will be accidentally revealed prior to seeking assistance from others. Much like watching Jeopardy! in a room full of people, it’s never as enjoyable when someone else is blurting out the correct answers. The same goes for crossword puzzles.

So, if I were to start working puzzles on a daily basis, being that I live with the Queen Bee of Crossword Puzzle Land, a plethora of complications could arise. The worst being kicked out on my know-it-all ass.

What does all of this have to do with Merl Reagle? Well, about a couple of months ago, his name started to appear on the by line at the top of the puzzle. New puzzle authors always take a while to get used to because just like any other legitimate writer, each person has his own style of writing. If you read enough of that author’s material, or solve enough of his puzzles, you have a better understanding of what he is trying to communicate. The problem is, if you have no frame of reference for what the puzzle author is attempting to cleverly convey, it can be very frustrating trying to solve them.

Merl is a BIG fan of the “Question Clue,” which is not so much a clue as it is NOT a clue. For example, a clue from a recent puzzle read: Skunklike? (5 letters). Note the question mark. This means that the answer will be something witty, a play on words, if you will, or so the author intends it to be. Usually, it is just a lame attempt at humor. Let’s go for the literal answer and see if we can’t delineate the clever answer from there. What is like a skunk? What are some skunk attributes? The clue could be referring to a skunk’s appearance, in which case the answer could be striped, or black and white. Or the clue could suggest the skunk’s smell: stinky, smelly, and putrid are all acceptable answers. But the question mark leads me to believe that none of the above are correct. Skunk can also mean to cheat, marijuana or refer to an obnoxious person. That’s a lot of different meanings, and even though I had tried a whole bunch of synonyms for those things nothing was working. Do you know what the answer was? DRUNK. Obscure minutia, if you ask me.

As if that weren’t bad enough, his puzzles are riddled (no pun intended) with them. Then, just to make things more difficult, the word going down (or across, as it may be) is of absolutely no assistance whatsoever. That’s just cruel. How am I supposed to figure out the correct answer if I don’t even have any letters to narrow down my choices? At least give me a fighting chance, will you?

Sometimes you simply have to accept defeat and look up the answers. This isn’t as easy as it sounds. Crossword puzzle writers know that you may need to consult the all-knowing internet for a little push in the right direction. Therefore, they do everything in their power to make cheating as difficult as possible. Crafty little buggers.

This past Sunday, Merl pushed me past my breaking point. His inane, far from clever puzzle forced my hand and made me commit a sin so heinous, I almost dare not mention it. For perhaps only the second or third time in the history of the Sunday Times Crossword puzzle…I quit. Yes, you read that correctly. I placed the cap back on my special green pen, reserved solely for the purpose of crossword puzzle solving, unclipped the paper from my laptop desk, and handed the puzzle off to my mom. Merle had defeated me after two passes at the grid revealed only a handful of answers and none of them definite. So, I made the executive decision to let a more seasoned solver have at it. I just couldn’t justify looking up practically a hundred clues simply to decode the secret theme. To be perfectly honest, I didn’t care anymore. This man had sucked the joy out of a decade’s long tradition in the course of only two months. That BASTARD. How DARE he?

I am now officially on crossword puzzle strike. Until the Times sees fit to employ another crossword puzzle author, I will no longer participate in their shenanigans. If that means excluding all crossword puzzles from the rest of my life (except the one in United’s Hemispheres inflight magazine…at 35,000 feet it’s a must), then so be it. I will not play Merl Reagle’s reindeer games. You and your puzzle are dead to me.

Merl Reagle, I abjure you.

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