Kitty Litter
Tuesday, October 03, 2006
Right Little Ray of Sunshine
Kitty Litter has been out and about hospitals and gyms for her health in the past three weeks, so pardon the lack of entries. I have, however, discovered the joys and comforts of the Asian Hospital and Healthway waiting rooms, which are a far cry from the horrid, cramped, hot, and depressing St. Luke's QC doctor's offices.
I just have one complaint: What is it with diabetes and needles anyway? Perhaps they make dinuguan or ketchup out of the liters they've taken out of me? Every time I go to my endocrinologist/diabetologist (Dr. Gatmaitan of Healthway Alabang, good guy!) he wants my blood. Seems he wants to check how much sugar I have in it. I can tell him: too much, but he doesn't believe me.
(Aside: My mother can't believe I have diabetes. I like salty food, and was being checked for my kidney health when they discovered my diabetes. Weird thing is it's my mom who has a ref full of chocolates at home. I can live without most sweets anyway.)
Through all the med tests and doctor's consultations, I'm glad I have a sense of humor, though Wynn observed that it verges on gallows and gross humor lately. I retorted, "Hey, I'm not the one who said, in a loud voice, in a crowded grocery, 'Baby, pass me a pack of sugar that doesn't look like a rat crawled on it.' And you made sure you had an audience."
One Friday two weeks ago I sat at home for three hours, was poked with a needle four times on both arms, and I discovered what a hematoma was. When someone sticks a needle into your arm and goes prospecting for the vein, well, I believe the word for it is "traumatic" and the resulting blotch on your skin looks like you've been mainlining some drug. All hail long sleeved shirts! Apparently the hematoma was the result of the technician poking around in search of a blood vein. There's quite a bit of fat in the way, something the technician wisely forebore to mention, perhaps fearing my wrath. Then last week, more blood, and horror of horrors: projectile urination. (It gets gross...er from this point on, so you've been warned.)
Lacking male organs and unable to rent them, I understandably am unable to direct urine in a clean stream. Urinating into a container is guaranteed to get me wet, in more ways than one. So imagine what it was like to have to pee four times into a tiny tube that looked like my cat's snot wouldn't fit in it. I half-expected the technician to cheerily announce, "Fill 'er up!" every thirty minutes, when she asked for a sample, but docile creature that I am, I didn't complain. What's funny is that people make a living out of examining piss and poop. They perform a valuable service, definitely, but don't ask me to sub for them.
Gym Things
I've also been going to the gym regularly to bring my weight down. My weight has gone steadily down, and that's good. At the gym, I entertain myself by playing Backstreet Boys dance songs on my mp3 player. You have no idea how well-suited their music, however corny, is to gym workouts. It's still a sight better than the songs the aerobics instructors play at thrice their original speed, and an octave higher to boot. If you've ever heard "My Humps" played at an even higher pitch than it already is, then you've had a sound preview of hell.
Even funnier are the people in the gym. There are few teens there; most, like me, look like they desperately need the gym. There's the requisite crowd of testosterone-y males who grunt, huff, puff, and drop their weights to attract attention to themselves. Too many of them like to sniff their armpits when they think no one is looking; too bad I have a mutant instinct for looking at the exact moment when people are adjusting their bra straps or briefs, picking their noses, or smelling their armpits. I'd trade this talent in for something more useful, like say a gaydar, anytime.
The women tend to be more focused on working out. I like working out because I'm alone, no one will bother me, and I get to think while my body tries to reach perfection (a state which I will reach, given my current standing, in a few hundred years, barring death and putrefaction). Unfortunately women can be very stupid; there are always one or two idiots who reapply makeup WHILE working out. Apparently they want to sweat in style.
Me? I just want to sweat. Now don't get me started on my gym clothes laundry, because that's an even worse thing. Do you work out at a commercial gym? I'll leave you with this image: When people work out, they often forget to bring hand towels, so they wipe away sweat with their hands then cling on to the equipment. Occasionally there will be one or two who will bestow the gift of their kulangot on the equipment; a souvenir of sorts.
I love going to the gym!
I just have one complaint: What is it with diabetes and needles anyway? Perhaps they make dinuguan or ketchup out of the liters they've taken out of me? Every time I go to my endocrinologist/diabetologist (Dr. Gatmaitan of Healthway Alabang, good guy!) he wants my blood. Seems he wants to check how much sugar I have in it. I can tell him: too much, but he doesn't believe me.
(Aside: My mother can't believe I have diabetes. I like salty food, and was being checked for my kidney health when they discovered my diabetes. Weird thing is it's my mom who has a ref full of chocolates at home. I can live without most sweets anyway.)
Through all the med tests and doctor's consultations, I'm glad I have a sense of humor, though Wynn observed that it verges on gallows and gross humor lately. I retorted, "Hey, I'm not the one who said, in a loud voice, in a crowded grocery, 'Baby, pass me a pack of sugar that doesn't look like a rat crawled on it.' And you made sure you had an audience."
One Friday two weeks ago I sat at home for three hours, was poked with a needle four times on both arms, and I discovered what a hematoma was. When someone sticks a needle into your arm and goes prospecting for the vein, well, I believe the word for it is "traumatic" and the resulting blotch on your skin looks like you've been mainlining some drug. All hail long sleeved shirts! Apparently the hematoma was the result of the technician poking around in search of a blood vein. There's quite a bit of fat in the way, something the technician wisely forebore to mention, perhaps fearing my wrath. Then last week, more blood, and horror of horrors: projectile urination. (It gets gross...er from this point on, so you've been warned.)
Lacking male organs and unable to rent them, I understandably am unable to direct urine in a clean stream. Urinating into a container is guaranteed to get me wet, in more ways than one. So imagine what it was like to have to pee four times into a tiny tube that looked like my cat's snot wouldn't fit in it. I half-expected the technician to cheerily announce, "Fill 'er up!" every thirty minutes, when she asked for a sample, but docile creature that I am, I didn't complain. What's funny is that people make a living out of examining piss and poop. They perform a valuable service, definitely, but don't ask me to sub for them.
Gym Things
I've also been going to the gym regularly to bring my weight down. My weight has gone steadily down, and that's good. At the gym, I entertain myself by playing Backstreet Boys dance songs on my mp3 player. You have no idea how well-suited their music, however corny, is to gym workouts. It's still a sight better than the songs the aerobics instructors play at thrice their original speed, and an octave higher to boot. If you've ever heard "My Humps" played at an even higher pitch than it already is, then you've had a sound preview of hell.
Even funnier are the people in the gym. There are few teens there; most, like me, look like they desperately need the gym. There's the requisite crowd of testosterone-y males who grunt, huff, puff, and drop their weights to attract attention to themselves. Too many of them like to sniff their armpits when they think no one is looking; too bad I have a mutant instinct for looking at the exact moment when people are adjusting their bra straps or briefs, picking their noses, or smelling their armpits. I'd trade this talent in for something more useful, like say a gaydar, anytime.
The women tend to be more focused on working out. I like working out because I'm alone, no one will bother me, and I get to think while my body tries to reach perfection (a state which I will reach, given my current standing, in a few hundred years, barring death and putrefaction). Unfortunately women can be very stupid; there are always one or two idiots who reapply makeup WHILE working out. Apparently they want to sweat in style.
Me? I just want to sweat. Now don't get me started on my gym clothes laundry, because that's an even worse thing. Do you work out at a commercial gym? I'll leave you with this image: When people work out, they often forget to bring hand towels, so they wipe away sweat with their hands then cling on to the equipment. Occasionally there will be one or two who will bestow the gift of their kulangot on the equipment; a souvenir of sorts.
I love going to the gym!
Labels: funny observations, gym antics, health
