I just watched "Sicko" the other day, so the awesomeness of French health care has been at the forefront of my mind. Granted, the carpeting/paint job/aesthetics of the offices and hospitals here leave something to be desired, but overall the health care system here is pretty kickass.

As you know, yesterday Mateo got his vaccines. He was unhappy, and today he was even more so. I did lots and lots of breastfeeding because he was very fussy at the boob. In the end, I spent a long time feeding him but I don't think he was eating all that much. Mainly, I think he needed the normal amount of food but an extra amount of sleep, and because he is such a catnapper, this was rather exceptional.

At 14:30, he was deep in a full-scale nap, and I thought I might indulge as well. I had been feeling super tired all day, and plus I had a major headache because I have gone back to clenching my teeth at night (not good). We went to bed together and I didn't fall asleep for another hour or so, my headache was getting in the way.

By the time I woke up at 17:00, I was feverish and weak, so I took my temp. 37,6°C. Not terrible, but not good either. I started feeling progressively worse, and opted to take my temp again. 38°C. Then 38.1°C. Definetly not a good sign. I am almost never sick like this, and it really seemed to have come out of the blue.

As I am the sole caregiver of the little dude, I really didn't want to risk geting any sicker. I looked up the number for SOS Medicins -- a service in France where the doctors come to your house. My left breast was hurting me and I was concerned I might have the early symptoms of Mastitis. When I read on a website that a breastfeeding mother who feels like she has the flu most likely has Mastitis, I decided to call.

The doctor showed up about ten minutes later, and 40 euros after that I had my diagnosis: I was right.

I am so glad I didn't wait, but I am also so glad France has SOS Medicins. I couldn't imagine myself navigating the subway with the baby in order to get to a hospital; I can hardly hold him up right now. Honestly, I think I would have waited until tomorrow or the next day, suffering through the illness telling myself it would pass. It's also a good thing I had read about Aimee's experience with Mastitis, because I had it somewhat in the back of my mind all along.

The Boy is coming over tonight and I am going to make him be my slave until Mateo goes down for the night -- pick up prescription, dinner, etc. I should be feeling better in about 48 hours, according to the doctor -- Mateo has been super sweet and not all that demanding since he woke up from his nap, so maybe he senses something. I hope it lasts, at least until I get some strength back in my arms.

I have to do my 6/7-week post-partum visit, just to be sure all is well. I'm not really concerned, but I figure I should get it done. I CANNOT FIND A SINGLE GYNECOLOGIST that I can see. It's August, it's Paris, and they're gone. Or they're going, and are all booked until then. AAARRRRRGGGGHHHH.

Sometimes France is just so frustrating.

So I guess it will be more like a ten-week checkup for me.

I'm still feeling all rickety-rockity but am certainly in far better spirits than a few days ago. One things that always amazes me: other people. They can be so good for the soul. All of your comments and emails, and even a few phone calls from friends who read this site -- they were just so nice and reassuring. Thanks for that.

Last night, we all went out for Beccarah's bachelorette party. Thankfully, none of the girls in the crew were into the the typical body-shots-and-embarrasing-tasks type of bachelorette party, so the five of us opted to treat ourselves to an evening at the hammam. Some hot rocks, a steam room, a sauna, a pool, a body rub, and a massage. The whole experience was awesome, even if the ladies running the place were psychotic. Picture yourself - butt naked - getting agressively scrubbed down by a woman in pair of ratty shorts and an even rattier bra, as she commands: "Flip." "Sit." "Up." There was no smiling or laughing involved, and a minimum of words, as well. Because of their shortness and our new-ness, we didn't quite understand the sequence of events, and were repeatedly publicly shamed accordingly. So be it. Otherwise, the evening taught me two things: a) treating your body right can help soothe the mind by extension and b) I need to do some personal pampering on a regular occasion. It costs a little bit of cash, but I think it's worth it. The hammams are a reasonably inexpensive route to take, and I think they're the perfect solution.

I came home to the best night's sleep I have had in a week, and I think, more than anything, that was the most beneficial aspect of the adventure.

Tomorrow: Beccarah will say her "I do's" (or whatever they're called here) at 10.45 am!

I've been absent because I was sick, sick, sick. I'd like to start travelling now WITHOUT troubles -- and I'm hoping I can arrange that for my upcoming jaunt to Portland.

I arrived in the US on Thursday night and felt fine, but fell asleep before my brother and sister-in-law got in from their flight from New York. By Friday, I was feeling pretty crappy, and Friday evening I asked about maybe seeing a doctor. The situation was a bit delicate, as the problem was clearly a gynecological one, and I didn't necessarily feel like discussing those issues with my entire family. But eventually, I sucked it up and we went to a quick-care medical clinic where I was prescribed some drugs and sighed with relief for not letting the situation get any worse.

But of course it did, and I had been misdiagnosed at the clinic. I was told it would take 24 hours for the antiobiotics to take effect, and in those 24 hours I went from bad to worse.

It's awful only being able to see your family once, twice per year -- and I think it's even worse to see them for a short moment but then have to retire to your room for the rest of the weekend. I essentially hid, as the pain got so severe that I would go in-and-out of crying fits. I was miserable and felt both guilty and sad for not hanging out, while at the same time I couldn't even consider getting up and walking around. I had entered a whole new level on the pain scale, and I was seriously praying for some painkillers by Saturday night. My parents were cute though, and they brought me dinner to my room, and then everybody came and sang an early happy birthday to me in my hiding place. My birthday isn't for two weeks, but my brother's was Sunday. Something seems backwards about that; I wish I could have celebrated with him more appropriately.

After 24 hours of no improvement, my mom drove me to the emergency room on Sunday morning, and DAMN if the American medical care isn't the coolest ever. Of course, I have no insurance in this country, so we'll see at just what price coolness comes. Still, I am down with the US system. First of all, you get a very comfortable gown. After years of having to fully strip down at the gynecologist's, I thought this was very luxurious. (I forgot that they gave you gowns here, although I shouldn't have been surprised after watching back-to-back episodes of Grey4s Anatomy all day Saturday.) And then they put a little sheet over me, so that everything seemed that much further removed and I could pretend that none of this nightmare was actually happening. My doctor was very nice, with a deep, booming voice, and I think we had a bit of a crush on one another. The nurse was the sweetest thing since vanilla ice cream, I almost thought she wasn't being genuine but I could tell she was. I was in massive, massive amounts of pain and she coached me through it (although I could have done without the explanation on why we needed to get "the bigger clamp" because seriously? PAIN). Considering how harrowing the experience was, it was the most pleasant it could be.

But yes, it turns out I had some insane type of infection - it was like a bladder infection on steroids - and they don't know exactly how I got it, but my bet is on complications from the infections I got in India. Apparently, everything in my body was freaking out in reaction to the blossoming infection, and the doctor did all kinds of tests and poking and proding to be sure I didn't scar or tear or bust an ovary. All seems ok as far as he could tell, we're just waiting for some lab work to give me the clear.

So finally, FINALLY after four days, I am able to be myself again, which means that Mom and I went shopping yesterday and that Dad, Mom, and I watched Jeopardy! last night together. We have planned out our remaining week with a tight schedule of knitting, sewing, cooking, and movie-watching, a trifecta of activities which I feel at this point I wholeheartedly deserve.

"Just sit like that for awhile," the allergist tells me, motioning to keep my arms flat and not let the little driblets of possibly allergic liquid slip off.

This is easy for about two minutes. Then the allergic reaction sets in. And then the burning/itching feeling. And then, because allergies are what brought me into the office in the first place, my nose starts running. But I can't use a tissue, because my arms are outstretched in front of me, and I can't move them. So I sniffle, and sniffle again, and eventually everyone in the waiting room wants to shoot me in the face. This goes on for half an hour. Meanwhile, red splotches are developing up and down my arms, and I concentrate on bouncing my right foot to avoid the overwhelming desire to scratch my left arm.

The doctor calls in the young girl next to me, who has also been sitting with outstretched arms filled with allergic goop. She shuffles her into the room, looks over her arms, and says, "I'm just going to have a look at her arms quickly... " motioning towards me.

"Oh my God," she says a little breathily, staring down at my reddening arms. "This is bad."

I start searching for the word for "welt" in French. I don't know how normal it is to have three of them on my arms.

So the conclusion? I'm VERY allergic to dustmites, several types of pollen, and ragweed. I am slightly allergic to both cats and dogs. We're running more tests tomorrow, as I was freakishly allergic to half of the tests she ran. And the doctor needs to make sure I don't have respiratory problems as a result of my allergies, as apparently that's the next step in symptoms.

"Do you get out of breath when you run?" she asked.

"Yeah," I answered, "Doesn't everybody?"

Still, she wants to be sure. She says when allergies as severe as mine go untreated for years and years, bronchial problems can arise. And, if that all checks out, she's putting me on some sort of immuno-therapy so that I can hopefully be allergy-free (or close to it) in 2-3 years.

Leaving her office, she said, "First things first: you're desperately allergic to dust. Clean your house. Get rid of carpets. Get a special mattress. Etc."

"Right," I said, "Do you think my health insurance would cover a new house? Because I can't exactly envision myself finding a new apartment just yet. But I bet you landlords would be more willing to rent to me if they knew that social security was paying for a part of my rent."

She didn't think it was covered. Damn health care!

The cool thing about discovering that I actually have a bunch of genuine allergies is that I was finally able to make some connections. Two weeks ago, I lost a few nights of sleep because I had so much trouble breathing. My allergies were so strong that I could not really concentrate or do anything of worth. Just sitting up and breathing was enough work for me. Coicidentally, one of the pollen tests (one of the three that resulted in welts) corresponded to a pollen that pops up in certain parts of France - Paris included - mid April. So suddenly, it all made sense.

"I'm just happy to know I'm not crazy," I said. "I've never just had my nose become one giant blockade for days on end. I could hardly even talk, and I took seventy hot showers per day just to clear out the nose a little. I really thought I might be going insane."

"No. You're not. It was a good thing you came, even if just to check up on that fact alone," she laughed, and then told me I'll see her tomorrow. We're checking out my lungs on Thursday! Woo-ee! Hope it's not asmtha! ALRIGHT!

Here's the bad news: I think I'm allergic to wine.

This has been a long time coming. I love wine in a fairly casual way - a good bottle with a good meal is always a great thing. I'm not a connaisseur and I'm not big up on names, years, or specific châteaux. But, as I don't like liquor and I'm not the beer type, I defaulted to wine when I first came to France.

Unfortunately, I might have to default to orange juice, soon.

For the last six months, every time I drink wine, I eventually lose my ability to breathe out my nose. It makes no difference if I have one glass or six; I will be stuffed up for the rest of the evening and the entire following day. Last night, my nose was so clogged that I did a eucalyptus steam in order to be able to sleep. Again, this morning, I had to do another.

The older I get, the more allergies I seem to develop. My friend thinks it's strange that the wine allergy just "popped up" after all these years, but I remember when I was 10 just suddenly discovering I was quite allergic to cats. I went from petting the creatures and snuggling with them one day, to suffering through an embarassing dinner party in a house with a cat whose fur managed to make my eye swell to the size of a golf ball the next. That was uncomfortable.

There are other allergies, I'm sure. Some I know (dust is a biggie) but others attack me unexpectedly. My sister has always been an allergy-sufferer; I remember vaguely thinking she was making a big deal out of nothing whenever the seasons hit when her eyes turned watery and her sinuses clogged. Clearly, I was wrong to ever judge -- this allergy shit is real, man! My brother has a shrimp allergy (maybe all shellfish?), but his reaction (vomiting) was pretty clear-cut: eat the shrimp, start the puking. I'm worried my allergies are a bit more vague - I can't quite pinpoint what's causing the reactions, but for the last almost-year I've had sinus problems pretty much constantly. I'm even more concerned I might be allergic to our dog.

One of the only cut-and-dry allergic reactions I am aware of is the wine one. It's very distinct, and I can't pretend I don't know that wine is the culprit.

I'm thinking about going to see a specialist. Unfortunately, I STILL don't have my carte vitale, and so I have to pay for my doctor's visits upfront and get reimbursed later. This is not really possible at the moment. I think the visit is around 30 euros, but that is over half of my weekly budget, and I'd prefer to spend that money on groceries for the moment.

I'm also wondering what one can actually do for allergies, other than take decongestents and avoid, as much as possible, the allergy-causing element. Dust is really not avoidable, but I suppose wine is. Maybe I'm just scared that this wine-allergy hunch I have is true. Even my friends, who really didn't want to believe me when I first suggested the possibility, are starting to think I should get it checked out. But for what? So the doctor can tell me that every time I drink wine I'll have a stuffy nose? I think I know that already.

Yesterday, I fell down the stairs at work while trying to get a book for a customer. The stairs are out of view (thank God) but it caused such a shock that I accidentally gave the man a ten euro discount. This is the second time I have fallen down the stairs at the store, but this time was even more painful than the last. I have an enormous bruise on my back (where I again broke the fall) and another on my thigh (where I ran into a brick holding up a pile of books that subsequently fell on me). The Boy is starting to wonder what the hell kind of work I'm exactly doing.

After work, three of us went out to dinner. I had a good time, but came home early because I was very tired. By one am, I was already dreaming. By four am, however, I was running for the toilet, where I spent the next six hours. It is amazing how difficult it is to stay awake while expelling food from your body. I think the fatigue mixed with the pain mixed with the disgust lead to the shaking and crying that eventually overwhelmed me, and I know I certainly had a fever at some point. After a few hours, I went back to bed, only to get back up again two or three times. Emptied of much of my energy, I tried once more to go back to bed, but I was so frazzled by everything that I started panicking. When this happens, I try counting down from 100 and concentrate on breathing, sending good energy to where my pain is. Sometime around 50, I fell asleep. Three phone calls woke me up, as well as a delivery man at nine. At ten, when things seemed to calm down a bit, I called Vegas and told him he would have to open the store at noon instead of me... I was afraid of leaving the bathroom and my body was aching all over. More than anything, I needed sleep.

I'm not sure what pushed off this round of illness. I ate Japanese the night before, and I ate soy sauce even though I know it has gluten. I have yet to eat Japanese - ever, in my life - without getting at least mildly sick. So maybe that's it. It has never made me sick like this before; I seriously considered going to the hospital around 3 am. Regardless, I think I am going to stear clear of the Japanese for a while and I'm going to not let myself "cheat" on the gluten thing. Really, I just had a teeny-weeny bit of sauce...

The Boy was cute; although he slept through the whole thing, he listened with a worried face throughout my telling of the terrible tale that was my night. Then he offered to go buy my BRAT foods (I'm just opting for bananas and applesauce, though) and some medicine. I'm heading in to work - achy and grumpy and feeling a little inside-out - within the hour.

Good to know, sorta. If I were in the States, that is. And also: most of the shit they're making "specially" gluten-free these days are things one shouldn't be eating anyway - pizza, brownies, etc. The real good news of the article is that the word is getting out. I believe that in the next 50 years or so, gluten intolerant types are going to start showing up at supermarkets in droves, demanding their GF Kit-Kats. I am wholeheartedly convinced this is a bigger health problem than people have previously realized. Kinda cool to see the (very tiny) revolution silently taking place.

Last night, while griping about parts of our bodies that we don't like, I turned to my friends, grabbed my saddlebags, and said, "This is the problem for me. Right here. I'm pretty much fine with the rest, but I hate these!"

My French friend turned to me and said, "It just means you have to exercise more."

I turned to my other, American friend and said, "Ok, I'm going to pretend I didn't hear that. No what is your response?"

Without skipping a beat she said, "What saddlebags? You have nothing to worry about! Great legs."

The French friend blushed, walked away, and yelled back, "I can't believe I didn't respect the protocol!" in shame.

----------------

When I showed up at work yesterday, Vinnie was putting away a Very Important Photographer's book. As he did so, he told me the story of when his friend, AnorexicGirl, was stopped on the street by said photographer. He wanted to take pictures of her, but she never went because she was afraid the guy just wanted to get her nekkid. Of course, she later realized he was the real deal, and she regretted not becoming famous via his photos.

When Vinnie told me the story, I relayed my own about being stopped on the street that very morning by the man who wanted to paint my cheekbones. I mentioned that I, too, wouldn't do it either, for the same reasons AnorexicGirl had.

Vinnie turned to me and said, "Yeah, but back then AnorexicGirl was so beautiful. I mean, it would make sense that someone would stop her and ask to take photos of her." His tone insinuated that her situation was different than mine, and that obviously in my case the guy was just some scammer.

I said, "Vinnie, what the hell? You just straight out said I'm not beautiful enough for somebody really to want to paint me."

---------------

I am addicted to strawberry-banana smoothies. I just feel so damn good after I drink one.

I just got back from the gynecologist's office. Yes, this was doctor week for me... physician Tuesday, physical therapy Wednesday, gynecologist Thursday. Good thing I'll be seeing lots of that money coming back to me in a few weeks.

Anyway, I was as happy as one can be about going to the gyno's because things have been getting better in that department. I was looking forward to simply renewing my pill and moving on with my day of intensive vegetable shopping at the cheap markets.

After discussing things with the good doctor, she said, "Well great, no sweat then. Let's just weigh you, take your blood pressure, and you'll be out in no time..."

Great! I thought.

So she weighed me. The last time I learned my weight was in her office a few months ago, and that had been the first time in several years. I don't intentionally make a habit of not weighing myself, but I don't have a scale and I don't really want to know anyway. Whatever my weight is, I'm five pounds less than what the screen says anyway, so what's the point of trying to maintain any sense of accuracy at all?

"Whoa," I said, when I saw the number. "I've gained a kilo since I was here in February." (1 kilo = 2.2 lbs)

"Yes you have," she responded, "Although that can just be fluctuating or because you just ate or something... did you just eat?"

"Yeah," I said, "But still, if anything I would have thought I had lost a kilo. Harumph." I was trying to make it as light-hearted and fun as possible, because nobody really ever enjoys hearing they gained a pound or two. I know as well as the next guy that a pound or two doesn't make the difference, though, so what's the worry?

"Actually," she said, walking over to her files, "You're four kilos heavier than you were the first time I saw you, back in 2000."

"Four KILOS?" I said, eyes popping out of my face. "Oh no!" (Four kilos= 8.8 lbs).

I'm not taking that news quite as well.

And ok, ok. I can make lots of excuses.

I know I'm not overweight. I generally feel ok about my weight, even though like every woman, I wouldn't mind losing some flab here and there. But really, I feel pretty good about where I'm at, so why worry about the numbers?

Excuse Number 1: When she weighed me in 2000, I was 19, and now I'm 25. So there's that.

Excuse Number 2: When she weighed me in 2000, I had just come from a two-week trip in which we ate at the cafeteria every day, and the only thing I could eat was salad. So I'm sure I was three or four pounds less than usual.

Excuse Number 3: I had just eaten, and haven't shat in two days. That must account for at least a kilo, right?

Excuses aside, I'm still hearing her voice repeating, "You're four kilos heavier... you're four kilos heavier... you're four kilos heavier..."

But the real mystery here is that everyone who knew me at 19 thinks that I am actually thinner now than I was back then. Numerous unrelated people have mentioned it. So... what's going on? I would like to chalk this all up to the muscle-is-heavier than fat phenomenon, but I'm not very muscular, except in my legs (once described as "burly" by a girl who did not know how traumatic I found that term). I would also like to say my doctor's scale is off, but I have nothing to compare it to. I would like to say that it's because I had eaten just 20 minutes before, but that doesn't account for four kilos.

The worst part? After discussing my weight, she had me lie on the table per usual. Looking at me, she said, "Did you maybe gain a little in your thighs, or your butt?"

Like, Jesus, Lady! You're twisting the knife. Just, stop. Please.

So that's two traumatic doctor visits in two days. Right-o.

The scene: I had waited for two hours to find out what I thought was an ear infection was actually just inflammation. "Aspirin" was the doctor's good advice. Great. However, as I have regular back problems due to what the French call a "strong chest" (I prefer the expression to American equivalents), I thought I would ask the doctor for a physical therapist recommendation. Physical therapy is far more common in France than in the States (Kinestherapy?)... essential what I wanted was a referral to the equivalent of a chiropractor.

Me: Oh, while I'm here, would it be possible to get a prescription to see a kine?
Doctor: Do you have back problems?
Me: Well, I don't have serious back pain, but I cannot sit straight for long periods of time due to my "strong chest." I would like to re-teach my back to sit up straight without pain.
Doctor: (staring at my boobs) What size are you?
Me: I don't know, in French terms. I've never found a bra that fit me in this country.
Doctor: So you're too big for the stores? (still staring)
Me: Yes.
Doctor: Ok, that's what I needed to know. (Glances down again). Yes, that is considered a health problem, from a strictly medical standpoint. You have two options.
Me: Yes?
Doctor: One, you can start swimming. You need to counteract the weight in front with muscles in your back. So you need to build up the muscles. A kine can help you learn which muscles to use, but you need to build them up.
Me: I hate swimming. What's the other option?
Doctor: Quite simply, you can have a breast reduction.
Me: No.
Doctor: It's a fairly easy procedure and is entirely covered by insurance. (Glances down again). You'd be a good candidate.
Me: I don't want surgery.
Doctor: Well, then start swimming.

The whole conversation made me feel a little guilty about having boobies. Still, I'm going to see what the kiné/chiropractor/PT says.

I started off today feeling pretty shitty, and have just gotten significantly more so progressively throughout the day. Isn't it the worst feeling when you're sorta kinda sick - enough so that you don't want to do anything - but not sick enough to feel that you can just sit in bed all day?

I spent the morning sitting in an administrative office. The woman who collected my paperwork was surprisingly nice, but she was also just the middlewoman. She told me that the People Behind the Metal Doors would determine my fate in a week. I'm so sick of all this bullshit that I just smiled and thanked her. At least she didn't bitch at me when I had to run across the street to get YET ANOTHER SASE. How many of those can a girl need to hand over to the government?

Afterwards, I went home to sleep for a few hours. My throat glands are really swollen and I'm a little achy all over. Nothing too serious, but I definetly needed more than the five hours of sleep I had gotten last night.

I woke up early afternoon because I am waiting on a delivery. DHL, I will just come out and say it, is one of the worst companies ever to exist. If there were an anti-DHL protest, I might just go out with my painted sign and yell in the streets. Over the years, DHL has lost several of my orders, and I have never ONCE had something delivered on time. DHL is in the delivery business. That's what they do. You would think they would know how to deliver.

Last week I called them after receiving a phone call telling me I needed to set up a delivery date. After waiting on the 0.22 euros/minute line for a long time, envisioning the euros ticking away with each passing minute, someone finally picked up and sent me to another number. Nobody responded there, so I called back and said so. They gave me a different number. Same story. Finally, they gave me a third number, and when nobody answered, I called the paying line again and rather grumpily told them that I was tired of calling so many numbers for no reason. Mind you, this was over a period of three days.

So finally, someone on the paid line just took my name and everything and set up a delivery date herself. That left me wondering why I had been sent to other services (the people on the paid line claimed they had no access to my file, as it wasn't their domain).

Today I waited for four hours for my delivery. When it finally didn't come, I called the paid line again. The woman on the other end says she has no idea how the girl on Saturday was able to set up a delivery date for me, because it's technically impossible from their computer screens to do so. I told her she needs to shove it because this is now four days of calling I've spent trying to get something that is already over two weeks late.

I'm especially pissed because I am sick, and the mighty delivery I am waiting on is a juicer. I feel the juicer will revitalize me and feed my body with the nutrients it so desperately needs. Without the juicer, I have to actually EAT the nutrients, which means piling my plate full of broccoli and other shit I don't like.

Also: my juicer is a masticating juicer (as opposed to a centrifugal one), a term I learned from TheKnitter while discussing juicing techniques and equipment. Interestingly enough, the dictionary.com Word of the Day for today was "masticate," and I thought the whole thing was a beautiful plan by God, allowing my masticating juicer to arrive on the day that "masticate" is the word of the day. Alas, it was not meant to be.

I'm a little surprised that bothers me so much.

Anyway, tomorrow I call DHL back again and set up ANOTHER friggin' delivery date. If they make me sit in my house for four hours for another entire afternoon, I might have to sick The Boy on them. He's better about getting refunds and shit than I am.

Ok, this may seem like a bunch of bologna (what a weird expression) to some of you, but just hear me out. I've been more-or-less gluten-free for two weeks now. I say more-or-less because I'm sure I've gotten sneaky bits in when not expecting it. For example, I recently learned that there may be gluten in my coffee machine dispenser at school. Well, I drink those things daily, so... yeah.

Regardless, I've cut out the flour/oats/malt/barley/etc to the best of my ability. I have invested in non-wheat flours, and have even made some reasonably successful bread-alternatives. As a side note, I had an easier time living GF in London than I do in Paris, but that's thanks to Fresh and Wild more than anything else. Still, I manage to get by here as well, I just spend a lot of time in Asian supermarkets.

Anyway. My point. I'm bad at getting to it quickly, I know.

The end of the story is that - and this may sound crazy - but I actually think it's working. I'm not going to get too personal here, but I would like to state that I haven't been nauseous or sick to my stomach in two whole weeks. I think that might be a record. And? And? Even The Boy, who thinks that this is all healthy-freaky-new age hubjub, had to agree with me that I have clearly been feeling better than usual. He knows, you know, because you can't hide much when living in thirty square meters with another person.

The thought occured to me today while on the train: oh my God. I haven't thought about my stomach in a long time. Weird. It's been, well, behaving.

At first, I'll be honest, I felt pretty shitty. I think it was just a question of reorganizing my diet. Lots of people say that gluten-sensitive people are actually gluten-addicted, and judging by my love affair with bread, I would say I met the criteria. So maybe those first days were just withdrawal from my drug of choice.

But now, really, I'm feeling good. The fact that the change is actually noticeable is sort of wild to me. But the difference is so remarkable that I'm actually rather shocked. Most incredible is that I no longer get cramping after I eat food. Until very recently, I referred to this cramping as "digestion." I thought that's just how one felt after eating a meal. I suppose I didn't know that you weren't supposed to really feel (in)digestion... and it's really nice to be able to eat without feeling some sort of discomfort afterwards.

When they gave me the gluten-intolerant thumbs up, I mentally said to myself, "Ok, whatever... I'll try the diet but I doubt it will really change anything." Kinda super cool to be proven wrong, and I am shocked at my own body's reaction.

I also learned that raccoon eyes tend to improve after six months GF. How cool would that be?

Yesterday, I called the eye doctor because I need new glasses. Mine are just getting old and kinda gross, and I want something sort of sylish that I don't feel lame wearing outside.

So I called and made an appointment for the next day (today). Sweet. I got to the office, waited five minutes, went inside, and ten minutes later, walked out with my prescription and a trial set of contacts. It cost me 70 euros, 80% of which is reimbursed by my insurance.

This is health care that functions, people! Do you hear that? It works. I got what I needed, when I needed it, and at a reasonable price. Why is this concept so foreign to my homeland?

Tomorrow, I am bringing down my "Mutuelle" card to the eyeglasses place and saying, "Hi, I have 50 euros to spend on glasses. What glasses can I get that will give me the most money back? For instance, if I buy these 200 euro glasses, will I get 150 euros back? Lay 'em out for me, right there on the table. Spread 'em. Lemme know what kinda glasses I'm dealing with here, homes, and then we can talk."

Seriously? I cannot believe that I'm going to have - once everything is said and done - new contacts, an eye check-up, and two new pairs of glasses for something like 70 euros.

Never again will I do eye business in the United States of America.

Nothing quite says, "I'm over the flu!" like a dinner of 10 oatmeal chocolate chip cookies. Nausea of another form is still better than flu-style.

Really, though, you would think I would have thought this through. I ate nothing but boiled potatoes and bananas for four consecutive days. Just what makes me think I can handle oatmeal chocolate chip cookies? Well, the taste was good.

It is 4 am. I cannot sleep because I am so sick. I cannot stay up because I am so tired. My hardy meal of rice was not very filling, and I've lost everything I ate. I'm really thirsty but water has a pretty bad effect on me, too (don't worry, I'm still drinking fluids, although I'm sure I'm losing them just as quickly). I have big racoon eyes and am sort of delirious. Can you tell? It would be sort of fun if there weren't so much pain involved.

Let's hope tomorrow is a brighter day. Not too bright, mind you, because my eyes are sort of burning, too. No need to aggravate things, now.

Know what's crazy, though? I managed to do all the work I had that I could potentially do in my house. I skipped Spanish, which I had a serious issue with. No guilt, just remorse. Otherwise, I'm proud of my be-a-trooper attitude. I actually sat up the majority of the day, which is progress from yesterday's behaviour.

Tomorrow I have the first of a series of classes. I hate missing the first class of anything, but I'm a little nervous to go. It's not until 15.00, so we'll see if I'm not feeling dynamite by then. You never know. Miracles can happen.

I am home with the flu today. Apparently this year is France's WORST FLU EPIDEMIC EVER!!! Or so the news would have you believe. I don't know, I don't watch the news, but when I called two friends today to tell them what was wrong with me, they both mentioned that this year is the WORST FLU EPIDEMIC EVER!!!

I don't think I have ever had the flu. As a little kid, I was out of school at least twice each winter with strep throat. But otherwise, I never had any problems. In high school, I was never sick, that I can recall. So, this whole flu thing is sorta new to me.

I self-diagnosed, though. Yesterday, I started feeling a little not-so-great in the belly during my Spanish class, but it was just the beginning. Two hours later, back at home, I was shaking uncontrollably and making regular trips to the toilet. I spent the rest of the night trying to sleep, but was regularly interrupted by needing to run to the bathroom. I always find that sort of hard to do when I don't have my glasses on and the house is pitch dark.

This morning, I called in sick to work. I must have sat there trying to decide if the entire sick episode was over or not for at least three hours. Finally, I voted to stay home, and I am SOOOO glad I did. I think I would have had to come home early if I had gone to work today, and that would have been bad news. Honestly, I would not have been able to have ridden on a train for an hour - the nausea would have been overwhelming.

The plumber came this morning and I just about died of pain. It's very hard to have stomach problems when the plumber's tools are strewn all over the only toilet in the house. I spent much of his time here in the fetal position.

But no matter, because we finally have hot water! On tap for tonight: DVD rental (The Boy got it for me), a long hot bath, lots more sleep (I clocked in almost 16 hours last night) and several more trips to the toilet. Oh, the joy.

It's embarrassing when you go out to dinner with friends and the food doesn't sit well with you. And you go to the bathroom, come back, pay the bill, walk out of the restaurant, get to the metro, and announce, "I have to go back to the restaurant. For the bathroom."

I'm not speaking from personal experience, but I bet it would suck.

And on that note, I've had to order some allergy tests. Some people think my unusual health problems are all related to some rather unusual food allergies. Let's pray they come back negative, mmkay? Otherwise, bread is pretty much out of the picture for me, and nobody wants that besides Dr Atkins and his psycho cult followers. I understand doing it for weight loss - ie a determined amount of time - but for life? Ugh.

I went to another doctor today. This is the seventh out of seven different doctors I have seen in the last 18 months for the same condition. Since August 2002, I've been repeatedly accused of "making a big deal out of nothing" and of everything "just being in my head." I can't tell you how much I've wavered between wanting to throw furniture and wanting to crumple into the corner and cry about it.

The Boy's been super great, though. That's helped. He does what all women want in the end - he just sits and strokes my hair and tells me that we'll get through it. I know we will, but God it helps to hear it. The other escape is that I just can't believe that I'm going to be stuck like this: doggy paddling in a pond so dirty I don't dare touch my feet to the floor. You never know what kind of critters are lurking in that mud. I believe there's going to be an answer one of these days, that I won't always be treading water anxiously. And after that day, there might even be a cure.

Words can't describe how much I hate the French doctors Ive seen. They sweep you into their offices - twenty or thirty minutes after your appointment time - give you ten or fifteen minutes and rush you off with a prescription. I'm convinced that nine times out of ten, it hasn't been the right one. I've lost hundreds of euros, as only 70% is reimbursed by the national health care.

If I could sue, I would.

But today was a good day. I went to an office where I sat down, read two pages of my book, and was then invited into the doctor's office. I explained the situation, was investigated, and was spoken to properly. I was told it's nothing serious, that she's seen serious things and that I'm definetly in the safe zone. That she needs to see me when I have symptoms. That if she can't solve it, she'll take me to the internationally renowned dermatologist who specializes in these kinds of problems.

She gave me her direct line and told me to call as soon as I have any symptoms, and that she'll fit me in - no matter what the day or time. Then she realized that if she wants to take me to see the Very Important Doctor Man, that I would have to call her on her cell, as she's not in the office on Tuesdays because she spends it with him. So she gave me her cell number and said, "Just don't call me on Sunday," in the jokingly authoritative way dentists tell you to stop drinking Coke.

The main thing was that I sensed she respected me. I also think she caught on that I'm not a wacko, that I do have a problem, and that I've been trying to take care of it all this time in vain. She immediately dismissed all six doctors' ahead of her's diagnoses. "Nope," she said, "It's your skin, not your system. But I'll have to see it to be sure. The main thing is: don't worry. I can tell you with 100% certainty that it's nothing serious."

I just can't tell you how much I wanted to hug her. She gave me her CELL number, for Christ's sake. Just in case. I felt like I was in the US.

The whole thing put me in such a great mood for the rest of the day. I met up with the New Yorker, then got some shots, then met up with The Philosopher, then went to class, then met up with Kathypath. I did the even-odd thing; one good, one bad. I'm happy to know the people I know. I'm happy the sun was shining. I'm happy my doctor actually listened to what the hell I was trying to say. I literally have tears in my eyes as I write this, it means that much to me.

Some people claim I used to have an eating disorder. I claim that I just ate very oddly and obsessively healthily for a normal 14-year-old, and that, true, at times I certainly didn't eat enough. Regardless, all eating disorders and their offshoots come down to the same thing: control.

So here's the thing: I don't have an eating disorder - or anything like it - anymore. But, I do still have that strange control thing with food. When things don't go well, when I feel like I don't know what's going on, I usually don't eat very much. Most people I know eat more when they're stressed, when life is spinning out of control. They cuddle up with a bag of Dorito's or a tub of ice cream and watch "Real World" marathons. But I do the opposite, because that's always one thing I can control. I overbook myself, work psychotically on small projects, and regulate or restrict my food intake. It's just the way I am.

So right now, when something totally shitty is going on and I have absolutely no control over the situation, I've decided to turn my otherwise unhealthy behavior into something good for me: I'm doing a detox.

It's a test of control at a time when all I want is something I can control. Seems the perfect solution.

I don't know how fashionable these things are in the US, but I know a fair amount of people who have done them. Detox formulas exist in all kinds of shapes and colors, but the basic idea is the same: change your eating habits for a short while so as to rid your body of accumulated toxins. Packaged foods, smoking, city air, alcohol, preservatives, pesticides... these are all toxins stored in our bodies that we can purge ourselves of (at least a small percentage, at any rate) by eating certain foods and incorporating certain hygenic practices.

So I start my morning, every morning, at 7 am. On days where I work at 8.30, naturally it starts an hour or so earlier. I wake up and drink a lemon infusion: lemon, hot water, honey. Then I scrub my body with the scrub brush and follow that with a cold shower. Next it's breakfast: fruit, sheep's milk yoghurt, and more honey. Sometimes I add nuts or seeds or grains to change the texture and to make the whole event more jazzy.

Since I'm not going to get the type of food I need in the high school cafeteria, I bring along some brown rice, tofu, veggies, fruit, feta, whatever I may need for my lunch. I also bring along a snack for the 10.30 break. Usually the snack is dried fruit. This means preparing a brown-bag lunch à l'américaine, something which the Frenchies just find strange. Of course, they don't have brown bags, though.

Dinner is either a big salad (with tuna) or cooked fish of some sort. Usually I incorporate potatoes somehow, because they're something on the approved-foods list, and I love them. Last night I got lazy and had a veggie soy burger, which has some salt for preservation. Preservatives and salt are to be avoided, but what can you do? I can only get so inventive with the permitted ingredients.

The crazy thing is that they said that after 24 hours of the detox, I would have a stuffed nose. They claimed this was because the body is trying to rid itself of toxins. I thought they meant I might be a little sniffly, but Lordy, Lordy, Lordy! I couldn't breathe for two whole days. I was shocked. I guess I hadn't really believed the whole idea of "detox," but now I actually think this program might be doing me some good.

Mainly, though, I'm just happy to be eating healthily. Lots of fruits, lots of veggies. Absolutely no bread whatsoever, which pretty much just cut out 50% of what I eat. No products made from cow's milk - only sheep or goat can produce my yoghurt and milk. Or soybeans. Soybeans can make my milk, too.

I'm actually noticing a difference. I have more energy, I wake up extremely easily, and my body feels light and more muscular. It's very strange. I've only been doing this for five days, but I do believe I can feel it. I'm excited to see how I feel at the end of this week.

The hardest things to resist? Oddly, there aren't many. The first day was very difficult. I found myself panting in front of patisserie windows - something I don't do when I'm eating regularly. I'm not much one for pastries, but it must have been because I had restricted my eating so severely that everything suddenly came across as temptation. But the patisseries weren't hard to refuse, mainly because they make good eye candy but I don't ever consider actually buying them.

No, the hard things to resist are coffee and tea. Caffeine is a great thing, and I guess I hadn't realized how much of it I drank. The frightening thing is that I have really cut down from earlier years. Still, the first few days I always had a mild headache, and I think that was just caffeine withdrawal. Now I'm doing fine, and my energy is starting to level out. Yesterday, I had a pretty bad dip in energy around 17.00, but I just rode through it, instead of upping it with a coffee as I would normally do.

I'm sure refusing alcohol later will be difficult as well. But I'm not too worried. Mainly, I'm just not planning on going out to dinner for the next few weeks so that I'm not confronted with the double-whammy of both finding something that fits into my temporary dietary restrictions and keeping away from the wine. Plus, this is a way for me to avoid spending money.

I don't know why exactly I decided to do the detox. I actually just sort of slipped into it. I had read a book about it and thought, Huh. I should try eating like that for a day or two. So I did, and now it's stretched out into several days, and I figure, Why the hell not just do the damn detox program?

So I apologize for the absence in posts for awhile there. I was fixing up the other site and I had a slight problem here, so the combo led me to just ignore odessastreet. Poor baby. But I'm back now, and I'll slowly be rebuilding this site into something semi-good over the next week or so.

Meanwhile, I'll be eating lots of red beans and brown rice. And fennel. Maybe I'll learn to actually like fennel.

For Xmas, my parents got me (and my sister) a calendar for teachers. Every day, you flip the page to have some teaching-related quote jump out at you, or a personal anecdote from an everdyay teacher bless you with its wisdom and knowledge.

Today, the topic was: Scientific Thoughts by Kids. There were three, but the last two are the ones worth mentioning:

- We say the cause of perfume disappearing is evaporation. Evaporation gets blamed for a lot of things people forget to put the top on.

- To most people solutions mean finding the answers. But to chemists, solutions are things that are still all mixed up.

And now, the Friday Five:

What one thing are you most looking forward to . . .

1. ...today? Getting some of the work that has been hanging over my head finished (which means I should probably get off the internet)

2. ...over the next week? There are several things: 1) Catching up with Parisian friends after the break back home; 2) Going back to work and seeing some of the students again; 3) Getting a doctor's visit - which I have had to cancel and reschedule twice - finally out of the way.

3. ...this year? Finishing school (for this year) and going to southeast Asia

4. ...over the next five years? Finishing school (forever) and having a real job

5. ...for the rest of your life? Becoming a family with someone and the little people we have together.

A lot of girls I know say that The Pill makes them crazy. For some of them, it makes them so crazy that they can't even take it, and are forced to investigate other forms of birth control.

For awhile, I couldn't understand these girls. I thought The Pill and I were hunky-dorey. Good chums, indeed. Slowly, however, I started noticing little ways in which I felt there was some sort of exterior force working on my personality. I'd say to myself, Dude, you so need to chill now. It's really not a big deal that you're out of Q-Tips. You can pick some up tomorrow. Chill. Chill. Normally, these types of everyday inconveniences don't bother me, and four years ago, before I had ever taken the pill, they wouldn't ever have bothered me. However, since starting that controversial contraceptive, I've noticed that, oddly, I'm much more easily irritated. By the most stupid shit.

But I've decided, officially, that The Pill doesn't make me crazy. It just makes me really, really, really... ready to cry. At all times.

The Boy makes fun of me for it. Which, of course, makes me cry more. Before meeting him, I recall at some point when I was 18, being asked in my Human Sexuality class, "When was the last time you cried?" It was some sort of test to prove how much less boys cry than girls do. Most girls where in the 1-2-weeks-ago zone. I was on the I-Don't-Remember side of the room with 6'3" basketball-playing Paul and two boys with combat boots.

Sometimes, The Boy says, "You'll cry over anything. There doesn't even have to be anything wrong, and you'll still cry over it." Now that's simply not true. Just because he can't understand what exactly the miniscule little thing is and why it's upsetting me so doesn't in any way negate its existence. And believe me, I cry over some really miniscule things these days. More like these last 1460 days, about how many days I've been popping that itty-bitty pill.

My friends complain of the same thing. Kdogg, my best friend and former roomate, and I were both non-criers. In two years of 24/7 friendship, I think we cried once in front of one another. And I don't really recall crying any time other than that during those years. Ever. Kdogg's started the pill herself, and she's found herself to be the sunny-with-a-constant-chance-of-showers type, just like me.

And, by the way, that time Kdogg and I cried? Yeah, it was because we had both thought one was mad at the other and had had a silent "tiff" for two days. Finally, after having enough, I came into her room, trying to be hissy but instead being a total wuss, and said, "I just want to know why you're so mad at me." The last three words came out choked with tears, and she responded with an equally tearful, "I thought you were mad at me!" Then we cried and said, "I can't believe that was what our first fight was about. We're so pathetic." We haven't had one since.

But I digress. And yet, that's another thing: I think this pill makes me a little more airheady than usual. I know, I know, pretty soon I'm going to start blaming it for a bad grade or unpaid bills, but seriously... I feel stupid a lot lately. It's not so much that I feel stupid, but I notice that my concentration levels aren't what they were when I was in high school and college. Which is really saying a lot, considering all those drugs I let interfere with what was otherwise a perfectly good system at the time.

I had a friend who told me once, "Yeah, the pill totally ruined my college years. I went through all of college thinking that I wasn't as smart as everyone, even though I had been at the top of my class in high school. I just chalked up the difference to having gotten accepted to a prestigious school; it made sense that everyone there would be smarter than me. But once I stopped taking the pill, I swear, it was like the clouds were lifted. Within a matter of days, I didn't feel stupid anymore."

So, sure, that may be taking it a bit far. And who knows, maybe I really am just easily distracted. And I suppose, by most standards, my six-hour Arabic marathons are proof to some people that I can actually concentrate. But I still feel like something has been lost. It's harder for me to reach 100% concentration than it used to be, and maybe I'm just looking for a way to explain that logically.

But first things first: I really gotta stop this crying thing. Because seriously, when you find out you've gotten overcharged for cheese, you should be able to stand up for yourself and hold your own. Right? Demand some sort of explanation, yeah? But no. My constant urge to cry got in the way, and I had to flee before The Supermarket Lady caught me with tears streaming down my face. Our interaction went a little something like this:

Me (thinking to myself) : Wow, ten euros for parmesan cheese. Now that can't be right. Well, I'll just return it. ::: walks up to customer service counter:::
Me: Bonjour. I just happened to notice that I got charged ten euros for a very small block of parmesan cheese. I buy this cheese regularly, and it never costs ten euros.
The Supermarket Lady: We never take back perishable goods.
Me: I just bought it. Right there. Twenty seconds ago.
TSL: We never take back perishable goods.
Me: Are you kidding? Look at my receipt. I bought it thirty five seconds ago.
TSL: Ten euros isn't too expensive for parmesan.
Me: What?? It's not ten euros.
TSL: It's always somewhere between five and seven.
Me: I would never, ever buy five euro cheese... let alone ten euro cheese.
TSL: We can't do anything for you. That's a perishable good.
Me::::eyes smarting:::: But I just bought it!
TSL: It's a perishable good.
Me: :::throwing the cheese into my grocery sack and running out the door like a madwoman before my tears fall:::: Ok.

So all was going well until I hit that "It's somewhere between five and seven" comment that TSL said. Something about the tone. And the desperation of the situation. There were actually two women there - one was just looking on unapprovingly and silently while pulling childrens' t-shirts off plastic hangers - and I fully vibed all the negativity they were obviously aiming at me, grimly sitting behind the customer service desk in their aggressively yellow t-shirts. I couldn't help but cry.

What the fuck? Dude, seriously. This is just not cool. That is a perfect example of a situation which in no way required tears. Something must be done. So I'm wondering if I should stop, or change, or somehow modify my family-planning techniques. It's something I've been mulling over for, oh, a good two years now. Whatever I do, it obviously won't be drastic.

Here's my list of pros and cons for taking the pill. Feel free to make your own personal additions to the list:

Pros

- Um, no cramps. Could I repeat that, maybe? Yes... no cramps. One more time? No cramps.
- No babies. Could I repeat that, maybe? Yes... no babies. And, by extension, no need to think about other forms of birth control or issues of, um, timing.
- A two-day period. Right on time, everytime.
- Good skin. Or better skin than when I was 19, anyway, but maybe that's just age?

Cons

- Crying because I'm frustrated.
- Crying because I'm sad.
- Crying because I'm tired.
- Crying because some guy cut me off while walking down the sidewalk. There's a flow to these damn sidewalks, you know.
- Crying because someone didn't wash out his oatmeal pot. Again.
- Crying because someone couldn't understand why I didn't ask The Supermarket Lady to go down and get me a price check on the cheese instead of asking to return it. Which, admittedly, is the logical thing to do, but not what a tear-streaked hormonally imbalanced 24-year-old does.
- Lack of concentration?
- Regular visits to the lady doctor
- A few physical side effects that I don't need to detail here, but that I'm sure a lot of you women out there have experienced. These often require further visits to the Lady Doctor.
- Having to remember to take the damn thing
- Cost (although, really, it's not all that expensive here)
- Crying
- Rivers

I think most people that know me would say that I am, overall, a positive person. I am also the type of person that does not like to make a scene in a restaurant if the waiter is slow, would never get angry at someone taking more than their fair share of time in line at the grocery story, and can generally handle waiting my turn, being patient, and giving people a bit of extra time and consideration. I am usually calm and collected. If something goes wrong, I try and ride out the waves and hope that the situation will fix itself before anybody has to start saying harsh words. I'm not a boat-rocker. I'm non-confrontational. I'm one of the most boring of adjectives: nice.

So, when I say "Bitch, die in hell," you have to know that something has gone seriously wrong. And today marked the second day of my entire life in which I genuinely thought that of another human being. I'm not proud of that, but I feel the right to bitch about it.

I lost my cool. Someone really, really pissed me off. My patience was tested and that anger won. It honestly takes a lot to get me angry. Frustrated, sure, all the time. But I rarely feel pure anger. Today, however, it was pulsing through me like an overflowing river, and I could hardly control of myself enough to keep the flooding water from wreaking havoc.

Hence why, this afternoon, I was thrown out of my doctor's office for telling her that she lacks any sense of ethics or morality. I had been insulted, berated, and told that I am whining about nothing for half an hour before my doctor realized that she had made a serious medical mistake, at which point she then tried to blame me for it. For twenty minutes, I listened to her prattle on and on about how someone in my situation should never take antibiotics, after which I calmly asked her why she had prescribed me antibiotics two months ago if that was the case. She insisted she would never have done such a thing, and asked me the exact name of the medication she had given me. Not able to remember, I came up with Flogyl (it turns out it was Flagyl, but any doctor with any intelligence would have been able to discern what I meant) and she told me that I had no idea what I was talking about, am obviously totally unaware of my health, and have been completely disorganized ever since she met me (I've seen her only once before, and I had come with a medical history file about an inch thick, put in reverse-chronological order and placed in protective plastic sleeves. Anal? Maybe. Disorganized? I think not). She continued to say that it is impossible to deal with patients like me because all we do is whine and we don't keep up our end of the doctor-patient relationship.

"See, you can't even remember the name of the medicine I prescribed to you! You obviously have no idea what you are talking about!" she yelled, and when I informed her that she had prescribed me one week's worth of pills that were to be taken with meals, she said, "Oh la la! You obviously didn't read the notice! Those weren't pills, they weren't to be eaten! They were to be inserted! You were drinking gelcaps that were meant to be inserted! Lord knows what you have done to your system!"

I tried to tell her that she hadn't given me gelcaps, that they had been large, white discs to be taken orally. She insisted that she would never have done such a thing, and I insisted that she had. We went back and forth like an Olympic ping-pong game, each hit getting harder than the previous. I refused to let up. I was fucking positive of what she had given me. (I have now double checked. My prescription says, "Flagyl. 500mg. Oral. Take one tablet in the morning and another at night, always with a meal, for seven days." That doesn't sound like insertable gelcaps to me.)

"Don't you have a copy of prescription you sent me? Didn't you make note of the prescription somewhere, anywhere in my file?" I asked, trying to find some way of proving that I knew I was right about my prescripition.

"No!" she fired back at me, "Why would I do that?"

"Because you're my doctor!" I shot back. "You're supposed to have a more complete medical file on me than I am!"

Then she continued to tell me about how disorganized I had been about giving her my medical history. How I was expecting her to perform miracles and how she can't do anything without the proper information. How I have obviously been going from doctor to doctor because I can't even keep track of my own health. "For example, when did you have _____ bacteria?" she asked, as a test.

"Um...I don't know...six months ago, maybe," I estimated.

"See, you have no idea!" she cried, incredulously, "And what did you take for it?"

"I don't know the name. Sorry, I don't retain medical terms very well, but I gave you my entire file last time I was here and you should have photocopies of all of the prescriptions my previous doctor had given me."

"What are you talking about? I only have this one sheet of paper and it is full of question marks."

"Well, that's not my fault," I said, "I clearly remember you making photocopies. I came with an inch-thick folder of all of my medical history, clearly organized so that I could show you everything you needed. You made at least four photocopies. If you don't have them in your folder, I don't know what to say. That's not my fault"

She, of course, insisted that I had never brought in my complete medical history (lie), that she had never made the photocopies (lie), that I had no idea what I was talking about (not true), and that her prescription had not been for oral pills but rather for insertable gels (just so not true!).

So this continued for awhile. I had decided to focus on just a few of her errors. Nevermind the fact that she had sent me my prescription without having verified my boyfriend's test results. Nevermind that she obciously hadn't even LOOKED OVER his results because she had somehow "misplaced" his information (which she blamed on the secretaries, of course). Forget that she had told me that our "deviant sexual practices" were obviously at the root of the problem, or that whatever problem I had, it was most likely just "in my head."

The fact of the matter is this: she prescribed the wrong medicine to me, lost all of my paperwork (or at least pretended to so as not to have to recognize the fact that she had prescribed the incorrect treatment) and then tried to shove it off on me: my bad organization, my lack of knowledge of exact medical terms and dates, my "deviant sexual behavior," my naive belief that she could perform miracles.

I finally stood up and said, "You have no ethics. You have made a horrible mistake, and there is no sense in our continuing to discuss this matter. At the price you ask for a visit, I am shocked at how unprofessional you are, at your utter lack of organization, and most of all, of your inability to at least admit to having made a mistake. If you did something wrong, fine. But do NOT try and say that any of this is MY fault. I brought you my entire medical history. You examined me and said that you would wait for the results of both me and my boyfriend, after which you said you would send me a prescription. You did so, but without ever looking at my boyfriend's results, and it took you SIX WEEKS to write back to me. And now we both find out that you in fact prescribed me the wrong medicine, and you refuse to admit your error. I am not disorganized. This is not in my head. And you should be ashamed to treat your patients in such a manner. You have spent the last half hour insulting me," I said, tearfully. (I have a problem - when I actually do have to confront someone, I cry. I hate it, I wish I could get rid of it. But that's the way I am.) "I see no reason to stay here."

"You have no reason to put yourself in such a state. I have no reason to waste my time with a patient like you. I suggest you find yourself another doctor and leave my office at once. I have other things to do that to spend my time with someone as irresponsable as you. I am simply wasting my time. Please leave." she said, forcefully and coldly.

As we left, my boyfriend, who had come with me for the visit and had remained entirely silent throughout this entire scene, piped in and said, "You have no integrity. You should be ashamed," as we stepped out her door.

She slammed the door behind us.

If I was in the US, I would sue that bitch like nobody's business. I cannot believe how she continuously insulted me for over half an hour. I took it and took it, but finally could not handle her comments anymore. I really blew my top. Coming out on the street, I was shaking and crying. I have never been so mad at someone whom I did not know personally. She had actually succeeded in making me feel really guilty there for a moment, until I realized that she had just been trying to cover her own ass. And that's just wrong. As a doctor, you should admit your wrongdoings and try to amend the situation. You should certainly never, ever say that it is the patient's fault for not knowing the exact names of the medication she had prescribed, especially when you, as a doctor, never took the time to WRITE THEM DOWN in your patient's file.

I want to send her a photocopy of the original prescription that she had given me, with a letter attached saying, "At least recognize that you fucked up big time. Bitch, die in hell."

But I guess that would be a bad thing to do, huh? Is it really all that bad? Can't I do it?

It's hot outside and I have the shivers. I think I ate something just straight up wrong - I woke up in the middle of the night with the spit squirting along my gums like I was going to puke - but luckily I kept it all down.

I haven't thrown up in a long, long time, and I have no desire to start doing so now.

But the creepy thing about having a fever/stomach flu (because I think that's what I have) in the middle of the summer is that you don't know how to dress. At least with a winter fever, you can just huddle under your blankets and throw them off when you start sweating under them, but with a summer fever, you're sort of confused once you get to the hot side of the hot/cold flashes.

For the first time in my life, I took a shower while going through a shivering moment. It was so bizarre. The water was scorching hot (even though I only had it on lukewarm) and I had goosebumps all over the place. Very contradictory, and very unpleasant.

The cold section of the supermarket was equally as uncomfortable. But in the opposite way.

On a wholly unrelated note: I walked out my front door and there were ponies in my street. Just hanging out.

Chopsticks. I am on a chopstick diet.

I don't really feel like I need to go on a diet. All women think they need to be on a diet, so in that respect I do (I could always stand to lose five pounds, you know?) but overall my bod's alright. I would dig it if it were a bit tinier overall, but that would require both shaving my bones down and taking a few inches out of my absurdly long legs, so I won't keep my fingers crossed. For now, I just would like to alter my eating habits.

I used to be obsessed with nutrition. Say, from the age of 14 to 17. This resulted in what I can recognize now as having been a very slim figure, but honestly back in the day I felt like a hog. I can say first-hand that those anorexics aren't lying that when they look in the mirror, they really see a fat person. I know I did, but when I see the pictures now I can only think, "Wow, I was skinnier then, wasn't I?" Regardless, those were my days of "healthy" eating in that I avoided desserts, chips, fat and cholesterol like it was the plague.

Unfortunately, it also meant I ate very little. I wouldn't say it was to the point of starvation or anything, but it was definetly on the absurd side and I am sure I wasn't getting enough vitamins.

Once I got to college, I was too busy to eat. I mostly ate at work, and my healthy concoction usually included a bowl of beans and rice with some salsa added on top. It's amazingly filling, lasts all day, and tastes good. Thanks to a close friend and her unusually healthy eating habits, I also started to enjoy the wonders of full meals and Subway. And I also fell in love with burritos.

Now, in France, I would say I am a still a healthy bugger, but maybe less so. I avoid chips, excess fat, and three full meals a day (ok, that's not healthy, but whatever). But, on the other hand, I do indulge in an occasional dessert, and the availability of healthy foods in the center of Paris is comparably much lower than their availibity in the middle of sunny California.

Not that it's a real issue. I think eating is a state of mind. Diets don't technically work; what is usually needed is an entire change of lifestyle. It might be torture to be on a diet, but most people plan on going off the diet eventually and it is the reminder that the diet is temporary that keeps them going. As long as a diet is seen as a suspended amount of time outside of "normal" eating behavior, any weight loss accomplished during a diet is going to be put back on once the diet is over.

I do, however, think it's sometimes a good idea to inspect one's eating habits, to do a sort of check-up with the old mental food doctor to see how things are cooking.

So I'm going on the chopstick diet. Besides eating out, all food will be eaten with chopsticks. The only exception to this rule will be my required three yogurts a day.

I like bowl food. I like food eaten with chopsticks. I never cook big slabs of meat so that won't be a problem. It's not just Asian cooking that can be eaten with chopsticks. Everything can. Forcing myself to always eat with chopsticks will not only slow me down, but it will also require that I look at my food while eating it. In order to pick up that tomato and eat it, I will have to have a look-see into my bowl/onto my plate. This will make me more aware of the taste, and the pleasure I am getting from the food.

Really, people eat so quickly nowadays, just shoveling food into their mouths so that they can get back to work before the 14.00 meeting. I'm all about slowing it down.

And plus, it'll be fun. And preparation for my trip next year.

So this might be too much information for most of you. It's sort of about girlie things, but not at all in that fun, exciting way that people talk about boobies or thongs. No, this is very bad, very scary, and very on-my-mind girlie shit. And even though I sort of told myself not to post anything about it, it's still invading my other thought processes so I figure - hell, I'll try to just flush it all out in one fell swoop. But please don't read on if you don't like the sound of the word "gynecologist".

Still with me?

Ok.

I'm not going to give out graphic details, because not only do I think they are beside the point, but I think they are very graphic.

But I am going to tell you that I have been having my share of gynelogical problems. I went to see the doctor last week for your regular ole check up, and am waiting to get tests results back from the lab for a little something she noticed. Could be serious, could just be a little something. So that's tripping me out. Meanwhile, another problem pops up over the weekend, and I just now got back from the ER (not where my normal gynecologist is) where I have plenty of little vials of stuff waiting to be analyzed as well. Next week, I go back to the gyno to rehash the test results from the first set of lab work. And we'll take it from there.

I am getting very, very upset about this. I have been told that I can have anything from a slight infection coupled with a minor, normal condition for woman (why the hell haven't I ever heard of it before?) to a serious friggin' disease (albeit a treatable one).

"But don't panic about it, try not to think about it, we'll know when we get the test results back in a week to ten days."

A week to ten days? Are you fucking kidding me? So I'm supposed to waddle around like this for a week to ten days pretending that I'm feeling dandy?

The frustration has nothing to do with the fact that I might have some icky problem that needs medical attention. I can deal with that - and I'm even going through some of the not-so-pleasant processes before the test results come back because the good, cross-eyed doctor is oh-so-sure about the "situation." Problem is, I had the same "situation" happen last year, they ran the same damn tests, and everything came up null. In retrospect, they chalked it all up to "sensitive skin and perhaps particularly violent sex." I'm not kidding.

No, the frustration is that I have been going in and out of various phases of the same problems coming up again and again, and nobody seems to take my history into account. They just keep shooing me out of their offices once the 20-miutes-per-patient time span has been exhausted. I'm thinking there must be something chronic going on here, or something that needs to be blasted away with some serious-ass medication, none of this rinky-dink cream shit they keep tossing my way.

Ok fine, maybe they're handling it the right way. But I don't know any other woman who has been through as much of this shit as I have. I just don't get it. Why can't they seem to find the answer? Why the hell is it so complicated? I'm a 23-year-old that has been in a monogamous relationship (so he says, and I believe him, naive as it may be) for almost four years. Compared to most people I know my age, my prior sexual history is clean as a friggin' whistle. In other words, I'm not an "at-risk" case. And ever since I was 18, I've always taken care of problems as soon as they arise, have gotten blood tests done annually, and have gone in for check-ups every six months. I take better care of my reproductive health than I do of my teeth, but I haven't had a cavity in years whereas I have had plenty of emergency trips to the Lady Doctor's. So what the fuck is going on?

My trip to the hospital today put me out two hundred euros. My medication in total has thus far cost me eighty-four. These fuckers better come up with an answer as to what the hell is wrong with me, or I'm asking for my money back.

You wanna know what I'm like in a bad mood? This is it, right here. This post.

A few months ago, a lot of fuss was made about the fact that McDonald's issued an official "warning" to customers: going to Mickey D's more than once a week might actually be harmful to your health. This warning came at a moment of media frenzy concering the growing problem of obesity in America. Additionally, forward-thinking McDonald's reps realized that they might get sued for future health problems stemming from excessive consumption of their burgers and fries in much the same manner as Phillip Morris was sued by lifelong cigarette smokers. Warnings at least allow such companies to say, "Well, I mean, we TOLD you it was bad for you beforehand."

Stolling down the aisles of the local French supermarket, once can stumble upon the "exotic foods" section. China, Lebanon, and India are amongst the featured cuisines, with America taking the top two shelves in the middle. Going by what the French see as our typical cusine, we eat:

pancake mix
brownie mix
1000 island dressing
ranch dreassing
blue cheese dressing
peanut butter
maple syrup
microwave popcorn
a variety of tex-mex ready-made dinner "kits" with spice packets
Marshmellow Fluff

How could anyone possibly sue McDonald's when American "cuisine' is composed entirely of processed foods?

UPDATE!!!

The sister sent this great link via the comments box. For those of you who are too lazy to go looking for it, I have provided it here. It's about a real lawsuit against McDonalds. Because, you know, McDonald's is solely responsible for people's weight problems.