FODMAPs - The beginning of the end of the beginning of the end of the beginning.

Hahaha. What the fuck, title? Clearly, if I'm somehow going to be a world famous blogger, I shall have to work on my titles. I dare someone to SEO that shit right there.

Let's get down to it. Let's talk about the goddamn low FODMAP diet. The diet I love to hate and hate to love. To refresh your memory, I was pooping my life away when the GI doc told me about this diet. I can't give it to you in a nutshell (so complicated) and there are other places where you'll get all the super specific and scientific information, but I'm going to give you the dumbed down, easy version.

I use Pixabay for my pictures and when I searched 'easy' this picture of carrots came up. Huh?? Good news, though! You can eat unlimited carrots on the low FODMAP diet.

FODMAP stands for Fermentable Oligosaccharides, Disaccharides, Monosaccharides, and Polyols. Short chain carboyhydrates, sugars, blah, blah, blah, scientific stuff, shitty digestion, blah, blah, more scientific stuff. It doesn't really matter what the fuck FODMAP stands for because nobody cares. That's not entirely true, but it is a mouthful. It makes you look super scientific when you talk about it though, which may stop well meaning people from telling you that you just need more bone broth and kale in your life. Hahaha, no it won't. I will say that I have learned a ton about digestion and the more you know, the better care you can get because you can have a conversation with your doctor that involves more than yelling "What the fuck is wrong with me? Fix it! Fix it!"

This is about my level of scientist. Wearing gloves that don't fit, no safety glasses and pouring random blue liquid from one container to the next. Ahhh, science.

Fermentable Oligosaccharides - This has two categories - fructans and galactins. Sounds like a science fiction thing, but really it's just things like garlic and onion, beans and wheat. Oh - and nectarines, peaches and watermelon. And some other shit, but you can google it. I'm not here to list every food you can have what amount you can have, there's an app for that.

Garlic and onion are by far the hardest in this category. Garlic and onion are pretty much staples in seasoning for most folks and also found in almost all savory pre-packaged foods. I do feel better about not using ever since we went to a fancy French food store at Pike Place Market and they told me that garlic was a "cheap flavor enhancer". So now, it's not that I can't digest garlic and onion, it's that I'm too good for your cheap ass flavor enhancer. I do have helpful tips on how to cook without these two things (hahahaha...as if I cook! I will tell you what the husband does to the food.) but that's for another post.

Non - garleek eez for peepel viz bad taste. You, ma cher, are better zan zat!

Disaccharides - This seems to be a giant scientific term 'things with lactose'. That would be most dairy foods. The good news is that hard cheeses and butter don't have enough lactose to count AND they make lactose free everything these days. You have to shop at Whole Foods or PCC and plan on taking out a home equity loan for a tub of cream cheese, but it's totally worth it.

Monosaccharides - Fructose. Good ol' fruit sugar. Say goodbye to apples, apricots, cherries, pears, figs and mangoes. Kiss your honey goodbye(not that honey, the honey for your tea) and check lables for Agave Nectar and high fructose corn syrup (which is also in so many things. Like Ritz Crackers. Why, Ritz? Was butter not enough? You needed to add HFCS??). The good news is that you can have regular sugars. This will make your healthy friends and your healthy self sneer at you, but you can give them the finger. Sugar's all you get, so snort that shit right up your nose if you need to. **disclaimer - I am not a doctor and sugar is fucking terrible for you. You may be better off snorting cocaine. I think it's a toss up.

So bad. So good. So bad. So good. Really, it's just bad, but so is bingeing on Netlflix and we all do that too.

Polyols - Apples, cherries and nectarines are also in this category. Yeah, did I not mention that numerous foods show up in multiple categories? This is to fuck your shit up when you try to move out of the elimination phase and into the 'adding things back in' phase. Polyols also include mushrooms, but those are gross anyway, so no biggie. Additives like sorbitol, mannitol and crap they put in candy and gum also falls into this category. No more junk food for you. Just sugar by the bucketful with some cocoa powder and lactose free ice cream. That's called a goddamn chocolate milkshake and you can have that! 

The folks at Monash University are really the FODMAP gurus, so I'm going to recommend you get your ass over there if you want to learn more about this diet or start the elimination phase. This diet is best done in conjuction with a doctor or a dietician, but if you live in the middle of nowhere or you don't have insurance and you need help RIGHT NOW, you do what we all do. Visit Dr. Google and get to work. **disclaimer - I want to point out again, that I'm not a doctor and none of the bullshit that spews from my mouth should ever be construed as medical advice.

I Bought The Farm!

Nope, I didn't die. And actually, no I didn't buy a farm. Part of me wishes I did, but another part of me knows that owning a farm means you work ALL THE DAMN TIME on your farm and it's hard to take vacations. Also, I like being able to walk to the grocery store, the library, the movie theatre, restaurants. Redmond may not be the epicenter of high culture, but at least I can get out and about!

What I DID do, was get my own website domain for this blog. So, please join me over at www.livingsterling.com where I promise to blog regularly (because FUCKING A I PAID FOR THAT SHIT!) and keep you posted on My So Called Boring Life. Hahah!

Hope to see you all over there. And while you're there, give me your goddamn email address because if I have to go out and get a jobby job, I won't have time to dick around and write overly wordy blogs.

xoxoxo
mona

p.s, Here I am as a My Little Pony. I can't decide if this is a proud parenting moment or a personal failure. But it's very colorful and girly, so there ya go.

Poopariffic - the neverending SIBO/IBS saga

Man, I don't even know where to start. I'm not a huge fan of re-hashing the past so I'm struggling with even finding a starting point. Also, - it's hard because I thought this all started in 2014 with horrible diarrhea, but then I found out in late 2017 that it probably started in 2006 with the birth of my child. I think I'm just going to tell you in the order i found out. It will be more exciting that way. You can follow along - Ooooh, as I typed that, I had flashbacks of the Disney Read Along records we used to have when we were kids. You would play the record and read the book and it would say "You can follow along. You will know it's time to turn the page when Tinkerbell rings her bell like this" and then the bells would chime - uh....where was I? Oh yeah, you can follow along with me and watch the journey unfold just like I did. Except, hopefully, you will be just following along while you munch on potato chips on the couch feeling perfectly healthy instead of following along with me suffering the same symtpoms. That would suck.

Mmmmm....potato chips. 

January 2014 - Captain's Log. Haha! Nope, I'm not a Trekkie. Though what's his face that plays the new young Captain Kirk with the bushy eyebrows is pretty good looking, even if he is a bit extra hairy.

January - I had an upset stomach one morning. No biggie. Then the next day. And the next and the next. I drive Charlotte to school in the mornings and it got so bad at one point, that I would drop Charlotte off at her school (ten minutes from our house) and then have to call up a friend who lived by the school and ask if I could drop in to use her bathroom. Nothing says friendship like running into someone's house yelling "Thank you! Sorry! Thank you!" as you dash for the bathroom. Then I'd have to hang out for another ten minutes after that to make sure I could make it home. There isn't enough wine in the world to thank that person! You know who you are, but I'm not sure you want to be called out as the friend who's house I used to poop in. This same friend also had extra baby wipes from Costco that she gifted me, so not only is she a life saver, she's also a butt saver.

"And it burns, burns, burns. The ring of fire. The ring of fire."     -Johnny Cash

If you don't know what the ring of fire is, ask someone who's gone through childbirth. Or better yet, don't. I'm sure you get the idea.....

This went on for about three months. Then I went to the doctor. Who did tests and tests and scans and ultrasounds and found nothing. So I tried another doctor, just to be sure. Then I did some Ayurvedic medicine. And some supplements. Some herbs. Another diet change. Some woo woo healing energy work. And I continued to poop my guts out every day. I also had terrible migraine headaches, but didn't connect that to the stomach stuff (insert foreshadowing music here...duh, duh, duhhhhh!)

Finally, my regular doc sent me a GI doc (that's gastroenterologist for those who want the fancy terms). More tests. More nothing. So the good doctor says "Welp, we'll just call this IBS". Except he said it in a more doctor-y way. "No cure, sorry." When I asked what IBS was, he basically said "It's when you have digestion issues and we can't figure out what it is." He also used the term "trashcan diagnosis", meaning they dump all digestion stuff in there if they don't know what it is. Nothing screams confidence like knowing you have a 'trashcan diagnosis'.

"Well, Ms. Sterling....the fuck if I know what it is."

The good part of this is that the GI doc recommended a diet that saved my ass (mostly) for the last few years. It's complicated as fuck and it's not easy to start, but if you're doing Olympic Gold Medal level pooping and your butt is on fire from so much wiping, then you will do what it takes to survive (which is totally a line from a fantastic song from Hamilton that you should listen to). What was this magic diet? It's called the low FODMAP diet. I'll explain it in all it's glorious OCD detail in another blog post.

Until next time, may your poops be happy and your butt content.

Once Upon A Midnight Dreary

While I pondered weak and weary.....my daughter recited the opening to that poem in 4th grade and though I've long forgotten the bulk of it, I think often of those two lines as I'm awake at midnight. And again at 2am. And 3am. And again at 4am and 5am. I have become a guided meditation master, blowing through hours of Deep Sleep Meditations. They mostly do put me to sleep, but then I pop awake an hour later. Apparently, as you get older, your hormones want to party all night long and your body wants to sleep all night long. These days, the hormones are winning.

One of my favorite meditations is by a dude named Kenneth. Kenneth has a lovely accent and thanks me for being there with him every night. Oh, Kenneth. You're welcome. Then he reminds me that everything is okay. That it's okay to relax andit's okay if you fall asleep and it's also okay if you don't. I didn't realize until after I had listened to this meditation a half dozen times, that it also contains affirmations for "Unstoppable Courage and Inner Power". Probably because I'm always adjusting my headphones in the beginning when he mentions this and I fall asleep before he starts the actual affirmations. Considering how many times I've listened to this meditation though, I should have the heart of a lion at this point.

This is me in my fashion dress riding my giant lion that I manifested from all my meditations.

They say that your sleep score is important if you have insomnia. Turn off lights, shut down screens, keep your bedroom dark and cool...blah, blah, blah. As my fellow insomniacs can attest to, you can have a sleep score of 150 and still have your hormones (or for some of you it might be your thoughts or your body) screaming "We gotta fight! For the right! To PAAAAAAAARRRRRTTTTYYYY!" Of course they're screaming Beastie Boys songs from the '80s. They're old people hormones. Duh.

This is what my hormones would be using to play their funky music while I try to sleep.

I've also heard that melatonin is good. And lavendar, magnesium, CBD and a whole host of other fancy supplements. I've also heard sleep aid drugs are good. None of these work for me and the drugs are like being stuck in a horrible nightmare that you can't get out of. I'd rather just not sleep.

I should have happy ending to this post. Some sort of resolution or suggestion or at least something witty. But I totally don't. Howeer, I will leave you with some of my favorite bedtime meditations (not all of them, cause I do like 8 a night) and while they may not keep you asleep, they're lovely to fall asleep to. And if you can manifest millions of dollars or unstoppable courage while you're drifting off, why not?

What's better than a million dollars? A full night of sleep, that's what.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=r9jIuZ_1I8c&t=101s This one is very relaxing, though you don't get to manifest anything. She has an incredibly soothing voice.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1H0xE47I6T0&t=2886sI like the message of this one and I REALLY DO want to manifest everything I desire, but I find his voice hard to listen to sometimes. He's trying too hard to talk quietly. Like when someone is trying to chew quietly, but it's right next to your ear. Still - if you don't mind chewing, you might manifest your dreams from this one.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eEd2K1FxNQY Like Australian dudes? Here ya go, mate.

Sleep well, my friends. And if you don't, know that I'm right there with you with my headphones on, listening to Kenneth tell me I'm a dear soul and that it's okay. It's okay.

The Continuing Saga of Poop

I've been thinking about getting back into blogging for a while, but I've been hesitant because, quite frankly, my life does not seem that exciting. I'm a mom, but I'm not a mom who makes crafts or fancy lunches or make ahead dinners. I'm a coach, but whenever I write 'coachy' stuff, it just sounds preachy as fuck and goes FOREVER and is as dry as burnt toast without butter (gross). I don't do household projects and my house makeovers are not dramatic reveals that would inspire others. My world has just gotten a bit contracted and I wasn't sure where to start.

I was worried about talking too much about poop. And digestion. And illness. But then I realized that I spend a fair amount of time googling shit (literally) and that I'm always hoping to find others with stories that I can follow. I don't need to hear about grand adventures right now, I want to know that someone in my position was able to eat a whole avocao and not die! That's inspiration for me these days. They say to create what you want to see in the world, so that's what I'm doing. Sharing my long journey of health crisis and healing, motherhood crisis and healing, horse crisis and healing...see a pattern here?

Death by avocado is not a bad way to go!

I will likely be writing about all of my life (privacy? Who needs privacy?!) but there will be lots of talk about health stuff, poop, immune system and all that jazz. Also- it just occurred to me that a good blog needs pictures.....hmmmmm...nobody wants to look at poop pictures. Well, maybe me and all the naturopath doctors in the world would, because poop is actually super interesting. Did I really just say that? Did I mention that my world has gotten a bit smaller? Hahaha! I went from talking about dog and cat poop and digestion all day in the pet food industry, to learning about human poop and digestion. Moving up in the poop world! I wonder how many times I can say poop in this blog? Will the SEO for this blog be poop? Will poop lovers find this blog when they google poop? Poop. Poop. Poop.

My worst nightmare.

Okay, I'm reining it back in. Anyways, hello from the suburbs of Redmond, WA (actually, I'm in downtown Redmond and not in the suburbs, but whatevs, it's barely a city) and I look forward to oversharing with all of you about all the details you never wanted to know.

Lipstick Mafia

First off, can I just pat myself on the back super hard for making this graphic ALL BY MYSELF.  I can't say I'm super talented at it, but I gets the job done.

I have a daughter.  She's 10 years old.  She rocks my world, sometimes in a fabulous way and sometimes in a cry myself to sleep at night with a bottle of wine kind of way.  She is in the second half of her fifth grade year and as her mind and body have begun to develop, she has been keen to continue her self expression.

First all, for those of you who have not met my daughter, she is a force unto herself.  She was born into the world with a strong sense of who she was and what she liked and didn't like.  She has been expressing herself loudly and passionately all her 10 years.  

So, she came to me a few weeks ago and said she wanted to wear makeup.  Okay, full disclosure, she has been coming to me for the last YEAR wanting to wear makeup.  Nope, nope, nope.  She's still more baby to me than girl, more starfish hand than elegant fingers.

I don't remember wearing makeup until I was 14, though I will admit that once the gates were opened I attempted full on goth makeup.  No, really.  Black hair, black eyeliner.  I don't have many pictures of that time period, but trying to have a pale white face and be all serious was a real stretch for me with my naturally rosy cheeks and exuberant personality.  Then I tried more of the punk scene, but I just wasn't really angry either.  I was like an alternative cheerleader who liked angry and depressing music.  Anyways.....back to my girl child.

-------

Mom, I want to wear makeup.  Why can't I wear makeup?

Because you're too young.

Why am I too young?

Only grown ups wear makeup.

Why?

Because I want you to love your natural self first.  Because you're perfect exactly how you are.  You're flawless!

Moooooom, I do love how I look.  I just want to express myself differently.

No.

But mom, it's just a form of self expression.

You're 10!  What the fuck?  (yes, I do drop F bombs in front of my child.  No, she's not allowed to use them in front of me.)  Self expression?  At 10?  Shouldn't you playing in a puddle or eating rocks or something?

God Mom.  (eye roll, dramatic sigh)  I'm not a baby.  And it's not like I want to wear regular makeup like to get boys or something stupid.  I just want to be able to show the world who I am.

I need to think about this.  Go away and let me think.

-----

So, she goes off and I think about pouring myself a stiff drink.  My mind goes to all the usual places.  She shouldn't wear makeup because I don't want her sexualized at such an early age.  But then I think...wait, who's sexualizing her?  I'm not.  She's not.  Her friends aren't.  Oh, wait, the people that are sexualizing a 10 year old are the pervy people that would sexualize her if they saw her in her swimsuit!  Or her pajamas.  Or any clothes for that matter.  If you're sexualizing a 10 year old, it's NOT THE TEN YEAR OLDS FAULT.

 She shouldn't wear makeup because it's used to attract boys. Ha! Again, is that really true?  I know it's not for me. I wear makeup and it's not to attract men. Sometimes I wear makeup and I don't leave the house. Sometimes I leave the house and I don't wear makeup. 

So why SHOULD she wear makeup? It's fun to play around. It can feel like a small bit of armor , which shouldn't be inappropriately used but can feel comforting sometimes. When you're having a haggard kind of day and you throw on some lipstick and feel fancy, it's a little pick me up. It definitely can be a form of self expression.

So - we compromised.  She gets to rock the glitter lips she wanted to rock, but no other makeup.  She can occasionally use a little glitter on her face, but it can't be excessive (and I get to define excessive).  The gorgeous rainbow lips in the title are hers.  I like to think that she is teaching me her brand of feminism.  If the reason I'm making a decision is because of the patriarchy and the misogyny of men, maybe it's time I rethink my decision.

I encourage you, friends, to look at what part of your life you're making decisions just because. Just because you said so. Just because your mom did it that way.  Just because society thinks it should be that way. If you don't have a 10 year old teacher like I do, ask yourself the question Why. Again and again, until you reach the heart of the issue.  And as Martha Beck says 'you can tell it’s enlightenment because enlightenment always tastes of freedom. Not comfort. Not ease. Freedom.'

My Aching Feet

I have another theme for 2017.  Ya know, because failure wasn't hard enough.  The theme that keeps showing up in a big way for me (god if that isn't a life coach sentence....ugh.  Before you know it I'll be using words like juicy and delicious.) is small steps.  Tiny steps.  Think Dr. Seuss Who size steps and then go smaller.  Lilliputian size steps.

Or these dudes that hang out on pasta.  Pasta that would be super dangerous for this size person since it would be like a freefall down the tube of death.  I will now always think of Penne Pasta as the Pasta of Death!

In case you don't know me, I LOVE jumping in and working like a maniac.  I'm a 14 hour a day, yelling at the top of my lungs, getting shit done kind of lady.  I'm a bullet when I have a target.  I like making lists and then crossing shit off my list.  I like to feel achy muscles after I work out.  I'm fabulous with crash diets, cleanses and boot camps.  I get all amped up even thinking about it!  Yes!  Immersion!!  Progress!  Mmmmm.  It's as good as choc...wait...nevermind.  That's getting out of hand.  Let's just say I love to make a goal and then rocket towards it.

However, the world has other plans for me right now.  I have noticed a pattern emerging as 2016 stumbled into 2017.  It's called "Quit Looking at the Mountain and Just Lace Up Your Shoes".  QLMJLUY.  No, that doesn't work.  "Future uncertain?  Captains keep manufacturing evolution."  Uh......Right.  I just wanted the acronym FUCKME because that's what this lesson feels like.  Tiny steps.  Tiny progress.  And by tiny, I mean so small you can't see it, feel it, taste it.  You don't feel like you're doing much of anything.  Which doesn't give me any of those wonderful feelings of accomplishment.  Where's my dopamine?  WHERE'S MY GODDAMN DOPAMINE?????!!!!

I was trying to find pictures of mountains and came across this.  I just put this in here because holy fuck, these are Chinese tourists and they do this for fun.  They call this a hiking trail!  No...No,no,no,no.  

So, I'll be over here Ohhhhming in the corner and taking my lists and breaking them down.  Maybe you're struggling with some monumental task in your own life and would like to join me in making the smallest of the small steps?  If you're feeling me on this - lemme give you a quick breakdown.


1.  Pick your big thing.  Let's use 'I want to get in shape' because pretty much most people I know always have this goal.


2.  Break it down into a smaller list.  What would it take to get in to shape?  It might look like this.

• Eat Healthier
• Work Out
• Get More Sleep

3.  Pick ONE of these things to starts with (though you can break them ALL down into tiny goals eventually, but for the sake of not making you read three thousand pages we're gonna go with one) and break it down.  Let's take Work Out and break it down into what "Work Out" would look like in smaller chunks.

• Take an exercise class.
• Walk more often.

4.  Break those two down.  We'll go with "Walk More Often".

• Take the stairs instead of the elevator.
• Take a daily walk.
• Find a friend to walk with.

5.  Hey, guess what?  Yep.  Break it down again.  We're going to break down "Take a daily walk"

• Pick a time.
• Figure out clothing.
• Check the weather.
• Put the walk time ON YOUR CALENDAR WITH A REMINDER.

I know these seems like over doing it and maybe it's not a thing for you, but if you're like me you HATE being the wrong temperature and it's way too easy to look out the window and go "Oh, it's raining and I don't have a raincoat."  or "It's freezing and I'm wearing the wrong pants."  I'm telling you, break this shit DOWN.   You put in on the calendar to hold your lazy ass accountable.  You check the weather so you have a vague idea of what you might need.  You make sure you HAVE shoes you can walk in.  Don't have the right shoes?  BREAK IT DOWN.

I will fucking walk EVERY DAY goddammit!

It may be that your first week of Getting in Shape entails getting up fifteen minutes earlier every day but NOT walking.  THAT IS PROGRESS.  I hear you bitching at yourself and at me how that isn't diddly squat, but you're wrong.   Pick a part of Getting In Shape that you can do and start doing it.  You do not have to jump into doing a Couch to 5k with your new Fitbit and $200 running shoes, you just need to find a part of this process that you can commit to.  Because, friends (and self), 2017 is about the commitment part of things.  It's about committing to action and then following through.  The action part does not need to be monumental, it just needs to be consistent.  And through consistency, we will find progress.  Inch by inch, we will get there.  Inch by goddamn inch.

I'll be right there with you, channeling my inner sloth who seems to be doing nothing but is making slow but steady progress towards goals that are so big they scare the living bejeesus out of me.

If I could seriously be as happy as this sloth, I would have it made.  This is some serious business contentment right here.  I'm thinking Sloth may be my power animal for 2017.  I'm not super sure what a power animal for the year is, but I've made it up and now I'm owning it.  2017 - Year of the Sloth!

2017 - The Year of Failure

I don't think I posted at all in 2016.  And I pretty much accidentally deleted all the photos for earlier blogs and they didn't make a damn bit of sense without the photos, so yeah.  It's like a fresh start.  For the umpteenth time.  But guess what?  I love fresh starts.  I love starting over.

I moved every year from age 17 until age 38.  That's 19 years of moving every year.  Some years, I moved every 6 months.  Even when I didn't change companies, I usually changed jobs within the company at least once a year.  My hair color changes at least once a year, sometimes every six months.  I've been married three times.  Starting over is my jam.

Here's what's funny though, none of these feel like failures.  Moving every year never felt like I was a loser who never stayed in one place, it just felt like I wanted to move more often.  When I had to move because of rent increases, it was an adventure.  A chance to clean out my closets and re-organize my silverware drawer.  I loved the possibilities of my new places and never felt sad about leaving my old apartments.  It's not to say that every apartment was perfect.  I remember one of my favorite apartments that I moved into was across the street from an empty gravel lot.  As it turns out, that lot was only empty because it housed heavy equipment and trucks at night.  They fired up all those trucks and heavy equipment between 4 and 5am so they could get to job sites nice and early.  It was right outside my bedroom window.  Ha!

  Changing jobs?  Same thing.  I was always looking forward to the new challenge.  Sometimes it worked out, sometimes it didn't.  Changing hair colors?  I do it all the time.  And sometimes I don't get the result I wanted (red hair was a no go for me and right now I'm pondering going darker again) but it doesn't stop me from trying again.  Or doing something entirely different.

Blonde as blonde can be.

Brunette all the way!

A little bit of blonde with my brunette.

Marriages?  Well, let's just say I've found what works and I'm sticking with it.  But I will also say that I was never one to worry too much over relationships and if for some reason (not that I think it would because Dave is way too awesome) my current marriage didn't work out, well...I'd start over.  Because failure is how we learn.  And my failed marriages led to this awesome marriage.  My failed jobs led to figuring out what I wanted (and didn't want).  Every failure gets you closer to where you DO want to be.

So - this year, 2017 is going to be the year of taking this attitude into everything.  I've got some big ideas and maybe they'll work and maybe they won't, but starting over isn't a thing.  It's just a chance to see things from a new perspective, decide if the current direction is the right direction and to try lots and lots of new things.  Here's to 2017 and may we all fail often, early and without judgement of ourselves.

p.s. I may be starting up some free talks on failure with my coachy coach business soon.  If you want to get on my  mailing list when I send out information, sign up here.  

Jumping Jack Flash...It's a Gas, Gas, Gas!

I had an emergency appendectomy last week.  I totally thought it was a gas bubble but my mom coerced me into going to the doctor.  Which led to going to the ER, which led to an ambulance rider, which led to surgery.  Mostly the story is too long to blog about because I get so damn wordy, but here's some highlights in timeline form.

Wednesday morning:  Wake up.  Feel shitty.  I feel bloated and like I have menstrual cramps, but the timing is wrong.  Finally call my mom (retired nurse practitioner) who makes me go the hospital.

Wednesday 2pm: Check in to the ER where I am immediately swarmed by a team of people.  One is asking me questions and filling out forms.   One is putting me in a hospital gown.  One is taking my blood pressure and heart rate and the other is setting up an IV drip.  It's total overkill for a goddamn stomach ache.  I mean, this is just a stupid gas bubble and I probably just need to fart...really bad.

 One the good side, when they tell me they need a urine sample I get to watch the surprise (or was it horror) on their faces as I pull out a grocery bag, duct tape sealed mason jar and hand it to them.  This is the benefit (or is it?) of having a retired nurse for a mom.  When I tried to pee before we left, she handed me a jar and said "They'll want a sample." So I now have the added embarrassment of being sure it's a gas bubble AND arriving with my own pee sample.

It's diesel fuel, but it grossed you out didn't it?  Also, I did not have THAT much pee.  This picture reminds me of this one time when I was driving back from Bend, Oregon and got stuck on a back roads highway for over an hour and no restroom in sight and just an empty 16oz Smoothie cup.  I swore to never wear skinny jeans on a roadtrip again after that.

Wednesday 4pm:  Doctor comes in, presses my stomach and orders a CT scan.  This is going to be the most expensive gas bubble I've ever had.  I'm grateful I have medical insurance and wondering if they kick you off when they find out you went to the ER because you had to fart.  So we do the CT scan and wait and wait and wait.

Wednesday 6pm:  Doctor comes back and says "Appendicitis.  We're scheduling surgery and you'll have to go the big hospital."

"Fine."  I say.  "Let me just go home and take a shower 'cause I'm gross and then my Mom will drive me over.  What time do we need to be there?"

The doctor smiles the way you smile at really stupid people when you realize they don't understand anything.

"We'll be transporting you right away.  The transporting is complimentary so don't worry about it."

Complimentary makes me think of a complimentary mint on your pillow.  It's an offering, a suggestion.  It's free.  But if you're not hungry, you don't HAVE to eat the mint.  So I say "Oh, thanks for the offer but I'm not in THAT much pain.  I'll just run home and take a shower and we'll head right there.  It will be a fast shower.  I just live across the street."

He doesn't bother with the pity smile this time, just says "The ambulance is on it's way and we're just waiting for the surgeon.  We'll keep you posted."  Then he lets the nurses take over, hooking me up with antibiotics in the IV and asking if they can get me anything.  Well, anything except a shower.  Or food.  Or water.  But I can have lemon flavored Q-tips.  Who needs steak when there's lemon flavored Q-tips?

Dinner is Served!

Wednesday 6:15 pm:  Ambulance drivers arrive and I have to wave them off of lifting me from one bed to another.   I took a selfie because I'm hoping this was my only opportunity to ever ride in an ambulance.

I actually asked the ambulance technician if he could scoot over so I could take a selfie.  He was very good humored about it.

Wednesday 7pm:  I had to wait a few hours for surgery, so I figured that was a good time to text my husband.  Not only did I text him, but I texted him while he was in China on a business trip.  Luckily, he was already at the airport getting ready to head home.  He immediately did what any freaked out Engineer does.  He googled "appendicitis" and began asking me all sorts of terrible questions.  Like "How many incisions are they going to make?  One or four?"  I asked him to stop texting me please.  Then he got on a plane.  I'm sure that was an enjoyable flight for him.

Wednesday 9pm:  Surgery was anti climactic.  I started to freak out so I asked for anti anxiety medicine.  The surgeon (who totally looked like a very hot lumberjack) said "Oh, sure." and before he could even finish that sentence, the IV meds kicked in and I was all happy.  Then I waited for the part where you count from 100 backwards.  Yeah, they don't need that anymore.  They just say "Ok" and then you're out.  And next thing you know you wake up telling the recovery nurse how much you wished you had taken a shower and not worn Hello Kitty underwear and that you would have put on more grown up underwear had you known everyone was going to see them.  And the recovery nurse somehow finds this amusing, even after the fifth re-telling.

I do not own these underwear....or this butt.

Wednesday 10pm:  This is the awesome picture that I had my Mom take right when I got out.  I thought I was smiling, but clearly my face hadn't started working yet.  Also, the recovery nurse arranged my bangs for me, which was very thoughtful of him.  It's probably because he felt sorry for me and my Hello Kitty underwear.

That's Hammy, the stuffed animal Turtle bought for me before I went in to surgery.  The doctors and nurses dressed him up for surgery and when I woke up, he was next to me all outfitted in his cap and mask.  He looks much more alert than I do.

Wednesday 10:15pm:  They gave me Percoset for my recovery.  They should rename that shit Perky-set because it kept me up all night.

Thursday  4am:  Did you know there is not much on television at 4am?  I watched re-runs of America's Funniest Home videos.

Thursday 10am:  I was discharged that morning and got home before Dave even got back from the airport.  I have been home recuperating (angrily, very angrily....I am NOT a good invalid) ever since and am now cleared to get back to regular exercise.  Which means I'm cleared to go back to thinking "Fuck, I should exercise" and having another cookie instead.

And that's the story of the gas bubble that wasn't a gas bubble at all.

Hey Coach!

So, I have some news..

I also have a nice formal letter about the whole deal.  But I feel like I would terrify my blog readers if I suddenly showed up with an education.  I mean, what would happen if I used proper punctuation, grammar AND I stopped cussing?  Right.  Probably nothing.  Except that nobody would read it, they would do what I do with everything.  SKIM!  And I don't want you to miss anything.  So I'm gonna break it down short and sweet, with pictures and swearing.  So you can read EVERY WORD.



Last year, I had a good job.

This is me sitting at home, working on cool pet food projects.  Only my fingernails and toenails didn't look that good.  And I was usually wearing pajamas.

But it didn't really work for me.  I felt lonely and unfulfilled and wanted to do something more.  So I quit.

I didn't have to stand in any line, thanks to my darling husband and his steady employment.  Also, I currently can't eat donuts, coffee or soup so I would have had to go stand in the "No Wheat, No Dairy, No Garlic, No Onion, Here's Some Twigs and Grass" line.

After much thought, teeth gnashing, wine drinking and private coaching sessions, I made the decision to pursue a career in coaching.

Did you even know I played basketball?  Haa!  Not THAT kind of coaching.  Life Coaching!!  Can you believe it?  LIFE COACHING!!!!!

This is what I think about when I think about life coaching.  It's why I haven't said much about it.  I'm coming to terms with my new career.  It is a bit woo-woo, but it's also very grounded and practical.  I refuse to wear patchouli, crystals or caftans so I think I'll be okay.  

When I googled images of "Life Coach" (with license permissions) this was the first one to show up.  I believe I will probably be channeling Samuel Jackson when I coach.  I will say things like "What the FUCK did you expect would FUCKING happen if you kept talking the talk but NOT WALKING THE GODDAMN WALK MOTHERFUCKER?!"  

I was looking for 'right life' pictures and this showed up.  If you're looking for your 'right life' or a cute swimming pool with a lifeguard, a slide and no other people in it (this feels 'right' for me this summer!!!), you should contact me.

I'm currently finishing up my training and getting certified.  I'm working with an incredible team of coaches through Martha Beck Inc.  Martha Beck is the OG of Life Coaches.  Yes, I just called her the Original Gangster of Life Coaches.  This is how you can tell I'm white.  There is a picture of Aaron Eckhart because when you google for images labeled for reuse of Martha Beck life coach, he's who comes up.  I love the internet.

Martha Beck has coached Oprah Winfrey and now is a regular contributor to her magazine.  This makes her totally legit because Oprah knows everything.  Which Oprah would totally deny, but just proves my point.

So, if you're feeling like this about your life, your job, your relationship, whatever it is.....

And you want to feel like this (because who doesn't want to feel like a magical pink unicorn shooting rainbows out of it's head), you should contact me.

For a limited time, I will be offering coaching sessions for only $10 a session.  I need hours for my certification and I want to help ALL THE PEOPLE so get in touch with me right away if you want to get in on this sweet deal.  Sessions are done over the phone or Skype (we can use video or not if you don't want to shower or get dressed...please no naked Skype calls.  I'm just not that liberated yet.) so you don't even need to leave the comfort of your own home!  Awesome, right?

So that's the haps.  My contact info is coaching@monasterling.com or give me a call at 206 841 3469.  Oh fuck, I'm going to have to create an outgoing message aren't I? Sigh.  Anonymous voice mail years are coming to a close.  I'm going to go pour myself a glass of wine and do some recording.

xoxo

mona 

Kids and Balls

Oh so many directions I could go with a title like this.  It could be an inspirational post about how kids, with their lack of social self talk, have bigger balls than most grown men.   Sorry for the disturbing visual.  Don't worry, it will get more disturbing from here.  This is just the warm up and your chance to quit reading.  Seriously, this may get disturbing AND personal.  But it's funny, so I'm gonna share anyway.  This is a NSFW and a not safe for family post.  Mom.  Grandma.  Stop reading.

Let's set the scene first.  Dave and I are in the front seat of the car. I need you to remember that Dave is 50 years old.  This is important for the whole  gross joke.  I won't point it out again, so if you miss it, it's your own damn fault.

Turtle is in the back seat.  She's telling us all about this game at school called Wall Ball.  First she tells us about all the different Wall Ball throws.  There's things called Roofies and Cherry Bombs. My mind immediately goes somewhere else (Duh.  I was an 80's teenager.) but Turtle explains about Roofies being when the ball hits the roof and so on.

We  are headed back from Target, where Turtle picked out a new Wall Ball ball because she got such a good report card (yeah Turtle!).

Turtle is  sitting with her ball on her lap.  At the stoplight I look back at her to give her one of those "I'm so proud of you and aren't I a good mom for buying you a present?" smiles.  She is licking her ball.

"What are you doing?"

"Licking my ball.  It's my way of marking it."

"Eww."

"Moooomm, all the kids lick their balls."

Dave snickers and I bite the inside of my lip.  He decides to venture in to the conversation.

"So, all the kids lick all the balls?"

Turtle huffs.  "Of course not.  We only lick our own balls."

More snickering and biting of inside cheeks ensues.  We both have a few un-shed tears that we are attempting to hold back.  Then Turtle goes on.

"We lick our balls to mark them as ours.  Nobody licks the school balls.  That's disgusting."

"Why is that disgusting?"  I ask.  Okay, I more breathe the question because I'm trying not to laugh.  Dave is pinching the bridge of his nose to keep the tears of laughter in check.

"Because,"  drawls Turtle.  "Those balls are like 50 years old and nobody wants to lick 50 year old balls.  That's just gross."

I turn to Dave and smirk.  If I could raise one eyebrow, I totally would have.

"Did you hear that Dave?  Nobody wants to lick 50 year old balls."

And then we exploded into laughter while Turtle yelled "What's so funny?  What?  What!?"

Forced Do Over

I made some sort of technical error a while ago and lost ALL the pictures for my blog.  Lame.  I left the posts up, but now they don't make any sense.  Especially since the captions are all still up, so you're looking at blank space that says "My favorite picture of all time!".  And having the memory of a mosquito, I have no idea what my favorite picture of all time was.  So, here's what we're gonna do.

We're gonna start over, you and I.  I know, I know.  We will all miss going back and reading some of my scarier posts.  Plus, there's no more jumping tutorial post and that was a damn fine post.  But without pictures, it's a post that makes zero sense.

Rather than crying over what's already happened, we're gonna put it behind us.  I'm wiping the slate clean.  I will leave up the last two posts because they deal mostly with poop and stomachs and you know how I love that.  Plus, they kept their pictures.  Probably because they weren't even pictures of me.  I'm not so open as to post pictures of myself on the internet when it involves poop.  Boundaries, go figure.

I haven't been taking many photos recently, but here's one of Turtle and I after a particularly rough afternoon.  I gave in and called Uncle after I lost a tooth.

Here's to new beginnings, clean sheets of paper (or even just clean sheets.  GOD I LOVE CLEAN SHEETS!) and blogs with proper pictures.  May 2015 be my best year and your best year and a great year for taking goddamn pictures.

My New Diet

This past year has been a rough one for my digestive system.  It got so bad this summer that I could hardly go anywhere before noon because I had to stay close to the bathroom.  I was trying to not aggravate my stomach and was having peppermint tea and honey for breakfast, an apple and some almond butter at lunch and then usually a salad and maybe some chicken for dinner.  Like clockwork, I would wake up every morning sick.  I felt nauseous all the time.  And I mean ALL the time.  It sucked ass.  I was crabby because I felt crappy every day for almost a year.

I finally went and saw a gastroenterologist who ran a bunch of blood tests and stool samples.  I know this is TMI, so if you want to skip to the bottom to get the results I totally understand.  There's only so much poop talk you can take.  Well, not if you're me.  I was raised by a Naturopathic doctor so we're all about the poop.  Anyway, I had to poop in this weird plastic thing and then put it into little vials.  That part's okay, but then you have to carry it to the lab in your plastic grocery bag.

I got to the lab and tried to hand the bag to the woman.  She recoiled like I was trying to hand her a bag of shit.  Oh wait, I was.  Apparently, it's bad manners to hand over your bag of poo.  They put on their safety gloves and then they hold it at arms length and THEN they check to make sure you've labeled your poo correctly.

Dog poo bags are much fancier than human poo bags.  

So, after my barrage of tests they found...nothing.  So my fancy pants doctor basically said that after all these tests, if they don't find anything they call it IBS.  Irritable Bowel Syndrome.  Which is sort of a catch all for any stomach disease that isn't already classified.  And according to Dr. Stomach (not his real name, duh) most stomach diseases aren't classified and the digestive system is kind of an unknown.

He recommended I try the FODMAPS diet.  Now you guys know I am an experienced dieter from my elimination/allergy diet days.  I smirked at him like, 'Sure.  Give me the handout.  This'll be a piece of cake.'  I'm sure Dr. Stomach had the last laugh that day.

I got home and read the print out.  Then I read the internet.  Then I downloaded an App for my phone so I could figure out what to eat.

Basically, you avoid stuff with the initials of FODMAPS.  Fructose, Oligo saccharides or something like that and I think the P is for Polyols.  Crap, if you want science go google it yourself.  I'm not here to talk science, I'm here to talk poop.

This is an incomplete list and though it says you can have bananas, it doesn't mention that you can't have ripe bananas.  Or that you can only have two pieces of celery before your stomach bloats up like the Goodyear Blimp.

I can't give you a list of what I can't eat because it's too damn complicated, but it's the hardest diet I've ever been on, especially for eating out.  I can't have dairy.  Unless it's lactose free.  I can't have wheat.  So far, so good, right?  I haven't been eating wheat or dairy since May of this year (totally fixed my migraines btw).  So...what's the problem?  Oh oh oh..what's the problem you say?  I can't have garlic.  I can't have onions.  I can't have honey.  I can't have almonds, unless it's less than 12.  I can have sweet potato, but only half a cup.  Brussel Sprouts?  Sure, if you only have 3.  Avocado?  No can do.  Mushrooms?  Nope.

So eating out is hard BUT there is a bright and very shiny spot in all of this.  I can have steak and red wine and baked potatoes and butter.  And that's pretty much my IDEAL meal right there.  Also, I can have bacon.  So maybe this diet isn't that hard after all.

Steeeeeaaaak.  Oh how I love you.  

After two days on the FODMAP diet, my stomach problems cleared up and have only come back when I have tried to re-introduce some of the other foods.  I have been told that in time, I should be able to eat more variety and I'm almost done with a month long course of probiotics from my dad that were expensive enough that I'm sure I'll have Super Stomach when I'm done.

My Husband Is An Animal

Stop with your dirty thoughts!  That's totally not what I meant!  Though, of course, he totally is there too.....

Dave came home from a recent trip with chills and an upset stomach.  He looked pale and unhappy and said that he had been super cold and had been pretty nauseous for the last 24 hours.  It's funny because he's so matter of fact about the whole thing.  He said "Yeah, having an upset stomach makes it kinda difficult when you're skiing."  Kinda difficult.   When you're skiing.

See, if it had been me and my upset stomach, I would have been hovering near the bathroom anxiously.  I would have been convinced that this was the flu to end all flus and that I was on going to be throwing up any second now.  Skiing?  No.  Getting on an airplane?  Hell no!  I would have holed up in a hotel room with cable television and pajamas and whined my way through the next 24 hours.

Me when I feel a tiny bit of an upset stomach.

Dave with horrible diarrhea, nausea and chills.

Then there would be another 24 hours where I would be afraid to eat.  JUST IN CASE IT CAME BACK.  And I would probably have to cancel everything for that day too.  JUST IN CASE IT CAME BACK.  And for the next two weeks, every time my stomach so much as burbled, I would be SURE that it meant I was headed back to Flu-ville.

But not Dave.  Dave simply took breaks when he needed them and continued on his merry way.  And though this didn't happen to Dave, I know quite a few guys who if they couldn't make it to the bathroom...well, they couldn't make it and there would be laundry later.  Oh well.

Dave just doesn't hold on to things or create some sort of terrible story about things.  He's like the dog who just vomits and then feels better.  Thankfully, Dave doesn't then try to eat his vomit.  He has limits, ya know.

Dave took a short nap and then thought "I just need a salad."  This goes against everything I've ever learned.  Haven't you heard of the BRAT diet, Dave?  You can't have a salad!  For God's Sake all that fiber will make it worse!  Don't you know that you're sick?  I didn't say that.  Probably because I wasn't home at the time.

So Dave eats a salad and feels better.  He figures it was probably too much pizza and beer the week before.  And he probably only figured that because I badgered him into coming up with a hypothesis.  What kind of human doesn't come up with some sort of hypothesis about HOW they got sick and what they had?  Oh, yeah.  A male one.  Who sometimes (and I'm totally jealous about this) is just more of animal than I am and doesn't need a crazy story to go along with feeling shitty.  Of course, if I didn't have crazy stories to go along with everything, then what the hell would I blog about?

So, I'd like to give thanks that Dave doesn't tell stories and that I do.  Now I better go check out that mole and figure out why I'm still coughing and if that pimple is just a pimple or the Pimple of Impending Doom.