Welcome to my new online home. I moved over to wordpress because I wanted to add categories, and possibly down the road to password protect things. And also because bloggerbeta drives me nuts. I’m still playing with themes, so this site might look different next time you stop in.
Since it’s almost 2007 (ack!) I thought I would inaugurate the new site with a look back over the past eleven months of blogging, via a meme that everyone else has already done… the first sentence of each month. I added my favorite photo from each month, just to be an overachiever. The photos don’t have any relationship to the quotes though.
February: One more voice on the blog-wagon: why should I do it?
Photo: The red shoes.
March: I know from looking at my sitemeter that most of the people who get here are coming via the awesome and all powerful diabetes OC.
Photo: Cuddling Cats
May: I had a pretty good weekend. My presentation at the main conference in my field went well. I did not tell everyone I knew at the conference that my wife is five weeks pregnant, although it was very tempting.
Photo: Fertility Shrine
June: Today is blogging for LGBT families day.
Photo: Meet Smokey!
July: A little the worse for wear, but back nonetheless. A warning to the squeamish and to my phobic friends, bodily fluids mentioned below.
Photo: Pili & S.
August: I apologize for leaving that worrisome headline up there for so long.
Photo: Veggie P@rn
September: Just when I was getting ready to go downtown and stage a sit-in at the door of the World’s Slowest Social Worker, aka Mrs. Vaseline Teeth, for not returning our phone calls… what should arrive in the mail yesterday?
Photo: Morning Mist
November: New Reading Material for the RE’s waiting room?
Looking back like this reminds me what a crazy, painful and change-filled year it’s been. I remember when we moved to Small City thinking, I will never do anything this big again (quitting my job to move across the country with Pili, to a city where we knew no one and I had no job prospects). This year has been so much more tumultuous than that one. And next year promises yet more change – a new job, the prospect of another possible move, and hopefully, somewhere in there – AFTER THREE YEARS of trying and hoping – a baby, just maybe?
Some of the better search strings through which people have found this blog. And my snarky responses.
The “Go Back to School” Awards
- a sad song about a kids abused – I don’t know why you were looking for this, but you might have more luck if you corrected your grammar.
- how long does a female butterfly stay pregnant? – I think butterflies lay eggs. See mammals vs. insects for more help.
- Name of the month of Winter holidays – December.
- how i gone spend my winter holidays – I don’t know.
The “I’m So Sorry” Awards
- my retainer keeps giving me sores
- i ate too much carp
The “Smell Me” Awards
- why does insulin smell like band aids
- diabetes smells like alcohol
- diabetics smell sweet
- stella smells diabetic
The “I Can’t Even Begin to Imagine” Awards
- fat baby’s pride BBQ
- automatic transmission sweet juice
- “Lichen Planus” vegan – huh?
- police trouble wearing diapers diaper plastic
- picture penis elephantitis – ewwwwwww
- martial arts dojo boobs – This one’s for Jen, Cait, and Mel
- picture of a biscuit penis – ??????
The “This Blog Will Not Give You Satisfaction” Awards
- britney spears forgets her underwear – ugh, ugh, ugh.
- britney spears tax returns – Not here, sorry.
- Groundhog ailments – The only ailment my groundhogs had was inhabiting my yard. And I cured that.
- “donor insemination” OR “donor sperm” depression – Your question exactly?
- ban diabetes marriage – Of course. Because there are no greater problems in the world than diabetics getting married.
- farting after frozen embryo
The “Did You Really Need to Ask The Internet?” Awards
- do I need bra under wedding dress? – Well, what kind of dress is it?
- Are Friday weddings tacky? – Do I look like Emily Post?
- “I want to have a child with you” – Perhaps we can go out for coffee first?
- what holiday gift can I give my jewish boss – I’d recommend a giant light-up creche myself.
- should there be carpet in nurse’s office – Damned if I know.
- its good to chew gum when playing basketball – Is this a question or a statement?
- what does a pili look like?
And.. the “I Totally Agree” Award
- oh he’s a gorgeous little boy
Pili writes: “I am in an internet cafe here in FARAWAY PLACE and the young lady that works here comes over to my screen while I”m looking at the pictures and says, ‘Is that your child?’ Wha! Imagine my delight to say – yes!!! What an amazing thing.”
When I read this email a huge smile spread over my face. Imagining a stranger 8400 miles away from us knowing somehow – from the expression on her face perhaps? – that this chubby cheeked brown boy was connected to my fairskinned, fairhaired Pili. While I don’t like the whole “born in my heart” phenomenon (come on folks, he was born in Guatemala, from some other woman’s womb, and I don’t intend to ignore or efface that) it’s remarkable the connection I feel to this child I’ve not yet met.
I hope he will be our child. I am getting more and more forlorn about this whole DNA debacle. You know it’s bad when you’re jealous of people who have been stuck in PGN forever because at least they’re in PGN. Even while I know that they want to get babies to families as fast as possible, I can’t help wondering if there’s something that our agency could be doing better…
This system sets you up to constantly second guess yourself and your own ethics. You hear about some people stuck in PGN for months and others getting out in days, and I find myself wondering… is it luck of the draw? Or are palms getting greased? And if palms are getting greased, would I object to a little grease on our behalf? Ugh, ugh, ugh.
Before I start blathering on: Merry Christmas to all my friends who celebrate Christmas and happy mandatory day off to the rest of us!
I am at my parents’ apt. and every time I get on the computer and start looking at blogs or even thinking about blogging one of them pops up behind me. It’s crazy.
I feel like I’m trying to look at pictures of nekkid ladies when really all I want to do is check in with my bloggy friends without letting my family in on my on-line existence. Not that I have anything big to hide, I just like having some illusion of privacy as I spill my guts to the internet. Yes, I see the irony. But then I got even more freaked out when I went to comment on a blog and discovered that my mother has a blogger login. I almost left a comment as my mom. Eek.
(yes, I am a 31 year old woman, not a squealing teenager, despite the tone of the above)
I am hoping to get some new Guatebaby pictures any day now… hopefully they will not add to my frustration that Nothing. Is. Happening. on our case. Our agency has not yet been able to make it through the line at the U.S. Embassy to get authorization for the DNA test. Apparently, the line is supposed to start at 6am, but since they only take 40 people a day, it actually starts the night before. But if the embassy staff sees that the agency reps have been in line overnight, they won’t let them file the paperwork. Yes, these are our tax dollars at work, my friends.
My parents are so excited about GB, which is fantastic, but also puts more pressure on me to have answers or timelines that I just don’t have. My mother says things like, well I hope he’s home before he’s six months old. As if he will turn into a pumpkin if that’s not the case, which it likely won’t be. She apologized, repeatedly, but her words bring up this old and barely banked anger that deserves a post of its own and that I can’t quite seem to put down again.
It’s anger from when I was a child. Anger that I had diabetes. Anger that I always had to be okay and couldn’t be angry. Anger that I supressed unconsciously, feeling the weight of her need for me to be okay. Feeling like my own emotions had to be smothered in order to protect her fragile equilibrium. Anger at being told – when I said that it scared me when she got depressed, that it reminded me of the very scary times when she was depressed before – that she was fine now and I had no right to be afraid based on those times. Anger, that until a few years and a few million therapy sessions ago, I would have told you I didn’t feel.
And then she says something like this, asks for something I know I am powerless to do, and I feel all that unfelt rage surface like a deep sea diver, gasping for air.
I will post this and then delete the browser history posthaste.
But I need to post this.
p.s. Thank you so so so much for all the kind wishes on finishing! I haven’t heard anything from them saying that they are going to reject it for being three days late… so perhaps all is well?
And it’s done.
I fudged the deadline a bit and so am not feeling very good about myself at the moment. Especially since that meant
telling my advisor I had actually mailed it when in fact I was just planning to go to the post office in a couple of hours not being totally upfront with my advisor, and I feel terrible about that.
And then my computer literally ate a paragraph – I’m still not sure how that happened – but I noticed it as I was doing all the nitpicky formatting on my bibliography and proofreading… I realized I had a footnote that just said,
Schmo, p. 45.
And I didn’t have the footnote that said:
Joe Schmo, “This Thesis Sucks,” Journal of Sleep Deprivation 1, no. 1: p. 101.
And since I was basing the bibliography on my first reference footnotes, I didn’t have the bibliography entry that read:
Schmo, Joe. “This Thesis Sucks.” Journal of Sleep Deprivation 1, no. 1: 100-1001.
Which made me wonder. What happened to the first level footnote? And wait a minute, what happened to the paragraph in which the first reference to Schmo’s observations about the effects of too much caffiene on the human nervous system appeared? And why the hell does the Chic*go M*nual of Sty1e use commas in footnotes and periods in bibliographies, except as a way of testing the last nerves in people whose nerves are already shot to hell?
Um, Mr. Computer? Hello? That was an unusually good paragraph. I’d like it back.
I’d also like to retrieve and reconsider the moment when I triumphantly threw the draft, covered with corrections, which contained that paragraph into the fireplace, having entered all the corrections and pressed save. That’s right, having PRESSED SAVE.
Because I’m not a total idiot.
Although if you saw me, at 10 pm, already having sent out an email announcing that I was DONE! and (here comes the lie part) it was in the mail, frantically pawing through the garbage can hoping to find a draft that I had not used as kindling, and wondering why oh why Pili had to eat tuna fish earlier this week because the smell of tuna fish makes me barf and even more so when it’s in the garbage and a couple of days old…
You might very well have thought I was an idiot of the first order.
Reconstructing the paragraph took far longer than it should have. Making sure that nothing else had mysteriously disappeared from my paper took far longer than it should have. Formatting the bibliography and trying to figure out how to footnote various types of documents that are not mentioned in the %#*&%! Chic*go M*nual of Sty1e took far far longer than it should have.
And so I am SURE that the man who saw me, standing in front of the APC machine at the post office at 2 in the morning, trying to figure out how to NOT get something postmarked with a date that showed that it had in fact been mailed a day after the date that I SAID I HAD ALREADY MAILED IT… thought I was A TOTAL IDIOT.
And I am, in fact a total idiot, because when he told me that if you print your postage from your computer at home it won’t show the date, I turned around with my express mail “stamp” that I had just purchased from the machine and went home to see if this was in fact possible.
For the record, it is not possible. And after I spent half an hour debating with myself about whether I should put $14.40 of .39 cent stamps on my express mail envelope instead of the APC thing that had the date on it… and then realized that it would still get postmarked with the WRONG date.
The post office is a pretty spooky place at 3am.
And this, my children, is why you should never tell a lie. Even when you think you are going to make it into a truth in a few short hours.
Please g-d, don’t let this come back and bite me in the ass. Please.
I am a total idiot.
I am a liar.
I am done with my thesis.
It was a day and a half late.
I was not honest about this (except anonymously with the whole frickin’ internet).
I am feeling pretty awful right now.
Sleep deprivation is not a pretty sight.
Big wordpress reveal, coming as soon as I get a few hours of sleep.
Oh, and did I mention that the day all of this crap went down was the day that Pili left the country to do research for three weeks?
1) I must wish a huge and happy birthday to the sweetest, most fabulously wonderful, Piliest of Pilis in the whole wide world. I can’t wait until we’ve lived more of our lives together than without each other. Even if that takes a while, because well – you’re old(er than me). SMOOCH.
2) If you’re not reading the posts over at lesbian family get over there now. I am humbled to be joining a team with such amazing women – and such amazing writers. And I really wish I had done my introductory post first, because now I’m totally intimidated. Kwynne is blogging so brilliantly about “cake batter race theories” and queer parenting. Trista has a fantastic letter to Heather Poe, aka Mrs. Mary Cheney. J. is musing about what it means to be “family.” And Round is thinking about what makes a “real mom.” You don’t even have to be a lesbian! And while you’re at it, go and vote for Polly aka LesbianDad in a tight Best New Blog Race which has been marred by some really nasty homophobic b.s.
3) BLOGGER BLECH: All I can say is that as soon as I am done with this verdamnte project – as for me and my blog we will worship the wordpress. If I haven’t commented on your blog lately it is because a) I am way too busy and stressed and/or b) blogger will not let me.
4) I gave my notice at the job that blows on Monday. It was so unbelievably satisfying. The details of the story are not bloggable, but there was a lot of vindication involved in letting them know that other people like and appreciate me. I will be returning to the Job That Does Not Blow, except with a fancier title, in January.
Back to the Project That Ate My Life. Smooches, Art.
… after a nasty email to FedEx (thanks Bernard, for the research!) and a very contrite phone call from Memphis, the documents have finally been delivered to the correct Antigua!
That’s all for now.
The endo appt. was good. Really good. Not perfect – why can’t doctors use “high” and “low” instead of “bad” and “good” when they’re talking about your blood sugars?
But for starters, my A1C was 7.5. That’s the lowest it’s been in… a long time.
And the doctor sat and listened and looked at me, not my chart. For almost an hour. We talked about where to find carb counts for ethnic foods; about CGM and whether it’s right for me, about my after-dawn dawn effect. He gave me his email address if I had follow up questions, but said, don’t hesitate to call if it’s urgent. In fact, he stepped out of the room during our appointment to take an urgent patient call. (And apologized profusely when he came back in)
He tickled my feet and said that the falling-asleep-feet that I had been experiencing more often than previously was not neuropathy. He looked at my eyes and said that to the naked eye, it sure didn’t look like I had had diabetes for 21 years.
I feel so unbelievably lucky today. And grateful, for all the people in my life who listen to me and encourage me, all of you, all of my friends Outside the Computer, and most of all for my sweet Pili, who supports me, challenges me, and doesn’t give up on me, even when I’m ready to give up on myself.
We now return you to your regularly scheduled blog hiatus.
Just when I thought everything was going smoothly in the paperwork department.
Our corrected POA & other documents appear to be taking a nice Caribbean vacation in Antigua, West Indies, courtesy of FedEx.
They are supposed to be redirected to Guatemala and be there by Monday.
Off to the endo, g-d help me.
Yes, I’m still on reduced blog privileges. Yes, part of the anxiety is from the deadline breathing hot stinky air down my neck
But mostly my anxiety level has shot up to new heights because I came home today to a message reminding me that I have an appointment tomorrow with a new endocrinologist. An appointment I had conveniently managed to forget about. You may recall that I dumped McClinic . And that I got the name of a new doctor from a cool CDE with a potty mouth.
Did I ever mention the phone call I got from the McClinic doctor? I don’t think I did. The I understand you’re not happy with us and your complaints make perfect sense but nothing is going to change, and oh by the way, it’s not like we don’t have enough patients anyway, phone call? The I’ll take fifteen minutes to call you about this, but can’t be bothered to call you back about your blood sugars phone call? Yeah. Bizarre. It was doubly odd because Pili had neglected to mention to me that she had run into the doctor at the supermarket and told her that I was unhappy there and looking to switch docs. So I was all… um, where did you hear that? Oh, my partner? Really? PIIIIILI!
My blood sugars have sucked lately. Or rather, to be honest, I should say that, my blood sugars have sucked, when I have bothered to test them more than two or three times a day. The scale is sliding upwards, fueled by some holiday and stress-induced eating. I’m slacking on the gym. And this is not where I want to be at when I meet a new doctor.
I’m really tempted to call and cancel the appointment. I’ve done this plenty of times before, thinking, I’ll put it off for a month or two and get my act together in the meantime. If I wait a month I can come in to the appointment with a perfect log book and perfect blood sugars and… And of course two months roll around, and the little blue blinking message light on the answering machine reminds me, in a crude computerized voice, that Artie or Tartie or some other mangled version of my name, has an appointment tomorrow at 1 pm with Dr. X Y or Z. And I curse myself, because of course, I have done none of the things I promised myself. I have changed nothing.
This is where I hate the doctors of my childhood. I hate them for leaving me with this pervasive sense of shame. For leaving me with the impression that every doctor is going to judge me by the numbers
in my log that they download from my meter because I hate logging even more than I hate tuna fish salad. That they’ll look at those numbers and see someone stupid who doesn’t know that this disease will kill her if she’s not careful. They won’t see someone who wants to control this but who doesn’t want to let it control her. Someone who is so much more than the numbers on that awful sheet of paper. They look at that sheet of paper and they see the person who boluses without testing. They don’t see the the person who at least is bolusing when she eats, not two hours later – even if she hasn’t tested first.
I want them to see me, not just the could be better diabetic.
I am so dreading this appointment.
This is the only reason I haven’t canceled it. (Click through, it’s worth it!)