Ear Worms

For the last SIX weeks, I’ve had Fugue For Tinhorns stuck in my head. It’s Driving. Me. Crazy.

I got the horse right here
The name is Paul Revere
And here’s a guy that says that the weather’s clear
Can do, can do, this guy says the horse can do
If he says the horse can do, can do, can do.

I’m pickin’ Valentine, ’cause on the morning line
A guy has got him figured at five to nine
Has chance, has chance, this guy says the horse has chance
if he says the horse has chance, has chance, has chance

But look at Epitaph. he wins it by a half
According to this here in the Telegraph
“Big Threat” – “Big Threat”
This guy calls the horse “Big Threat”
If he calls the horse “Big Threat”,
Big Threat, Big Threat.

And now, the semi-alternative radio station I listen to – The River – is playing some more ear worms.

Brick House by The Commodores
Can’t Touch This by M.C. Hammer
We’re Having A Party by Southside Johnny & The Asbury Jukes

What songs give you ear worms?

Random Ramblings

It’s amazing what you can buy on Ebay.


Read the comments from prospective buyers. Priceless.


I’ve hopped on the nausea express. It’s puke-tastic. I can’t believe how awful I feel. Constant queasiness, like I’ve been on a small ship in high seas. Unless I actually have food in my mouth, I feel like I’m going to hurl. Last night, I stocked up on fruit and veggies in a probably vain attempt to limit my weight gain. I never felt this bad when I was pregnant before. I just want to crawl into a hole, puke and then die a little.


Why do you have to buy a whole friggin’ box of Clementines? I only want three or four at a time. If I buy the cute wooden crate of them, they will go moldy. And do they sell seedless tangerines? Because sitting here, spitting seeds into my hand while trying to type my blog and answer the phone is really pissing me off.

Tell me I’m not the only one that starts singing every time they see a crate of Clementines. Oh my darlin’, oh my darlin….


I’m having avocado cravings. I don’t even really like avocadoes, nor do I know how to eat them, save scooping them out with a spoon. The colour and consistency is like sick baby poop, and yet, I would crawl on my belly over broken glass to get to one. Go figure.


Olivia started her period over Christmas. This would explain the INSANE high blood sugars of the last few months as well as the attitude, tears, drama and snottiness that have prevailed at the Bedhead household. Oy. And vey.


Either my husband is screwing around on me or he really does love me, because he gave me these for Christmas:

Ghost of Christmas Past

Someone asked me today if there was anything about Christmas that I miss. I miss my grandmother. She lived in Indiana, so we only got to see her once or twice a year. She came out every year for Christmas and it was great. She spoiled us rotten – my sister and I were her only grandchildren. She came out with one suitcase full of clothes and one full of presents.

She always looked like a million bucks. She worked in a factory all her life, but you’d never know it by looking at her. She always had her nails polished, usually in a pearly white or pink. Her nails were so long and strong – I remember being fascinated by that when I was a kid because my nails were always raggedy and grubby. Her hair was always perfect, and always red, even when she was 70. She never left the house without her makeup and she always wore high heels.

She loved to play pinochle and euchre and would always try to teach me to play, but would eventually give up in frustration and just play War with me instead. She loved to drink Manhattans and she smoked cigarettes, letting the ash get really, really long. It drove my mother crazy. She could play anything on the piano. I can still hear her fingernails clicking on the keys as she’d play Christmas carols, warbling along and smiling at me to join in.

She’d always take me shopping while she was here. We’d get the bus in to the city, which, when you’re 7 or 8, is a BIG adventure. She always wore her good coat, the one with the fur collar and matching fur hat. Once we got downtown, we’d go to the Worcester Center Galleria. It was THE place to shop. There was a Jordan Marsh and a Filene’s. I’d always go to Jordan Marsh to shop. For some reason, I liked it much better than Filene’s. She’d always take me to Bergson’s, this little burger shop there. She’d get a coffee and I’d get a cheeseburger and a chocolate milkshake. We’d split an order of fries, covering them with lashings of salt and ketchup.

We always went in to Sharfman’s Jewelers. My mother collected Lladro figurines and my grandmother would usually get her one. I would wander around, mesmerized by the sparkling rings and necklaces, awed by the stern salesladies and the quiet hush of the place. Then we’d go out to the common and look at the Christmas tree all lit up and the decorations around City Hall and catch the bus back home. It was magical.

She died when I was 16. I still miss her. Christmas has never been the same without her.

Say It Ain’t So, Johnny (you rat-bastard)

Ok, so how pissed off am I? Johnny Damon, our signature player, our lead-off hitter, the FACE of the Boston Red Sox, just went and signed with the fucking YANKEES! The BASTARD! The team he swore he’d never play for.
From Wednesday’s NY Times:

Last May, he professed his devotion to the Red Sox, or at least his distaste of the Yankees.

“There’s no way I can go play for the Yankees, but I know they’re going to come after me hard,” he told mlb.com then. “It’s definitely not the most important thing to go out there for the top dollar, which the Yankees are going to offer me. It’s not what I need.”

Guess if you wave enough money under his nose, he becomes a whore like all the other baseball players.

So, management let Theo walk away. They didn’t make a play for Bill Mueller, who is, like, Brookes Robinson good at third base. They let Kevin Millar go. They traded Doug Mirabelli. Who’s left from the 2004 championship series? Veritek, Trot Nixon, David Ortiz and Manny. And Manny wants to go, claims he won’t show up at spring training if they keep him. Maybe Manny’s on to something. Leave before the ship goes down, before the team completely implodes.

I’m so pissed I can’t even see straight. My husband is being far too philosophical for me right now. Whatever, he had a lousy throwing arm and he’s 32, but the fucking YANKEES? It’s like a knife in the heart.

Yeah, that would be a big fucking NO!

This post may offend or piss off some of you, but it’s how I feel on the subject.

I stumbled upon the Diabetes TalkFest blog today after reading about it in Lemonade Life .

The question is: If, at the time of diagnosis, you could have chosen, would you have chosen diabetes or not?

I was stunned to read that most of the people with D would have chosen it. Stunned? I was fucking gobsmacked. Why?? Why would you choose that??! It seems so selfish.

Every fibre of my being shrieks in disgust and disbelief. Ask your parents what they would have chosen for you. Ask yourselves if you want your kids to have this fucking disease. Ask yourself if you want to go into your child’s room every fucking morning, wondering if they’re going to be alive. Ask yourself if you want to obsess about where your child is and what her blood sugar is and if she has glucose tablets and if someone is with her because what if she passes out on the two-block walk home from her friend’s house? What if no one finds her for an hour? What if, what if, what if?

Watching my daughter worry that she won’t be accepted by her friends, watching her learn to check her own blood sugar when she was five, learning to give herself an injection when she was eight, not letting her sleep at anyone else’s house until this year, when she was eleven, because no one was willing to get up in the middle of the night and check her.

Years of doctors appointments and new regimens and monitoring and worrying and crying. The crying never stops. The worrying never stops.

Yes, I have made some wonderful friends, in real life and online, because of diabetes. I’d give every last one of them up in a heartbeat if it meant my daughter could have lived her life without this disease. I would give up my own life to let my daughter live her life without diabetes.

I hate this disease with a passion and I bust my ass to make sure that Olivia is as healthy and happy as possible. I also don’t let her see how much I fret about her and how I worry about what diabetes is doing to her body. For the most part, she’s a well-adjusted, funny, happy young lady who doesn’t worry too much about diabetes. But a life without it? Abso-fucking-lutely.

Here, go pee in this cup

Olivia had lab work done at last week’s endo appointment and I got a note back saying that there was blood in her urine. I took her to the pediatrician today for a re-check and there was also protein and glucose in her urine. Her bg before we went in to the appointment was 83, so it wasn’t from a high. I’m getting a little freaked out. Is this something that can happen normally? Should I worry? She goes back in two weeks for more testing, including blood tests, if needed. Until then, I guess I’ll just chew off my fingernails.

Ain’t That A Kick In The Head

8.6% Big fat F, that’s what that is.

So, we tweaked her insulin:carb ratio and her insulin sensitivity factor and now we wait. Three days. Two of which she’s spending with her father, so I can throw those two days out the window, which means I have to wait until at least next Wednesday, when she’s back on a semi-normal schedule, in order to see if there’s any pattern of improvement in her numbers.

There was also blood in her urine from the pee test. I have to call the pediatrician to see what that’s all about. Hopefully it’s nothing. Means another couple of hours missed from work. I don’t really care, I’m just wondering how much longer I can keep doing this. My kids are way more important than my job and for some reason, Olivia seems to need me more now than she did when she was little.

Blah. I just want to go home and pull the covers over my head and ignore all this. This keeping on keeping on shit is really wearing thin.

Five random facts

Thanks to K over at Fresh sKWeezed

I will now regale you with five random facts about me. You lucky, lucky people.

1. I am a complete and utter book snob. Not about the types of books people read, because I’ll read just about anything and generally enjoy it immensely, but people who don’t read are like alien beings to me. How can you NOT read? When I was younger, I would be so desperate for reading materials that I’d read the backs of cereal boxes. I used to make my parents leave the hall light on so that I could hang off the end of my bed and read by the light coming thru the open door. I used to hide books in the towel cupboard in the bathroom and if I had to get up in the middle of the night to pee, I’d sit there until I had toilet-seat impressions on my ass.

2. I swear like a sailor. My favourite word is fuck. It’s short and emphatic and I like it. A lot. I’m also worried that this will be Isobel’s first word, since I say it quite often while I’m driving.

3. I dread telling my mother that I’m pregnant. I’m 39 and married, but she will make me feel like I’m 15 and the stupidest person alive.

4. I try to be above this sort of thing, but I’m just longing for a diamond necklace or anniversary ring. I see ads in The New Yorker or Vanity Fair and I just drool. I don’t know what it is about them, but diamonds and sapphires make me lose all sense of reason. If they’re set in platinum, I’m done for. It’s so shallow and materialistic, but I can’t help it. Ok, I could help it, I just don’t want to.

5. There are days when I wish I didn’t have all this responsibility and mommy-ness to deal with. Days when I envy my single, childless friends with a green-eyed jealousy that’s not pretty to behold. Days when I just don’t want to make dinner, do laundry, check homework, do dishes, bathe the baby, Hoover the floor or feed the cat. Days when I just want to come home, sit on the couch, bury my nose in a good book and have cheesecake for dinner.

Ok. I will now pass along this infection. ’cause I’m a sharing kinda girl. IO don’t know how to make those pretty links that just say the blog name, so you’ll have to just pretend they’re there.

  • Days Go By
  • Simpler Times
  • A Shot In The Dark
  • Six Until Me
  • Martha O’Connor
  • Impending Endo Appointment.

    Nothing fills me with dread the way an endo appointment does. Olivia’s numbers have been all over the place. The CDE we see at Joslin drives me a bit nuts. She talks over me and tends to poo-poo me when I say I want her sugars more in range. She tells me these fluctuations are normal. Yeah, but this is wild fluctuations, not normal fluctuations. I know her A1c is going to be high again and no matter what people say, I do regard that as a report card on how I’m doing and how I’m doing is not so good. If there were a teacher comment section, it would say “Could try harder, needs to apply herself more.”

    She spent the weekend at her father’s and I swear, he feeds her crap and lets her run high just to piss me off. He refuses to log anything, so I have to scroll back thru two or three days worth of blood sugars in order to see what they were and what her doses were for them. All weekend, she was in the high 200 – 300 range. He never gives her a shot to bring her numbers down, nor does he change her site when she’s running high for a few hours. I’ve tried talking to him but it’s like talking to a wall. He says “Yep, yep, yep” and then goes and does whatever he wants. Meanwhile, she’s running high and feels like crap all weekend and usually all of Monday, too. I wish I could get the endo to say something to him, but I’ve tried that before, to no avail.

    Last night I was able to get her down to 180 by 8:30 (bedtime) but then she was 309 at 11:30. What?! Where did that come from? She had a homemade hamburger for dinner. She didn’t want any potatoes, so that was all she had. 30 gms for the hamburger roll. How does that send her to 309? I slept thru the 2 a.m. check, but at 5, she was back down to 145.

    I upped her basal rates a week ago, but I don’t think it was enough. I’m really feeling like I’m flailing around these days, just making futile stabs at this stupid disease. It’s very frustrating and I’m sick of it. I want a Guardian or a Navigoator and I want it NOW.

    And I’m starting to feel sick to my stomach, oh joy.

    Huh, part two

    Well. Two pregnancy tests later, both positive, and I guess I can stop kidding myself. This certainly wasn’t planned, so I have to admit to some hesitation and ambivalence. We had discussed having another baby in an abstract way, although I did tell Mark that if we were going to do it, we had to do it soon, since I just turned 39 last month.

    Thirty-nine and pregnant. God. Do you know they consider you of advanced maternal age if you’re over 35 and pregnant? I hate that phrase. I feel like I should stump in to the OBs office with a walker, complete with tennis balls on the legs of it, orthopedic hose puddled around my ankles, all the while asking the nurses to “speak up a little, deary.”

    I don’t feel anything yet. I can’t remember if I felt sick right away the last time or not. I’m exhausted all the time, but then, that’s par for the course: I’m always exhausted.
    I just wish I weren’t so ambivilent about this. I want to be excited and happy and instead, I’m just sitting here thinking “Huh. How’d that happen?” Maybe I’ll get more excited as time goes on. I certainly hope so. Mark is more excited than I am. He’s already telling his friends and co-workers. I haven’t told anyone yet. Well, except my imaginary internet weirdo friends.

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