Diabetes sucks ass.

O went from 40 to 473 in 5.5 hours.

‘the fuck?

She forgot to bolus for breakfast, but she fixed that.

2 a.m. – 110
5 a.m. – 51 (huh?)
6 a.m. – 116
8:30 a.m. – 306
9:45 a.m. – 176
10:30 a.m. – 95 (and dropping like a rock)
11 a.m. – 40
11:15 a.m. – 85
11:45 a.m. – 113 (lunch – 75 g, bolused 5)
4 p.m. – 130 (she forgot the 2:30 check because she stayed after for homework help)
5:45 p.m. – 282 (40 g, bolused 7.4)
7 p.m. – 473 (correction 4.3)
7:45 p.m. – 457 (80 g, 11.6)
9 p.m. – 467 (pump said do nothing. I gave her 2 units by syringe and changed the site)

She didn’t tell me about the first two over 400 readings. I would have changed the site and done a manual correction on the second one.

The last couple of days have been like this. We’ll have one day of decent-ish numbers, with her highest being just over 200 and her lowest around 85. But for every ONE of those days, we have three or four like this. And there’s no pattern, no fucking rhyme or reason for it, that I can see.

Do you remember that scene in Office Space, when they take the printer out to the field and kill it? That’s how I feel right now. Complete with soundtrack…. You know which song…. If YouTube had it uncensored, I’d put it up, but alas, it’s all cleaned up and that’s just wrong.

I still have to post about NYC (my boobs nearly exploded – not fun). And answer Lara’s questions. But first, I have to take care of this shit.

Frump Girl

This is how I feel I look most days. Dumpy, frumpy, beige, blending in to the woodwork, boring. Certainly not in any way, shape or form attractive. And this isn’t a weight thing. Well, not fully.

I think (rather, I fervently hope) that it’s pretty typical of a stay at home mother to feel this way. Most of the SAHMs I talk to seem to feel pretty frumpy most of the time. And really, there’s a point to such frumpiness: Why dress up when you’re going to get covered in boogers, blood and baby food (and that’s on a good day)? What’s the point? Who has the time or money to dry clean all those cute clothes? Not me, that’s for sure. Pointy-toed shoes, according to Stacy and Clinton, may look great and give you a long, lean leg line, but they’re hell for chasing around a speedy toddler or running around the park. I’ll stick to my Keds.

I don’t want to be Frump Girl, though, that’s the thing. I want to look put together. I’m tired of wearing snot-stained jeans, of having my shirt smeared with oatmeal and blueberries, of having my hair sticky with banana before 10 a.m.. I’ve stopped buying white shirts – if the babies don’t ruin them, I will.

How do I dig myself out of this rut? How do I care about how I look again? I’m not a frilly, frou-frou-ey person. I never have been (well, there was that brief period in the 80s, but let’s not go there). I don’t want to wear the latest fashion (they don’t make them in my size anyway) and I don’t want to be uncomfortable. But I’d really like to look better, to wear a bit of make up, fix my hair every day, look more with it and less frazzled. Less Frump Girl.


We really should have smell-o-vision.

I am a Chanel girl. I love Chanel No. 5 and Coco (not Madamoiselle, thank you very much). Love. Them. Sure, I flirt with other perfumes now and then, but I always come back to Chanel. It’s timeless. It’s classic. It’s the perfume version of a little black dress.

But I have been seduced by the siren’s call again and this time, I’m not sure I’ll be going back.

Those of you who get Vanity Fair will have this in your April issue. It’s one of those stinky pages. Usually, I hate those things because the perfumes are generally geriatric or too heavy or there are competing scents and it gives me a big, fat headache. But this time, this time they were advertising this:

Donna Karan Gold. Oh, my, it’s lovely. It’s floral, but not overpowering. It’s light and sort of lily-of-the-valley-ish. It’s fucking gorgeous, is what it is. And it’s for sale at Saks Fifth Avenue. And where will I be this weekend? New York City (Noo Yawk CITY??!). Where I will be buying myself the smallest bottle, since funds are limited, but yes, oh yes, I shall have some.

I’m not a very girly girl, but there are a couple of things guaranteed to get me feeling all fluttery and feminine. Nail polish, shoes and yummy perfumes….

Now where did I put that bottle of OPI? And who hid my peep-toe pumps?

Oh, and the knitting? I’m totally rocking the knitting. Who knew?

Yo ho, yo ho, a pirate’s life for me

I. Cannot. Fucking. WAIT.


That’s one of my all-time, top five, desert island favourite words. I know it’s kind of mean and petty, but I do love it so. And lately, it applies so well to the absolute morass that is the White House. I’d love to write something biting or pithy or both, but all I can do is sit here and giggle and rub my hands together with glee. To wit:

  • One of the eight US Attorneys fired by Alberto Gonzales (or his COS, depending on whom you believe) may have occurred because she planned to execute search warrants on high-ranking CIA officials in a corruption probe.

The hits just keep on coming for Bush & Co. And this pleases me no end.

Are you watching The Riches on F/X? You should be. The pilot was fantastic. Of course, I love Eddie Izzard and Minnie Driver makes me go all weak in the knees. I’d be all over her if I batted for the other team. The acting is good in this (unlike The Black Donnellys, which is a steaming pile of shite). The writing is sharp. It’s dark, twisted and wryly amusing. Just my cuppa tea.

I’m frazzled. I have a couple of endlessly-crying babies. When one stops, the other starts. It’s maddening. Posts may be thin on the ground until they start listening to reason or I sell them to the gypsies, whichever comes first.

Away With The Faeries

I think maybe the tuatha de danann have absconded with my child and replaced her with a changeling.

Either that or she’s been abducted by aliens.

I used to have a lovely, biddable little girl. She was cheerful and happy and content. Now, from the moment she gets up until the moment her tangled head hits the pillow, it’s war. And I’m losing.

She wakes up angry. Well, that’s not strictly true. She’s fine, happy as Larry, until it’s time to get out of the crib. Then, forget it. She shrieks when she’s taken out of the crib. She screams while she’s getting changed. X All hell breaks loose if I try to comb her hair. She’s having none of it, so most days, she resembles a small, blonde Medusa. Her whining when put in her high chair and given breakfast – breakfast that she requested not three seconds ago – will have you clawing at your ears.

I’m seriously thinking about renting her out to the fire department.

When nap time rolls around, she writhes and hits and screams in my ear. She throws herself on the couch when thwarted – be it by me or by her own limitations or by a dust bunny. Everything, every single thing she does, requires huge dramatics and boy, does she ever play to the back of the theatre. She’s gunning for the Sarah Bernhardt award or the Best Actress In A Dramatic Role Oscar.

What makes it even more crazy-making is that she’ll be pulling this over-the-top bullshit and a split second later, is climbing into my lap for kisses or sharing her toys with the Bug or being adorable in general. She’ll sing Ram Sam Sam and laugh and clap and then WHAM! She’s back to the all-shrieking, all-crying, all-miserable little girl.

I didn’t have this with O. O was a sick toddler. She slept a lot. She snuggled a lot. She didn’t feel well for months and months prior to her diabetes diagnosis shortly before her third birthday. She liked nothing better than to lie on the couch, her head in my lap, letting me tell her a story.

But the Boo? She epitomizes that nursery rhyme: When she was good, she was very, very good. But when she was bad, she was horrid.

So, listen up, you faeries or aliens. Gimme back this kid.

Now, dammit!

And it rained like a slow divorce

(name that tune)

So my head is coming detached from my body. During the day, I’m fine, but starting around 5 p.m., I feel like someone is stuffing my skull with latex bladders. As the evening progresses, the bladders fill up with stuff. Maybe a little helium, maybe a little pseudoephedrine, maybe a little pot and whiskey. By the time 11 p.m. rolls around, I’m feeling decidedly fucked up and this is without having had anything alcoholic to drink or pot to smoke. It’s very strange. Oh, and my face feels puffy. It isn’t puffy, it just feels that way. My ears are a bit wonky, too. Things get loud and then soft and sometimes there’s a hum. And my fingers are stiff.

I’m calling the doctor tomorrow. This isn’t normal, but seriously, what do I say to her? I feel high, only I’m not? I feel like I’ve taken too much cold medicine, but I haven’t had any?

Very weird. I’m not even on any medication right now, so I can’t blame it on that, either. I’m doing this all on my own. Aren’t I clever?

It’s even weirder that I’m finding it all a bit hysterical. It makes me giggle a lot. I guess that’s the high thing (I’m pleading the fifth on how I know what that feels like…I went to college. And Dave Matthews shows.).

Things I Never Thought I’d Hear Myself Saying:

1. Stop putting balogna in your armpits.
2. It doesn’t go in your ears, either.
3. No! Don’t eat the cat poo!
4. Please don’t lick the dog.
5. Please don’t lick the cat.
6. Don’t put the dirty underwear on your head.
7. Are you poopy? (As I pick her up a sniff her butt. Sniff. Her. Butt. Do you know how gross that is when you stop and think about it? Because really. It’s gross. And I do it. So does every other mother I know. Scoop up kid, sniff butt. I have no shame. But neither do the rest of you, so nyah.)

I used to be cool.

More of a mini break

I keep thinking of things I want to write about, stupid shit I want to say or tell random strangers about, so I’m back. Besides, my head’s in a better place. And Oh, The Joys keeps making me laugh my ass off, the wench, so I can’t stay depressed and angsty for too long.

Paxil sucks, though. Man, I was a mess there for about a week. I’m getting new medication today, so hopefully I won’t have any more of these freakouts. They really aren’t a lot of fun.

In other news, I’m teaching myself to knit. This should provide endless blog fodder as I rip out my hair attempt to be creative.

I’m not posting, I’m linking.

Medtronic approves CGMS for children.

FanTABulous news.

*crawling back under my rock now*

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