Praise Be

I got my health reimbursement check today.

Also, my endo loves me and filled out my paperwork so I can get one of these. Yay! I'm just getting my bloodwork done, and they'll start negotiations with my insurance. Which now appears to be working.

My A1c is a stupid 6.6, which, yes, is perfectly acceptable for a t1 (anything under 7 is good), but dammit man, I had a 5.9 last time! 5.9, people!! That's the A1c of a NORMAL PERSON.

Yes, I'm shooting for under 6 for my next visit. Might be tricky, but hopefully the pump will help, too.

Overall, she was once again very happy and impressed with me, which I find... really strange after my terrible endo experience in Chicago. I'm getting all of this praise for my great A1c and 110/62 blood pressure, instead of having somebody beat me down about my weight at every visit and try to peddle me more drugs (yes, I'm still only taking insulin. My last doctor tried to get me on metformin and something for high blood pressure. High blood pressure? 110/62? WTF? Yeah).

I was dreading this appointment like you just can't believe. I didn't realize how those horrible Chicago visits had trained me into believing that visiting the endocrinologist was the worst thing in the world. I always left there feeling beaten down, defeated, like I was a completely worthless person with an out of control weight "problem" and appetite who had to be heavily medicated and was going to get her feet chopped off any day. Getting all that bubbly praise today was just so weird. I wanted to cry all over again.

Stupid diabetes. Why can't doctors treat their patients with respect? We're not all actively trying to get our feet chopped off, you know. Some of us work really fucking hard every day to do well. We'd appreciate some help. And a kind word of acknowledgement that pulling off even a 6.6 isn't easy.

No More Corp Writing

Do corporate writers get a writers' strike?

No?

Cause if we do, I'm ready to take one.

Yes, January 2nd is the beginning of tax season.

The Crazy is nigh, and we're about to head down the pipe.

300 Cats

OMG!

Man, I needed that laugh.

Dear Peeps

There will be no Christmas presents this year. I spent $656 to come back to BG for the holidays.

I certainly hope they enjoy the pleasure of my company, for lo, this is the reason there is no Christmas.

That is all.

Quote of the Month

What Next?

This is a tough time of year for me. I tend to get those holiday blues, often paired with that itching "what's next?" feeling. It's been a tough couple of years, full of craziness, moving, job layoffs, hospital stays, chronic illness, new jobs, new friends, breakups, get-togethers, and yes, quite a few accomplishments, the biggest one being my crazy stubborness to just keep going, because really, what other choice would their be? Hiding under the bed never got anybody anywhere.

I'm still digging myself out of the physical, financial, and emotional hole of the last year, but as I start to see the edge of the pit there, I start thinking about what's next for me, and that's a hard thing to think about right now, particularly because, as said, I think I'm still there at the edge of the pit.

A lot depends on how this job goes. I should know by late April/May whether or not they'll want to keep me on past tax season. They'll be a huge purge of people after season, back to a bare bones crew, and I'll find out if the season was good enough for me to make the cut. I'm prepared to not make the cut, because you always prepare for the worst, hope for the best.

If that happens, I figure I'll start to seriously map out other avenues for me, cause with a year of experience as a tech writer, I may be able to move into other writing-related jobs, whether here or out of state. If things go well, I'd like to move out of Steph and the Old Man's place sometime next year, possibly. I don't mind it here, I'm happy, but I do miss having my own place sometime, and with three people, the Boyfriend, and two dawgs, the place sometimes feels crowded. It's not a big house, and it requires a surprising amount of upkeep.

But then...

You know, I've been spending a lot of time thinking about my life, about moving around a lot, about cutting and running, about never being satisfied. I keep thinking, what is it I keep running from? And maybe it's the mortgage and the dogs. Maybe it's stagnation, or this belief in stagnation. The more I get to talking about it and thinking about it, the more I realize that I've always associated settling down, marriage, families, with bitterness and unfulfilled dreams and contempt and stagnation. Two people resenting each other for all the things they never did.

And then I look at my life, and the stuff I've done, the stuff I still want to do, and it's like: I could do that from anywhere. How would being even more in debt stop me? It certainly wouldn't take away from the life I've lived. The issue is, more and more, asking myself what kind of life I want to live now.

I still want to travel to somewhere racy at least once a year. I still want to read a lot of books. I still want to work on my languages. I still want to read books. I still want a house to, you know, put all my books in. Could all that happen just anywhere? Would I stagnate if I stopped moving? If I partnered up? Is it possible to have a life that's not lived out of a box, or is it this constant routine that weighs you down, that takes up all that living?

At some point I just ask myself: was I happier in South Africa living on red wine and cigarettes in my little cockroach infested flat than I am here living with two jerks and two dogs, working as a tech writer in Ohio and dating somebody who makes me laugh?

Because, you know: South Africa! Experience! It was awesome. I wouldn't trade it for anything. It's made me an incredibly strong person. Every move, every experience, has made me stronger. It's given me better stories. I'm better for having been there. But if you're measuring the quality of life by your level of happiness? I was happiest those first couple years in Chicago before I got sick, and happiest here now, with the good friends and the good job (and I'll be happier with the health insurance fucking works). Some of that happiness is, I know, just being around other people. Spending too much time alone really does wear me down, and after awhile, I lose my sense of focus and perspective and it all goes to hell.

We need other people.

Even though I hate that.

I like what I've done and what I've accomplished. I like the road I'm headed down. I'm wondering now, I think, what else it is I want. I went out and proved I was smart and strong. I'm working at getting stronger, building a proper career now, and I hope, building other things too.

I'm just not sure what I'm ready for yet, or what I want or need. Sometimes, I get this terrible feeling in my chest, this hole in my heart, and I wonder what it is I'm missing. Back in the day, I'd fill that up with food or, later, exercise, or maybe writing. Writing often fills the hole.

But, more and more, I realize that during these black holiday times, it's not food I'm craving, and it's not a picket-fence house, and it's not a new Jeep or an iPod and it's maybe not even cheap insulin.

I want to know that I'm enough. That I've done enough. That I've run hard enough, fast enough. I want somebody to say that I did well. That I can stop running. That I've proved myself. The thing is, every time I think I'm done running, there's always something else. The next thing and the next thing. Some way I can be better, stronger, more accomplished.

But who am I trying to prove my worth to?

Just me. Just me, because at the end of the day, that's all that matters. Everybody else will take you or leave you, as they please. I'm the only one it matters to, but that's maybe why it hurts so much when I think I'm not this dynamic, worthwhile person in other's eyes. It's like, fuck, don't you see how fucking hard I fucking work? You think I just woke up one morning with three degrees and wrote ten novels? You think I jump up every morning and this shit is easy? You think this shit is easy?

It's never easy, not for anyone. It's never perfect. I'm never perfect. I'm in a constant state of becoming.

Maybe that's why I always feel like I'm so tired, like I'm in a race that I'll never finish.

I want to be good enough for me. That's the trick.

I'm just afraid that if I stop running, if I'm good enough, that it'll all fall apart again, that I'll revert to somebody I used to be, that I'll become someone I hate.

If that constant state of becoming is tiring, it's tiring because it's hard to get to this place, harder to get to the place I want to be.

Long race, big finish.

That's the plan.

Diabetes: Levels of Care

I continue to fight with my insurance company about my prescription benefits. The thousand dollar HRA that my company provided me is supposed to go toward our $1100 deductible, and according to my account online, is billed automatically. This has worked when I go into the actual doctor, but it's not working for prescriptions. When the pharmacy submits the claim, insurance insists I still have an $1100 deductible, and makes me pay the full amount out of pocket.

I've now paid nearly $500 in medications in the last month. Yesterday it was $179 in testing strips. Yes, for a month's worth of testing strips. When I was poor and "not really insured" (I had a *real* $2500 deductible), I spent about $50 a month in testing strips. This change of brand and amount of testing is a decision I made with my endo based on what the new meter could do for me and what insurance would cover.

Thing is, there are levels of diabetes care, which I think that not a lot of people really get. There's nothing so fucking aggrevating as relying on lab-produced drugs to live. If you want to live bare minimum, hand-to-mouth, you can use expired insulin, get free insulin from your endo, find a local "emergency pantry" diabetes clinic (ours is only open from 9-3 M-F, which basically means it's not made for people who are employed), and test 3-4 times a day instead of 7-10.

And that, of course, is how I survived during that long dry spell between January and June. I used insuline for 60 and, once, for 90 days - two to three times longer than I should have, literally until it started working so erratically that I couldn't rely on it anymore. I tested less often, with a generic meter that didn't record my numbers, so I had to record them by hand. I did, in fact, use exercise and a low carb diet not just to control sugar but because I used less insulin.

This kept me at about $300/$350 a month in meds.

When I can get the fucking paperwork sorted out for this insurance (at this point, I have to go to my HR manager again. The "customer service" people at insurance agencies can't change anything, can't talk to your account manager, can't research anything, can't do anything but read back what they see on their screen, which is what you see on your screen, and they can't make any sense of the billing error either, let alone fix it), I plan to get an insulin pump. Once again, an insulin pump is a very rich privileged diabetes choice. It's expensive to buy, the sort I want is expensive to maintain (about $300 a month), and you still have to buy testing strips. At least this one comes with a built in glucose monitor.

Fighting with my insurance company has already brought me to tears twice. It reminds me of the days of expired insulin and the hoarding of testing strips.

There's this strange terror about "giving" people "free" or "affordable" health insurance because, well, they'll use it. I find that "fear" incredibly funny, because it's not like we'd be "abusing" benefits or care... it's just that for the first time in our lives, we'd be getting the proper kind of care we need. When I was underinsured, I didn't go to my endo every three months like I'm supposed to. In fact, I'm supposed to be seeing an nutritionist and a diabetes educator in addition to my podiatrist and endo. I wouldn't have seen my podiatrist for the minor complaints I'm seeing her for now, either. All of these doctor's visits, using proper insulin, testing the number of times I need to, I wouldn't be doing those things.

And, in fact, if this paperwork isn't fixed soon, I *won't* be doing those things, cause I'm about to max out my credit card.

Insurance, decent salaries, these are things that give us the *proper* level of care, instead of forcing us to rely on emergency care and tragic complications because of the bare bones strategies we've used to survive on our paltry salaries. I still have over a thousand dollars worth of hospital bills from those three emergency room trips I took earlier this year that I'm trying to sort out (none of which were even diabetes related). I can't afford $500 a month in meds on top of that, and I don't want to go back to the life I lived when I was paying $300 a month in meds. It wasn't fun.

I do have a chronic illness. I will die without drugs. Without the proper level of drugs, I will die horribly and more quickly. In any case, I suppose, we all die, but if the care exists to keep me a productive member of society, why not do it? Why let the people who are willing to care for themselves properly die for lack of drugs?

Lucky me, living in America, I have a credit card. I'm white. I'm middle-class. I can find access to cheap or free drugs if I lose my job (we'll see after tax season - nothing is certain), but what about everybody else? I get that there are a lot of diabetics out there who don't take care of themselves, who don't manage it, either from lack of education or lack of interest, but more and more, I realize there are a lot of people with poor self care who suffer from lack of resources. It's an incredibly expensive illness, if you want to take proper care of it. It takes a lot of time and effort, and so much of that is completely invisible. It's my Lantus and Novolog and my meter in the little black case. It's discreet shooting up before meals, even more discreet now that I have pens instead of vials and syringes. Unless you see me work out or watch how I count out units of insulin and measure out units of food by eyeing it over every time (yes, every time) I eat, or you know I have to put on the "pause" button during especially fun and unexpected bouts of sex because my sugar is plunging and all my wiring is turning off, unless you see me waking up in the middle of the night with lows and testing three times between midnight and one am trying to make sure I'm not overcorrecting, unless you notice the way I stare at people running down the street so nonchalently with some envy, because sudden and unplanned-for bouts of exercise can strand me, shaky and blacking out, in the middle of nowhere, unless you see me nearly blacking out or constantly checking my pockets before I go for short walks to make sure I have sugar with me, unless you see me during one of those "unplanned" walks when I *didn't* have sugar, well... I guess on a casual level it looks like no big deal. It's just a shot before lunch.

There's a lot of stuff you just do, this stuff that becomes part of everyday life, these things you have to weigh and measure and plan for and have backup plans for. There's a lot of carb/insulin/exercise(personal and professional) math that goes on. There's a lot of concern about having stuff I can eat around at work and family and restaurant functions. There's a lot of feeling like a fuck up and a failure and a screwup and a broken person sometimes, too. There's a lot of correction and overcorrection. There's a lot of exhaustion when you meet new people and realize that they still think that all being diabetic means is that you can't eat sugar (seriously). There's a lot of non-interest in talking about diabetes and chronic illness among a group of people who have no idea what you're talking about, cause they're just not going to get it.

I get tired sometimes.

I was coming home from the gym the other night and watching some kids doing school sports drills and thinking, "Wow, remember the freedom in that? Of just running without thinking about it? Without wondering if you remembered that lifesaver in your pocket, without second guessing what you just ate, what your last number was?"

I was out and about last night, playing Wii boxing, and after two games realized I probably shouldn't do a third because my sugar was probably going to plunge, and did I really want to test again at a social function? Because really, who wants to be "That chick with the chronic illness?"

Fucking nobody.

So I'm sucking up my $500 in medical bills until my claims get sorted out. I'm talking to my HR manager. I'm resolving not to get any more angry. I'm not getting hopeless. I'm remembering that it's a gift and a privilege to be here, that I almsot died last year, that death's a lot closer for me than for other people, that these are borrowed moments, and I need to make the most of them.

If all it takes to live a little longer is a maxed out credit card and jabbing myself with a needle ten times a day, really, that's not so much at all.

I just keep telling myself that.

Well, Yes

What Cronenberg Movie Are You?

You are: A History of Violence - Most people don't know your true nature (and you'd like to keep it that way). You know who you once were and you'll fight to the death for what you want now.
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Thanksgiving: Casa De Dayton `07

Note that I have been forbidden to post photos of the Boyfriend, but here's Thanksgiving at Casa de Dayton with Steph, Ian, Steph's brother Josh, and our crazy dawgs.

Here's to many more.


MMMMMMMMmmm. The boys do prep


MMMMMmmmmmmmmmmmmmm. PIE!


Tender roast pork with cranberries and grapefruit. I think oranges would have been better, but oh, was it tender!


Boys do more prep work. If they weren't family, it would almost be sexy.


Josh, pretending it is, nonetheless, sexy.


Family resemblence? Not so much.


Forgive him. He goes to Ohio State.


I'm not sure what's being prepared here, but it must be tasty!


The dawgs sure think so.


Kimmy would rather have roast squirrel for Thanksgiving.


Josh is a sports writer at Ohio State. Here, he debates the finer points of celebrity interviews.


Yeah, that's what I call Thanksgiving.


Mmmmmm beer!


Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm marriage!


Marriage is FUNNY.


Tessa's reeeeeally hoping something will fall on the floor.


Annnnnnd we're spent!

Mmmmmmm Thanksgiving!

Latest Pony Mod

Thanksgiving pics later tonight... we're having our Casa de Dayton Thanksgiving today.

Snow

Well, that was certainly a surprising thing to wake up to.

It really is winter now, isn't it?

Perfume: the movie

I really didn't expect them to keep the orgy at the end.

Really, really didn't expect that.

But, there it was, in all its glory.

Actors were so-so, nobody was very well characterized, and I didn't much care when anyone died, but the images were pretty and it's an interesting sort of fable.

Still has the same problems as the book, which I know I blogged about at some point, but can't find in my archives. Suffice to say, the whole "random murder of random women" thing gets old. Why are all 13 scents the scents of women? Would it have had the same effect if he distilled men? Why not? And, you know, I get bored with movies where all the female characters are bought, sold, captured, killed, locked up, mutilated, and/or distilled.

It gets old.

Quote of the Day

"So I've never gotten the bad boy thing... I like good boys. Nice, earnest ones with a scary intellect and a heart of pure tempered carbon steel.. So why did it take me until I was 36 to realize that this is because I'm not a good girl?"

Suddenly, my dating history makes a lot more sense.

Hitman

You know, a lot of this guy's problems would be solved if he just wore a fucking hat.

Also, worlds that include women who are more than just whores are generally more interesting than the ones that don't.

I'm just saying.

Other Reasons to Love Gymming

Cause while you're doing your 40 minutes of cardio before you yourself descend into the weights area, you can do so on the second level of the gym, which overlooks the weight training area....

...and all the folks in the weight-training area.

Yum.

And, of course, there was also the Amazon chick, who was like Nyx on crack, dude. All I could think was, "Hot damn, I could so totally have muscles like that and then I could crush armies with my mighty fists!! Crush, I tell you!!!"

It was most excellent.

One For the Road

Nothing but Angst and Dirty Words Since 1996

Get a Cash Advance

If WWII was an MMORPG

I don't know why I find this so damn funny, but I do.

Maybe cause I'm a history major who spends way too much time with gamers.

Gymming

In an effort to combine all of my various interests into one easy payment, I went to the gym at the Greene today to check it out. On their little survey of things you'd like to accomplish with your gym membership, I noted that they did not include "health reasons." They did, of course, include, "weight loss" and "weight gain." I suppose "health reasons" should have been covered by "cardiovascular fitness."

Whatever.

When I sat down with my poor little just-out-of-college gym monkey sales guy who showed me around, he checked over my reasons for coming in and did a double-take. I watched him do it, skipping over "weight loss" and coming back to it, stuttering, going back to "building strength" and "cardiovascular fitness" which I had checked, talking about those, and then warily coming back to fat loss.

"Are you interested in reducing your fat percentage or losing weight?" he asked, tentatively.

"Not really," I said. "If I lose weight while increasing my fitness level, great, but if I don't, it's really no big deal."

"Oh," he said. Long pause. I realized he had no script for that, particularly when talking to a female client. How often does a woman come into a gym and say she *doesn't* want to lose weight?

And it was like: Honey, I lost way too much of my life to that dull pursuit. I learned the thin=fit=good lie first hand, when I lost weight and everyone thought I was somehow spiritually good and greater, when in fact, I was dying. I got to eat like a normal person for the first time in my life, eat and not worry a moment about my weight, and you know what? I could only do that cause I was dying.

Not interested in that anymore. It's lost a lot of its luster.

I want to be strong.

"Oh, OK," he said, and moved on. But did, in fact, bring it up again some time later as we were walking around touring the pool and the squash courts.

"We do have personal trainers. I know you say you aren't interested in losing weight, but if you're interested in a nutrition plan or anything like that, our personal trainers can really help with weight loss."

"Great, thanks for telling me," I said. I'm polite when I need to be. He seemed terribly nervous about the whole thing, though, so I projected strength and competence, and talked about Chicago, South Africa, the rec center in Alaska.

What I'm looking for is someplace to go when I'm bored and it's cold and dark outside. Our house is pretty small, and with two jerks, two dawgs, and the Boyfriend coming around all the time, well, it gets crowded in here. I've been extra bitchy toward my roommates and the Boyfriend, and I have a feeling it has a lot to do with the fact that now that it's cold and dark, and I don't get outside enough, I don't ride my bike around as much, and just generally... yeah. I need some room to kick around.

I was actually pretty happy with the look of the gym. It reminded me a lot of the rec center at U of Alaska, where I pretty much lived for much of my dorm life. Alaska's pretty damn boring unless you're willing to get outside, and when it's fucking cold, you don't want to go outside. The problem I've discovered with my kickboxing gym is that it's not on a bus line and I'm paying a lot for classes without a lot of variety. I need someplace I can live all winter.

This place has a pool, tons of equipment, an indoor track, spinning classes, kickboxing classes, strength training classes, and much more. It might be the best place for me to spend the winter.

I need to run out some of this excess energy, and I want to feel strong again. It's time.

To Do

Find out what the next book for the SF book club is. Check out both local area Writers' Groups (cause really, why not?). Check out the downtown boxing gym. Get certified on the local climbing wall.

etc. etc.

In short, be more social.

Also, write more.

You know... the usual.

Towards a Humanist Pornography

But what if there was another history of porn, one that was filled less with pneumatic shaven bodies pummelling each other into submission than with sweetness, silliness and bodies that didn't always function and purr like a well-oiled machine? The early origins of cinematic pornography tell a very different story about the representation of sex, one that suggests a way both out of the rubberised inhumanity of today's hardcore obsession but also out of the claim that pornography is inherently exploitative. What if porn stopped being such a brute and actually started to deal with the question of pleasure?

Lock & Load

In the spirit of more roller derby, less interpersonal squishiness, Travis and I went out shooting at his place yesterday. He lives out in the Ohio sticks, so when we got bored we holstered the glocks at our hips and went traipsing around the underbrush pulling useful things out of the creek and collecting interesting-looking rocks.

I've never walked around with a gun at my hip before, and I didn't like the idea of having it loaded, even if we were just wandering around some abandoned woods like a couple of Alaskan kids. So the magazine was half empty, and nothing was in the chamber.

Travis has a CCW license, and usually carries when it's legal (most public buildings, it isn't), but I've only been shooting a few times, and have no interest in carrying all the time (Ohio gun laws being what they are, you can carry a gun in full view without a permit. You need the permit for carrying it "concealed." They're weird laws).

See, if I'm going to get into a fight with somebody, I'm going to hit them in the face. Not enough people carry guns for me to feel in fear of my life when going around without one. I'm much more of an in-your-face type of fighter.

Still, shooting is a useful skill, and it does get me out into the woods, which, frankly, I really missed during my four years in Chicago. There's a lot I miss about Chicago, but I'm a country girl at heart. So it's been fun to hang out with a country boy.

When Travis clipped the holster into my pocket, it was an interesting experience, walking around with a gun at my hip. There is a certain rush of power, and I couldn't help but being reminded of the women in Bear's book, Carnival, all of them going around with their "honor" or their hip. It's a heady, powerful sort of feeling, one that comes with that cliched "great responsibility" thing. It got me to thinking about what it would be like to live in a world where everyone - men and women - was armed.

One of the things I've wanted to get used to and learn more about for the purposes of the GW books are guns and explosives. If you're going to write about a world that's been at war for three hundred years and has armed most of its population, it sure wouldn't hurt to get a taste of what it would feel like to go around armed.

When it got dark, Travis and I headed inside and I watched him go through the process of hooking up a new motherboard into a PC. After that he taught me how to take apart and clean a glock, which took a lot more time than you might think. Mainly because he's finicky about his hardware, and I was a noob who isn't so detailed with solvent and a toothbrush:



All this while we watched Black Hawk Down (which, as everyone's said, is indeed a fucking awesome movie) and talked about the evolution of PC processors.

It occurred to me then that it's not always a matter of spending lots of money to travel to far away places or take lots of equally expensive classes to learn stuff I don't know, it's a matter of surrounding myself with cool people who can teach me cool stuff. And being open and willing to learn.

It keeps my brain busy. And that keeps me happy.

We had a really good time.

Stuff I'd Like to Do in My Copious Spare Time

Definately.

Lars and the Real Girl

Went out tonight and saw Lars and the Real Girl at the indie theater downtown... It was well worth it.

The movie turned out to be much the way I expected it to be, which was a good thing. The beginning was a little rocky, and I worried over some of their pacing/narrative choices, but they smoothed it out and cleaned it up at the end and avoided some pitfalls and I think... I think it turned out Just Right.

For those who haven't seen the premise, a lonely recluse of a guy who has trouble dealing with his family and the people around him gets himself a Real Doll (not work safe!) for a girlfriend. The remarkable part of this story is that the small town he's in pulls together and supports his delusion. They treat "Bianca" like a real person, and by extension, they show their love and support for said recluse and his family, who are struggling through their own guilt over how to deal with some of his social awkwardness.

The movie was careful to make clear that there were deeper issues around his taking up a doll for a girlfriend besides him not being able to get a girlfriend. It was more along the lines of him dealing with a desperate need he had in a way that was emotionally and physically safe for him. This was why I was a little put-out by the ending, but not a lot. Worse would have been to do the birth/funeral simultaneously, and I think that would have ruined the point. The idea is to continue being afraid and to take the risk of real human companionship anyway.

Most of all, though, this was a movie about love, and that's what really got to me. The way everybody loved this guy, the way the town pulled together and showed their overwhelming acceptance of him for who he was. That kind of love and acceptance is something you don't see a lot.

Overall, a worthwhile little feel-good movie.

400 Love Letters

Click the colored squares to view.

Next Up

Black Desert. Mmmmm juicy.

It also occurs to me that it takes more than writing and sex to sustain me.

Thing is, I spent so long judging my self worth based on what I could do, physically, on the things I'd done, my academic accomplishments, that when I stop actively reaching toward those things, challenging myself, I lose that vital sense of self, of strength. I don't get my strength from other people, or how others see me. Quite the opposite, actually.

I have to go out and push. And with all the health issues, the spastic plane jumping and angst and trying to hold onto this great job and wow everybody professionally (and personally - relationships are stressful), I haven't been doing the things that make me me. I think that's what's starting to hit me now.

OK, that and my sugar has fucking sucked for three months.

Yeah, well, there's that too. And they all feed into each other. I have to figure out how to physically challenge myself the way I used to. It's been a fucked-up three months, though. I've spent a lot of time running, surviving, you know? It's like, if I just stayed busy enough, I didn't have to think about anything.

Now I'm thinking, and I realize there's stuff missing.

Math is hard, yo.

"Too much boyfriend(s). Not enough roller derby."

Yeah. Just like that.

It Occurs to Me...

...that when I start out the day with a sudden, unexpected low cause I hit a vien while shooting up in the morning, my whole day is pretty much a wash.

ug.

About 15 Minutes...

There's a new girl at work who was introduced to us here in the IT room. She's quite lovely, petite, and blond, and the lot of us engaged her in our usual sort of introductory banter. As the boys and I chatted with her, I found myself thinking about how much easier introductions must be for the traditionally beautiful.

One of the assistant managers from one of our corp stores, also slim, blond, magazine-beautiful walked in earlier, and one of the guys commented that he now understood why it was one of the hardware guys liked to go over to that store so often.

How different it must be, I thought, to not have to prove yourself all the time, to be accorded a certain amount of respect, regard, and attention for being lovely. When I walk into a room, I feel like I have to measure everything. I have to stand tall, walk confidently, look everyone in the eye, be witty, quick on the uptake, breathtaking, interesting. In short, I try very hard to garner respect for myself because I know it's not going to just be there. I know I have to work harder to get looked at, and harder still to have my voice heard and my opinion valued.

This is not just the realm of those who don't look like the lad's mag ideal, either, of course. These women may be getting immediate attention, but real respect? People assuming they're smart? Not so much. They have to prove it as much as I do.

Sometimes, though, I feel like I have to prove a lot more.

If I can't be thin, I can be strong. If I can't be blond, I can still have great hair. If I can't get respect by sheer virtue of my loveliness, I'll get it by virtue of my wit and strength, cause we're all going to get old someday. Not all of us are going to look like spring chickens forever.

I suppose this is the stuff that spills over when you live in a culture obsessed with youth, boobs, and beauty. That's all very well and good a pursuit when you're 14, but when you're 22 you realize that if you ever had it, it's gonna go, and if you never had it, you're not going to get it. So if you haven't been cultivating a personality before 22, you sure as hell better start.

I know that there are people - men and women alike - who get by on youth and beauty and charm. God knows I've been stunned and tongue-tied by beauty quite often, and I don't expect that to go away, but you can only get by on youth and beauty for about 15 minutes... after that, you better know something.

I always get angry at myself for resenting beautiful people - beautiful women, in particular - because it's incredibly unfeminist. It's the old divide-and-conquer thing, and on top of that, it's all fucking bullshit. T&A doesn't really mean anything, though we've attached a shitload of bizarre cultural significance to it.

Whenever I catch myself straying off into that "Gosh I wish I was magazine-beautiful so life wouldn't be so hard" fairyland, I remind myself that it sure as hell beats having nothing but looks to go on, cause at 40 or 50 or 80 (or, in this culture, to be dead honest, 35), we're all pretty much in the same boat. We're all fucked by the same cultural assumption that youth and beauty are a religion, and that only those who've got it get love, respect, attention, devotion, compassion... all those terribly human things that we crave.

There's enough love and compassion to go around. Love's not just for beautiful people.

But sometimes it's hard to remember that.

What I Had For Dinner Tonight

Fried zuchinni with cheese and a slice of pumpkin pie.



Mmmmmm pie.

And then I put together all my paperwork for my endo appointment tomorrow:



MMMMMmmmm diabetes.....

View of the Day

Quote of the Day

Second Accomplishment of the Day

I just beat Turret Wars on the "normal" setting.

It's the little shit, man. Gotta celebrate whenever you can.

The Celebrations are Short-Lived

Oh yay! I've finally sent off agent-requested revisions to said agent! Oh glorious day! Oh fantastic -

Oh, gawd, I'm twelve hundred words behind on my Black Desert writing schedule.

It really is like I have two full-time jobs.

Round 85

Latest God's War revisions are done (again).

I get the feeling I'm going to be saying that a lot this year.

In Which the Protagonist Has a Small Heart Attack

Went into the pharmacy today to fill my med subscription. I'd been putting off refilling my insulin until I had my insurance card, so needless to say I was down to half a pen of Novolog and my last Lantus pen.

So I walk in and get just one thing of testing strips on top of that because I don't have the prescription refill on me cause I see my endo this week, and my last insurance company didn't cover the strips unless I had the RX.

But you can imagine my shock when the pharmacist aid said, "That'll be $342."

"I'm sorry?" I said.

"Three hundred forty-two dollars," she repeated.

"That can't be right. I have a $100 deductible, and then everything is free. They cover 100%."

She called over the pharmacist, who looked rather surprised at the slip. "Oh!" he exclaimed, "I never look at that part!"

Well, of course. Why would a pharmacist care how much we're all paying for the drugs that keep us alive.

Dude. My company is paying thousands of dollars a month so I can have this wicked-good health care and you're fucking me over.

"I can't afford this," I said, knowing full well I wasn't going to leave the pharmacy without the drugs. Because without the drugs, I will die.

So I pulled out my credit card, which now has over $12,000 on it. For just this reason.

I was so angry I couldn't speak. I wanted to scream and rage and knock something over. I was literally shaking as I left the pharmacy, I was so fucking angry. Here were all the old memories again, of being unemployed and spending putting $350 on the credit card every month that I didn't have, just so I could fucking live, digging a deeper hole just to postpone the invevitable.

And I fucking hate that feeling. I hate that dependency. I hate that my ability to fucking live could be fucked at any time by somebody fucking up their paperwork. I hate that I'll never be able to fucking work for myself because I'll always have to have employer-sponsored health insurance. I hate drugs in general and insurance companies in particular and I hate everything that has to do with anything.

Most of all, I fucking hate being poor.

NOTE: restrained phone call to the insurance company confirms that I am covered - but I must pay the first 1K out of pocket and submit my receipts to be reimbursed. I wonder if they will reimburse me for the finance charges on my credit card as well... no?

The Writer at Work

Things I Learned to do Today:

Hook up a light switch and mount an outdoor light.

Sexy.

Bloody Hell

It needs another Rhys chapter.

Bloody hell.

Hell hell hell.

Note to Self:

Too much sex. Not enough writing.

But really, how often do we all get to say that?

Jesus vs. Doctor Who

heh heh heh.

Why I Travel

Because it really comes in handy when you're sitting down to explain the smell, feel, geographical layout, and logistics of fantastical foreign cities.

Seriously.

Can I write all these trips off now?

Reasons to be a little crazy...

When was the last time I wrote new material? Not summaries and revisions, but new material?

Ah, yes.

Thing is, I'm doing so much writing at work that it doesn't *feel* like I haven't been writing. I feel like I've been... well, writing every day. And I certainly *open up* my actual writing files at least once a day. Now I need to find the headspace to get cracking again.

Working on my new writing schedule tonight. Let's start with 500 words a day and see where that gets us. I've got a long way to go to get back on track.

Gaaaaah!

Yes, sometimes you are crazy.

"My boyfriend is Type 1. Before I met him almost 4 years ago, I knew next to nothing about diabetes. He has always insisted that he can feel when his blood glucose is high or low, and that he doesn't need to test that often. He limits his sugar intake and takes insulin twice a day, so I assumed he had it under control.

Our relationship is a very close one, but once in a while he will have these mood swings out of nowhere. He gets depressed, just wants to be left alone, feels like everything and everyone is against him. During these mood swings, he often tells me he has a feeling that I don't love him anymore or that I'm seeing someone behind his back. He feels his life is a mess and that everything is going wrong.

Then, just as suddenly as it came on, the depression will lift and everything is fine again. I never understood what was happening. I knew he loved me, but I didn't understand how he could go from the perfect boyfriend to someone who couldn't even stand to be in the same room as me (or anyone else for that matter), with no warning and seemingly for no reason." Read the rest here.

OK, all you diabetics out there? Please don't do this to your partners. Trust me when I say that you're just crazy, and when you even out, life is beautiful again. The girlfriend, in this instance, had to do all the work and research about t1 in order to get this guy back under control, which also explained and controlled the mood swings when they occurred (yes, they were low sugar episodes - not terribly surprising).

If you won't get your sugar shit together for yourself, you need to do it for the people who put up with you, cause nobody deserves to go through that crap. Learn to recognize it, and make it really clear it's not the other person's fault.

If anybody speaks to me during a low, the first thing I say is "I'm a little low; I'll be OK in a minute." That way, if it turns out I can't shut the fuck up (I usually can, but not always), then they know that if I'm snappy it's not about them, it's all about me.

Please look out for the people who care about you. I caused a lot of havoc the six months before and after I was diagnosed; I was learning what was me and what was just the sugar. When you can distinguish this for yourself, you can make it a lot easier for the other people in your life to distinguish it, too.

Rhino

Somebody should tell that Rhino she's fine just the way she is. Also, I love me some pretty unicorns, but at the end of the day, the rhino's gonna win in a rumble.

Most Days, Really

No Christmas for You

I can get tickets home for the holidays for just under $700, or just under $800 if I want to avoid Chicago and Denver and get out at a reasonable hour. I used to think getting home from Chicago for just under $600 was a raw deal.

Ah, the joys of living in Ohio.

I'll get home for the holidays, sure, but nobody's getting presents this year.

Tra-la!

For Travis

Because I'm EVIL.

We Can't Stop Here...

Mmmmmm Sparta!!!

Looking Back

When archaeologists look back at something like this, what will they see? A religious complex? A city built to honor some god? A complex created to flee the mainland? A high-tech leper colony?

When I look at some of the gradiose projects we put together in our time for the amusement of the wealthy, I can't help but think that everything we assume about the cities and monuments of the past is dead wrong.

Sleepless Nights

Malaysia's Muslim men are suffering sleepless nights and cannot pray properly because their thoughts are distracted by a growing number of women who wear sexy clothes in public, a prominent cleric said.

Nik Abdul Aziz Nik Mat, the spiritual leader of the opposition Pan-Malaysian Islamic Party, said he wanted to speak about the "emotional abuse" that men face because it is seldom discussed, the party reported on its Web site Wednesday.

"We always [hear about] the abuse of children and wives in households, which is easily perceived by the eye, but the emotional abuse of men cannot be seen," Nik Abdul Aziz said. "Our prayers become unfocused and our sleep is often disturbed."

I have this problem all the time, let me tell you. I mean, there are bare-armed, bare-legged men walking around my bedroom all night long. I've even seen men wear short sleeves at church, without shame.

Hookers.

How to Make Pancakes Like a Crackhead

Oh the deliciousness!