Thursday, March 29, 2007
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.
Wednesday, March 28, 2007
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.
Wednesday, March 21, 2007
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?
Tuesday, March 20, 2007
Monday, March 19, 2007
- 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.
- Bipartisan calls for Gonzales's resignation.
- The FBI used flawed procedures to get phone records, even after concerns were raised internally.
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.
Friday, March 16, 2007
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.
Thursday, March 15, 2007
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.).
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.
Wednesday, March 14, 2007
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
Monday, March 12, 2007
Friday, March 09, 2007
Check ya later
I think I'm going to take a little blog break. Probably not for long, but lately I've been spending way too much time inside my head and it's not a pleasant place to be, so I'm getting of it for a bit. I'll still be reading and commenting, but probably not as often. I just need to stop for a bit, need to chill out and get my shit together.
Thursday, March 08, 2007
Last night, I think I ate my weight in Terra chips. Then I sat here and thought about how nice it would be if I could just be anorexic or bulimic for a while. Seriously. I wondered if I could make myself become that way. Instead, I felt guilty about thinking that way, so I ate some toast. It's fucking ridiculous. I can't seem to stop eating these days.
The rational part of my brain knows that it's because the Bug has been sick and doesn't want to eat solid food, she just wants some boob. Her nursing needs have probably doubled - she's nursing almost as often as she did when she was just a month old. Non-stop nursing makes me hungry. Seriously hungry.
I've been trying to counteract the hunger with good foods - fruits and humongous salads, but at night, when TCBIM is out or asleep and the kids are in bed, I start cruising the kitchen like a john cruising the Combat Zone. I thought about making falafel, but it was 10:30, far too late for that. I ate some goldfish crackers and stared into the cupboards. I yelled at myself, called myself some wonderful names and went back to the computer. Ten minutes later, I was back in the kitchen, making toast.
I hate myself when I get like this. I feel out of control and angry and guilty and all sorts of things. It's awful. It spills over into other areas of my life, too.
I feel guilty because I don't think I do enough with the kids. I don't have the money, time or inclination to take them to all these programs. I just don't want to. I go to a play group, which the girls and I both love. The women really are nice, far nicer than I ever hoped to find. They all seem to have their shit together, though. They show up with their hair done and a bit of make up on and no spit up or oatmeal or magic marker on their jeans. Their kids always look neat. Mine look a mess some days. As do I. They talk about things they do on the weekends or where they take their kids during the week and I just sit there, thinking what a lazy fuck I am for not doing more.
Why do I continually beat myself up this way? It's not like these women are competimommies, rubbing it in my face that they're better/smarter/more together than I am. I'm sure if I voiced these concerns, some of them would have the same problems, and if they didn't, they'd be supportive rather than derisive. But no, I don't say anything (and if any of you play group ladies are reading, hi. Yes, I really am nuts. Don't mind me, I'm mostly harmless.)
I just want something that will stop me from feeling this way, but that won't make me Hoover up the kitchen or have mad rashes or heart palpitations or destroy my already-dormant sex drive or make me sweat like a pig. I'm weaning off the Paxil because a. I don't think it's helping the depression one iota (given that I went thru a lovely bout of self-loathing not even a month ago) and 2. it gives me night sweats. It's disgusting.
Mostly I just want to stop feeling like I am the worst person in the world. I really, really hate feeling this way.
Wednesday, March 07, 2007
A rabbit came into a pub one day and ordered a cheese and onion toastie, The barman had never seen the like of it but acquiesced and soon produced the toastie which the rabbit declared delicious before hopping on out the door.
This became a regular occurrence at lunchtime, rabbit would arrive and have a bit of a chat with the regulars and the barman while waiting on his cheese and onion toastie. One day the barman suggested maybe a change was in order; would the rabbit not like to try a toasted special instead or maybe just add some ham as they had a lovely side of ham in and nobody else really ate toasties and it would be an awful waste. The rabbit thinks about it for a few minutes and says why not.
The barman makes a lovely big tomato, cheese, onion ham and pepper special for the rabbit and serves it up with a flourish. The rabbit eats it up and as usual hops out the door.
There's no sign of him for a week and the barman and the regulars start to get worried, another week goes by and still no sign so they place posters up and ask all the other woodland creatures that frequent the pub.
Finally after a month goes by the rabbit shows up looking practically see through.
"Jaysus" says the barman "What happened to you, you look like you've seen a ghost"
"It's even worse than that" replies the rabbit "I am a ghost, I died soon after I left here"
"Holy Jesus and all the saints above, what the hell happened to ya?"
"Mixing me toasties"
A group of friars were behind on their belfry payments, so they opened up a small florist shop to raise funds. Since everyone liked to buy flowers from the men of God, a rival florist across town thought the competition was unfair. He asked the good fathers to close down, but they would not. He went back and begged the friars to close. They ignored him. So, the rival florist hired Hugh MacTaggart, the roughest and most vicious thug in town to "persuade" them to close. Hugh beat up the friars and trashed their store, saying he'd be back if they didn't close up shop. Terrified, they did so, thereby proving that only Hugh can prevent florist friars.
A monastery priest was beginning his Chant 101 class. He greeted his new initiates by chanting "Good morn - ing." The class repeated, "Good morning," except the priest thought he heard someone singing "Good evening".
Just to be sure, he sang, "Good morn - ing". Sure enough, from somewhere amidst all the "Good morning" responses, he heard the word "evening" being chanted.
Frustrated, he sang back to the class....."Someone chanted evening."
Monday, March 05, 2007
This is my mug. I love my mug. I use it every day. It feels so good in my hand. I can slip my fingers thru the handle, my forfinger resting just perfectly in the indentation at the top. It's ideal for coffee, holding just enough that I can finish it before it goes cold. It's also wonderful for tomato soup and Ritz crackers, holding just the right amount, keeping it toasty warm all the way to the end. I love the colour. I love the vaguely Oriental feel of it. I. Love. My. Mug.
I got it at a craft fair. I don't like craft fairs. I don't GO to craft fairs. I'm not into country decor and I find craft fairs to be rife with such dreck. Graft fairs generally make me get the screaming heebie jeebies, so this is a big deal. I think it's safe to say that I'm not a craft fair kinda girl.
But this craft fair is different. First of all, it's outside, in Woodstock, CT, in the fall. There are horse chestnuts on the ground, the leaves are only gorgeous and there's a smell of apples and wood fires and pumpkins in the air. It's fanfuckingtastic. Second of all, it's at Roseland Cottage. I love Roseland Cottage. It's beautiful.
Anyway. Back to the fair.
In addition to some amazing kettle corn, this fair boasts a goodly showing of potters. I love pottery. I don't have too many pieces, but my other favourite piece was also bought at this fair.
I've been trying the Google all day, to no avail. I'm so upset about this that it's bordering on ridiculous.
Saturday, March 03, 2007
Go over to popculturemadness.com, click on the decade you turned 18, find the actual year you turned 18, and copy the top songs for that year...pasting them. Then you Bold the ones you liked;
Faith - George Michael
The Way You Make Me Feel - Michael Jackson
Need You Tonight - INXS
Father Figure - George Michael
Never Gonna Give You Up - Rick Astley (I know, I know, shut up)
Get Outta My Dreams, Get Into My Car - Billy Ocean (I said shut up)
Wishing Well Terence Trent D'Arby (I have this album. On vinyl. Shut UP!)
One More Try - George Michael
Together Forever - Rick Astley (Just let it go, ok?)
Monkey George Michael
Sweet Child O' Mine Guns N' Roses
Love Bites - Def Leppard
Red Red Wine - UB40
Groovy Kind Of Love - Phil Collins
Kokomo - The Beach Boys
Wild, Wild West - The Escape Club
Look Away - Chicago
Kerri tagged me for this Sevens meme.
Seven Things To Do Before I Die:1. Go to Italy and Ireland
2. Get season tickets to the Red Sox
3. Eat at French Laundry
4. Try oysters
5. Get my degree
6. Write the Great American Novel (riiiiiiiiight)
7. Stop getting so angry at politicians (oh, wait, that won't happen 'til after I die.)
Seven Things I Cannot Do:
1. Like the *spit* Yankees.
2. Ski (but I fall really well.)
3. Stop being a sarcastic bitch
4. Stop rolling my eyes at the ridiculousness of life.
5. Let incorrect grammar/punctuation/spelling lie.
7. Read trashy novels
Seven Things That Attract Me to… The Mr.
1. He's pretty cute.
2. He's always happy.
3. He works hard.
4. He's open-minded.
5. He's willing to listen to me blather on. And on. And on.
6. His optimism
7. Hockey-player's ass. Yum.
Seven Things I Say:1. Oh, fer fuck's sake
3. Anything stolen from Eddie Izzard. (ditto)
4. Shut. Off. The. TV.
5. Do you want another beer?
6. I hate this fucking car.
7. Love you, love you, love you lots!
Seven Books That I Love:
1. Firefly Summer - Maeve Binchy
2. The Harry Potter series
3. The Fionavar Tapestry series - Guy Gavriel Kay
4. The Mists Of Avalon - Mirriam Zimmer Bradley
5. The Sparrow - Maria Doria Russell (Read. This. Book.)
6. The Autobiography of Henry VIII - Margaret George
7. Dragonriders of Pern series - Anne McCaffrey
Seven Movies That I’ve Loved (at different times and in no particular order):1. When Harry Met Sally...
2. Dazed and Confused
3. The Breakfast Club
4. Frankie And Johnny
5. The Philadelphia Story (0r any Katherine Hepburn movie)
6. The Princess Bride
7. Bull Durham
Seven People To Tag (in no particular order)
Whoever wants to play along. I'm too lazy to do all those hyperlinks.
Friday, March 02, 2007
Thursday, March 01, 2007
I cannot get them into the same family daycare. No one has any openings, especially not infant openings. So I started calling centers.
I'm starting to think that I'm not going to be able to afford to work. The one that's closest to me would charge me $470 a WEEK for two kids. The next one on my list wants a mere $435 a week.
I have a call in to this community action program. I'm hoping they have some less expensive alterntives. I just can't afford anything even close to those rates. Not if I want to actually make money. There's not much point in me going to work if I'm only going to bring home $25 after I pay for daycare.
What the hell am I going to do?