I totally stole this idea from another blog I surfed to today ( http://badgermeetsworld.blogspot.com/2005/10/songs-im-deeply-ashamed-to-admit-that.html ). So, without further ado, my list:
1. Life In One Day - Howard Jones
2. Never Gonna Give You UP - Rick Astley
3. Everybody Wang Chung Tonight - Wang Chung
4. Wham Rap - Wham
5. Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go - Wham
6. Club Tropicana - Wham
7. Love Machine - Wham (Yes, I like Wham. Yes, I'm embarassed.)
8. Rock Your Body - Justin Timberlake (I know, I know....)
9. Get Down TOnight - KC & The Sunshine Band
10. Long Tall Glasses - Leo Sayer
11. Sweet Caroline - Neil Diamond
12. Laughter In The Rain - Neil Sedaka
13. Muskrat Love - Captain & Tenille
14. Afternoon Delight - Starland Vocal Band
15. Just Can't Get Enough - Erasure
16. Brandy - Looking Glass
17. Don't Forget Me When I'm Gone - Glass Tiger
18. Escape (The Pina Colada Song) - Rupert Holmes
19. Broken Wings - Mr. Mister
20. Kyrie Elieson - Mr. Mister
21. Died In Your Arms - Cutting Crew
22. I've Done Everything For You - Rick Springfield
23. Took The Words Right Out Of My Mouth - Meatloaf
24. Midnight At The Oasis - Maria Muldaur
25. Romeo's Tune - Steve Forbert
26. Break My Stride - Matthew Wilder
27. I Drove All Night - Celine Dion (I really, really, REALLY hate that I like this song)
28. Skater Boy - Avril Lavigne
29. Orinoco Flow - Enya
30. Baby Got Back - Sir Mixalot
Ok, I've stopped at 30, but believe me, my list of cringe-worthy music is nearly endless.
Monday, October 31, 2005
Tuesday, October 25, 2005
The Letter to The Parents
Well, after calming down a bit (and only a little bit), here's what I wrote to Sam's parents. I haven't sent it yet because I want to talk to O about it first, but as long as she's ok with it, I'm going to mail it to them.
I also called the guidance counsellor at O's school and told him what was going on. He thought the letter was a good idea. I feel someone justified in sending it now, since a professional thinks I should. I was hoping I wasn't just being all mother bear-ish about this.
I hope you notice my restraint and lack of swearing. Had I written this last night it would have started "Dear Ignorant Asshats." Probably not the way to win friends....
Hi,
It was brought to my attention that O wasn’t invited to Sam’s birthday party because you were worried about her having diabetes. I can understand your nervousness. The disease can sound scary when you don’t know much about it.
I do wish you had called and spoken to me about it. I would have been happy to answer any questions you may have had and to discuss how O handles her diabetes. She’s had it for over 8 years now, so it’s old hat for her. She can run her pump and check her sugar and is very self-sufficient. As long as she knows the carb counts of what she’s eating, she’s fine. If carb counts aren’t available, I’m just a phone call away to help her figure them out.
If you had called, I would have made myself available for the party. I would have been happy to stay at the house with her if that would have made you more comfortable. I am just a phone call away and since we also live in Xtown, it wouldn’t have taken much time for me to get there should an emergency have arisen.
O was upset that she didn’t get invited to this party and I was upset for her. We both work really hard to ensure that she leads a normal, everyday kid kind of life and I would have done anything in my power in order for her to have attended Sam’s party. I hate to see her excluded because of this. She shouldn’t be penalized because of her disease.
Thanks,
Julia
I also called the guidance counsellor at O's school and told him what was going on. He thought the letter was a good idea. I feel someone justified in sending it now, since a professional thinks I should. I was hoping I wasn't just being all mother bear-ish about this.
I hope you notice my restraint and lack of swearing. Had I written this last night it would have started "Dear Ignorant Asshats." Probably not the way to win friends....
Hi,
It was brought to my attention that O wasn’t invited to Sam’s birthday party because you were worried about her having diabetes. I can understand your nervousness. The disease can sound scary when you don’t know much about it.
I do wish you had called and spoken to me about it. I would have been happy to answer any questions you may have had and to discuss how O handles her diabetes. She’s had it for over 8 years now, so it’s old hat for her. She can run her pump and check her sugar and is very self-sufficient. As long as she knows the carb counts of what she’s eating, she’s fine. If carb counts aren’t available, I’m just a phone call away to help her figure them out.
If you had called, I would have made myself available for the party. I would have been happy to stay at the house with her if that would have made you more comfortable. I am just a phone call away and since we also live in Xtown, it wouldn’t have taken much time for me to get there should an emergency have arisen.
O was upset that she didn’t get invited to this party and I was upset for her. We both work really hard to ensure that she leads a normal, everyday kid kind of life and I would have done anything in my power in order for her to have attended Sam’s party. I hate to see her excluded because of this. She shouldn’t be penalized because of her disease.
Thanks,
Julia
Monday, October 24, 2005
I hate people
I don't even know if I can type this coherently, I'm so upset.
O told me today that she didn't get invited to Sam's birthday party because Sam's parents didn't want to deal with O's diabetes. She seemed very matter-of-fact about this when she told me so I didn't say much but when she left the room, I cried. Who DOES that???! All you had to do was CALL me, you fuckwits! I would have talked to you about it, I would have come over and checked her sugar during the night, I would have made it so that she could have had her first sleep-over birthday party and I would have made sure she had fun. I would have done anything. Anything.
I cannot fucking believe that people are such uncaring assholes that they wouldn't invite a kid because she has diabetes. I am very tempted to write a note to Sam's parents and tell them, minus all the swearing, that I would have been happy to discuss any concerns they may have had, that all they would have had to do was to call me.
O was the only girl from her class who didn't get invited. It's like a knife in my heart just thinking about it.
O told me today that she didn't get invited to Sam's birthday party because Sam's parents didn't want to deal with O's diabetes. She seemed very matter-of-fact about this when she told me so I didn't say much but when she left the room, I cried. Who DOES that???! All you had to do was CALL me, you fuckwits! I would have talked to you about it, I would have come over and checked her sugar during the night, I would have made it so that she could have had her first sleep-over birthday party and I would have made sure she had fun. I would have done anything. Anything.
I cannot fucking believe that people are such uncaring assholes that they wouldn't invite a kid because she has diabetes. I am very tempted to write a note to Sam's parents and tell them, minus all the swearing, that I would have been happy to discuss any concerns they may have had, that all they would have had to do was to call me.
O was the only girl from her class who didn't get invited. It's like a knife in my heart just thinking about it.
Thursday, October 20, 2005
Lies and the Lying Liars Who Tell Them
Apologies to Al Franken.
I am 99.9% sure that The Boy lied to me about something he bought.
He went to Bob's Stores (sporting goods) for a pair of running shoes on Saturday. When we left to go to the Foo Fighters concert, I poked thru the bag that was in the back seat and found a receipt for golf balls (who the hell knew golf balls cost $50?!! Not me, that's who), a watch ($15), a $50 golf shirt, $45 wind pants and the running shoes ($90!). All in all, it was a total of $241. I asked him about it and he said that it must have been D's stuff. We had borrowed D's truck so we could pick up a futon (in the pouring rain, but that's another rant for another day. Maybe.), so I half-accepted this answer. However, he had the watch on his wrist, which I thought was odd. He said D gave it to him. Uh huh.
Today I'm coming home from WW and I'm thinking about this because it's been bugging the crap out of me for days. I went into the trunk of his car and there was the bag, still with the receipt in it. The receipt was dated Saturday. The Boy got the truck from D on Friday. Soooo, how did the receipt and bags get into the truck on Saturday when The Boy had had the truck all weekend?
The Boy is still insisting that this is D's stuff, that he has no idea how the bags got into his trunk, nor why that receipt is dated 10/15 5:11 p.m. (the time that The Boy called me FROM Bob's Stores to say he was on his way home).
WTF, buddy? Just friggin' admit that you bought the shit. Why lie about it? Do you think I'm an idiot?
It's not even so much that he bought all this crap, although it pisses me off because we really can't afford it, he doesn't need golf balls (Hello? October. No more golf) and he really doesn't need another shirt, especially a $50 shirt.
Oh, and he's pissed because I went into the trunk of his car. Well, don't LIE to me and then I won't have to treat you like a four year-old. Jackass.
And now all the warning systems in my head are blaring because this is what my ex-husband started doing to me, too, towards the end of our marriage.
As he so often says to me: Whatever.
I am 99.9% sure that The Boy lied to me about something he bought.
He went to Bob's Stores (sporting goods) for a pair of running shoes on Saturday. When we left to go to the Foo Fighters concert, I poked thru the bag that was in the back seat and found a receipt for golf balls (who the hell knew golf balls cost $50?!! Not me, that's who), a watch ($15), a $50 golf shirt, $45 wind pants and the running shoes ($90!). All in all, it was a total of $241. I asked him about it and he said that it must have been D's stuff. We had borrowed D's truck so we could pick up a futon (in the pouring rain, but that's another rant for another day. Maybe.), so I half-accepted this answer. However, he had the watch on his wrist, which I thought was odd. He said D gave it to him. Uh huh.
Today I'm coming home from WW and I'm thinking about this because it's been bugging the crap out of me for days. I went into the trunk of his car and there was the bag, still with the receipt in it. The receipt was dated Saturday. The Boy got the truck from D on Friday. Soooo, how did the receipt and bags get into the truck on Saturday when The Boy had had the truck all weekend?
The Boy is still insisting that this is D's stuff, that he has no idea how the bags got into his trunk, nor why that receipt is dated 10/15 5:11 p.m. (the time that The Boy called me FROM Bob's Stores to say he was on his way home).
WTF, buddy? Just friggin' admit that you bought the shit. Why lie about it? Do you think I'm an idiot?
It's not even so much that he bought all this crap, although it pisses me off because we really can't afford it, he doesn't need golf balls (Hello? October. No more golf) and he really doesn't need another shirt, especially a $50 shirt.
Oh, and he's pissed because I went into the trunk of his car. Well, don't LIE to me and then I won't have to treat you like a four year-old. Jackass.
And now all the warning systems in my head are blaring because this is what my ex-husband started doing to me, too, towards the end of our marriage.
As he so often says to me: Whatever.
Wednesday, October 19, 2005
Obsessive?
I'm getting worried about O She is obsessively checking her blood sugars. Yesterday, between 7 a.m. and noon, she checked 12 times. A couple of checks were only three minutes apart. She says that she always feels low, but she's not low, she's usually nicely in range. I don't know what to do about this. I talked to her endocrinologist the other day, who suggested an appointment with their counsellor. Unfortunately, the cousellor isn't available until Dec. 7th. At the beginning of the year, I chalked it up to nerves because she'd just started in middle school and just started checking her sugars in class, but it's only getting worse. She was checking 4 - 5 times, then it bumped up to 7 - 8 and yesterday and the day before was 12. There's no need for her to check that much.
I'm hoping I can convince the endo to get her on to a continuous glucose monitoring system. It has a sensor that goes under the skin and alarms when your blood sugar goes too high or too low. It takes a reading every 5 minutes. I've left a message for the endo and when she calls back, I'm going to run this by her. Beside the fact that O is running thru (expensive) test strips like there's no tomorrow, she's got to be missing class time by checking like this. She does it in her seat, but it's still a distraction. I hope to god I can convince them to give her this and that the insurance company will agree with me so I don't have to try to scrape up the money somehow. I'm sure they're outrageously expensive since the technology is so new. I also called the company that's making this new CGMS to see if I can get any advice on how I might finagle one of these beauties.
When I called my husband to talk to him about it (because I'm upset and worried about her), he said he thinks that O is just bored at school and doing this because it's like a toy. Right, after 8 years, I'm sure she's still fascinated with checking her blood sugar. He said she just wants to eat glucose tabs, so she's checking in the hope that she's low. He thinks I'm overreacting by calling the endo and he started doing his typical not-letting-me-talk thing and dismissing everything I say with a "whatever". Thanks for the support there, dear. Jerk.
I wish the endo would hurry up and call me.
I'm hoping I can convince the endo to get her on to a continuous glucose monitoring system. It has a sensor that goes under the skin and alarms when your blood sugar goes too high or too low. It takes a reading every 5 minutes. I've left a message for the endo and when she calls back, I'm going to run this by her. Beside the fact that O is running thru (expensive) test strips like there's no tomorrow, she's got to be missing class time by checking like this. She does it in her seat, but it's still a distraction. I hope to god I can convince them to give her this and that the insurance company will agree with me so I don't have to try to scrape up the money somehow. I'm sure they're outrageously expensive since the technology is so new. I also called the company that's making this new CGMS to see if I can get any advice on how I might finagle one of these beauties.
When I called my husband to talk to him about it (because I'm upset and worried about her), he said he thinks that O is just bored at school and doing this because it's like a toy. Right, after 8 years, I'm sure she's still fascinated with checking her blood sugar.
I wish the endo would hurry up and call me.
Thursday, October 13, 2005
The morning rush
It’s Murphy’s Law that when you’re in a rush or it’s pouring rain, you’re going to get delayed and spend time outside.
This morning, I was woken up abruptly by my husband. He can never just wake me up, he always has to give me a jab and say “Hey! It’s 6 o’clock! Time to get up!” To be fair, I am NOT a morning person and if he tried the soft and gentle approach, I’d just go back to sleep. But I still want to smack him.
Ten past six, I stumble into the shower. It’s always a debate. Do I wash my hair or not wash my hair? If I wash it, I will leave the house with a wet head because a.) it’s long and b.) I hate fussing with it and c.) who the hell has time to do their hair? Not me. If I don’t wash it, by noon it looks like a drunken monkey clinging to my head. So, wash.
Twenty past six, race downstairs to get the baby’s clothes out of the dryer, move the wet stuff into the dryer and put in a load of towels. How can three people and a baby go thru so many towels? It’s unbelievable. If you went into my bathroom on any given day, you’d swear there were at least 6 or 7 people living in my house. Towels hanging like Tibetan prayer flags. Draped like a Bedouin tent. That’s another rant for another day, however.
Six thirty. O comes down to the cellar and has the baby in her arms. Oh great. I was hoping to get dressed and get her bottles made before she woke up, but no, there she is, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. Take the basket of clothes and the baby upstairs, plunk both on the bed. The baby starts to whine until she discovers the basket of clothes, then it’s party time. And people wonder why I don’t fold clothes.
Wonder of wonders, I have an outfit that actually matches. I do have to wear black pumps with brown trousers, which bugs me, but it looks ok. My hair, meanwhile, resembles a tangled mass of brown spaghetti. Always a good look.
Six forty. Wrestle I into her clothes. This is one child who does NOT like to be dressed. She much prefers naked and makes these whimpering, distressed cries while giving me the “Why do you torture me so, mother?” look. I used to feel guilty at that look. Now I just laugh at her.
Six fifty. This is not a good time to be logging O’s blood sugars, but I haven’t done it for three days. If I don’t log, I can’t track trends and if I don’t track trends, I can’t make adjustments to her insulin pump. The pump only holds a certain number of readings, though, and three days is, apparently, one day too many. Bugger. I really need to download that software onto my computer….
Seven. Put some rice, peas and chicken into a little container. Ditto for applesauce and rice cereal, ditto again for some baked beans. Make up three bottles. Throw them into I’s diaper bag. Bring diaper bag and my purse out to the car. Grab the two outdoor cats’ bowls and bring them back in with me. Put some leftover pasta (yum, with sundried tomatoes, artichokes, sauteed mushrooms and onions) into a container and grate some paremsan cheese on top. Grab a yoghurt. Grab I. Bring all of this out to the car. As I’m putting I in the car, I realize I’ve left the back door open and no sooner do I think “Damn, don’t let the dog get out,” what do I see streaking by me in a black and white blur? Thankfully, Dog thinks that the car is fanTAStic, so when she sees the back door open, she hops right in. Shut the door on the dog, go back inside and get her leash. Come back out and retrieve the dog, who does NOT want to get out of the car. Bring the dog inside. Feed the dog. Get my coat. Realize that yet again, my husband has not only forgotten to take out the trash, he’s forgotten to drag the wheelie bin to the bottom of the driveway.
Heave a big sigh. Take the trash bag out of the kitchen bin. Bring it outside, making sure to shut the door this time. Put it in the wheelie bin. Wheel it to the bottom of the drive as it starts to pour rain. Lovely. See why I don’t do my hair? Get in the car and leave.
On the up side, I lost NINE pounds at weigh in this week. Go me!
This morning, I was woken up abruptly by my husband. He can never just wake me up, he always has to give me a jab and say “Hey! It’s 6 o’clock! Time to get up!” To be fair, I am NOT a morning person and if he tried the soft and gentle approach, I’d just go back to sleep. But I still want to smack him.
Ten past six, I stumble into the shower. It’s always a debate. Do I wash my hair or not wash my hair? If I wash it, I will leave the house with a wet head because a.) it’s long and b.) I hate fussing with it and c.) who the hell has time to do their hair? Not me. If I don’t wash it, by noon it looks like a drunken monkey clinging to my head. So, wash.
Twenty past six, race downstairs to get the baby’s clothes out of the dryer, move the wet stuff into the dryer and put in a load of towels. How can three people and a baby go thru so many towels? It’s unbelievable. If you went into my bathroom on any given day, you’d swear there were at least 6 or 7 people living in my house. Towels hanging like Tibetan prayer flags. Draped like a Bedouin tent. That’s another rant for another day, however.
Six thirty. O comes down to the cellar and has the baby in her arms. Oh great. I was hoping to get dressed and get her bottles made before she woke up, but no, there she is, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. Take the basket of clothes and the baby upstairs, plunk both on the bed. The baby starts to whine until she discovers the basket of clothes, then it’s party time. And people wonder why I don’t fold clothes.
Wonder of wonders, I have an outfit that actually matches. I do have to wear black pumps with brown trousers, which bugs me, but it looks ok. My hair, meanwhile, resembles a tangled mass of brown spaghetti. Always a good look.
Six forty. Wrestle I into her clothes. This is one child who does NOT like to be dressed. She much prefers naked and makes these whimpering, distressed cries while giving me the “Why do you torture me so, mother?” look. I used to feel guilty at that look. Now I just laugh at her.
Six fifty. This is not a good time to be logging O’s blood sugars, but I haven’t done it for three days. If I don’t log, I can’t track trends and if I don’t track trends, I can’t make adjustments to her insulin pump. The pump only holds a certain number of readings, though, and three days is, apparently, one day too many. Bugger. I really need to download that software onto my computer….
Seven. Put some rice, peas and chicken into a little container. Ditto for applesauce and rice cereal, ditto again for some baked beans. Make up three bottles. Throw them into I’s diaper bag. Bring diaper bag and my purse out to the car. Grab the two outdoor cats’ bowls and bring them back in with me. Put some leftover pasta (yum, with sundried tomatoes, artichokes, sauteed mushrooms and onions) into a container and grate some paremsan cheese on top. Grab a yoghurt. Grab I. Bring all of this out to the car. As I’m putting I in the car, I realize I’ve left the back door open and no sooner do I think “Damn, don’t let the dog get out,” what do I see streaking by me in a black and white blur? Thankfully, Dog thinks that the car is fanTAStic, so when she sees the back door open, she hops right in. Shut the door on the dog, go back inside and get her leash. Come back out and retrieve the dog, who does NOT want to get out of the car. Bring the dog inside. Feed the dog. Get my coat. Realize that yet again, my husband has not only forgotten to take out the trash, he’s forgotten to drag the wheelie bin to the bottom of the driveway.
Heave a big sigh. Take the trash bag out of the kitchen bin. Bring it outside, making sure to shut the door this time. Put it in the wheelie bin. Wheel it to the bottom of the drive as it starts to pour rain. Lovely. See why I don’t do my hair? Get in the car and leave.
On the up side, I lost NINE pounds at weigh in this week. Go me!
Tuesday, October 11, 2005
Aha!
So I'm new at this whole blogging thing (no way, Julia, y'don't say?). I just disovered how to do a title. I was jealous of those with better blogging skills than I have.
That said...I'm still jealous of the blogging skills of some people. I can't seem to think of a thing to say most of the time. The words definitely don't fall off my fingers, rather they stumble and trip and crash into things most of the time. Rather like myself, now that I think of it. It's probably a good thing that I haven't told anyone that I have this blog - they'd all laugh and point and I'd be suitably embarassed.
On to something completely different....
I started Weight Watcher's last week. I did it once before and lost 40 pounds. That's a considerable amoutn of weight. I put it all back on, though, so I'm at it again. I get very bored with the counting and the tracking and the feeling of deprivation. I really like food. I love to cook and I love to eat well. I'm not chowing down potato chips and soda all day long, but put a filet mignon and some pan-roasted fingerling potatoes and grilled asparagus and I will happily clean my plate. Top it off with something decadent like tiramisu or creme brulee and fuggeddit. Eight thousand calories later and I'm rolling out the door.
But I'm going to keep plugging away at this WW stuff. I don't want to weigh what I weigh. I am not deluding myself that I'm going to be 125 lbs, but getting down to 145, 150 would be very, very nice. And that means some serious stick-to-it-iveness, something I've never been good at.
That said...I'm still jealous of the blogging skills of some people. I can't seem to think of a thing to say most of the time. The words definitely don't fall off my fingers, rather they stumble and trip and crash into things most of the time. Rather like myself, now that I think of it. It's probably a good thing that I haven't told anyone that I have this blog - they'd all laugh and point and I'd be suitably embarassed.
On to something completely different....
I started Weight Watcher's last week. I did it once before and lost 40 pounds. That's a considerable amoutn of weight. I put it all back on, though, so I'm at it again. I get very bored with the counting and the tracking and the feeling of deprivation. I really like food. I love to cook and I love to eat well. I'm not chowing down potato chips and soda all day long, but put a filet mignon and some pan-roasted fingerling potatoes and grilled asparagus and I will happily clean my plate. Top it off with something decadent like tiramisu or creme brulee and fuggeddit. Eight thousand calories later and I'm rolling out the door.
But I'm going to keep plugging away at this WW stuff. I don't want to weigh what I weigh. I am not deluding myself that I'm going to be 125 lbs, but getting down to 145, 150 would be very, very nice. And that means some serious stick-to-it-iveness, something I've never been good at.
Thursday, October 06, 2005
Aaaarrrrrgh!!
I reached down to brush what I thought was a crumb from my chest and what do I find? A big ass bug. No idea what kind because I was too busy hopping up and down and hollering.
This is what I hate about living out in the sticks. Besides the fact that it takes 20 minutes to get anywhere, there are bugs. Jesus, are there bugs. Big, scary-looking June bugs that beat themselves against the screens. Crickets. The crickets have invaded my cellar. They sound lovely when they're outside, chirruping away at night, atmospheric and relaxing. They sound really fucking loud when they're in your bedroom. You can't find them, but you can hear them and you just know they're going to hop on you just as you start to fall asleep. You want to see someone go from asleep to flailing around like a lunatic, let a cricket jump on their face, then sit back and watch the ensuing hilarity. Just make sure you stay out of the way of the thrashing arms and legs.
Worst of all are the spiders. I never knew there were so many kinds of spiders in New England. Little black ones, tiny tan ones, big, threatening-looking brown and black striped jobs and the ones I hate the most: Daddy Long Legs. They look like alien robots. They get on the ceiling and just crawl around in their hurky-jerky way and I sit there and watch them, paralyzed. When I yell for my husband to come and kill it (feeling like Bill Cosby the whole while - Kill it!!!), he just laughs at me. I've become better at smashing the things. And I know, I know, it's bad luck to kill a spider. But I think the spider is the one with the bad luck. If you don't want to die, don't come in my house.
This is what I hate about living out in the sticks. Besides the fact that it takes 20 minutes to get anywhere, there are bugs. Jesus, are there bugs. Big, scary-looking June bugs that beat themselves against the screens. Crickets. The crickets have invaded my cellar. They sound lovely when they're outside, chirruping away at night, atmospheric and relaxing. They sound really fucking loud when they're in your bedroom. You can't find them, but you can hear them and you just know they're going to hop on you just as you start to fall asleep. You want to see someone go from asleep to flailing around like a lunatic, let a cricket jump on their face, then sit back and watch the ensuing hilarity. Just make sure you stay out of the way of the thrashing arms and legs.
Worst of all are the spiders. I never knew there were so many kinds of spiders in New England. Little black ones, tiny tan ones, big, threatening-looking brown and black striped jobs and the ones I hate the most: Daddy Long Legs. They look like alien robots. They get on the ceiling and just crawl around in their hurky-jerky way and I sit there and watch them, paralyzed. When I yell for my husband to come and kill it (feeling like Bill Cosby the whole while - Kill it!!!), he just laughs at me. I've become better at smashing the things. And I know, I know, it's bad luck to kill a spider. But I think the spider is the one with the bad luck. If you don't want to die, don't come in my house.
Tuesday, October 04, 2005
It's funny. When I'm lying in bed, I can think of a million witty, insightful or weird things to say but put me in front of a keyboard and blank screen and poof! It's all gone. Brilliant. Just brilliant.
I married a younger man. A much younger man. He's 25. I'm 38. It's been an interesting 5 years, let me tell you. Younger men are great because, well, the stamina thing is nice. And man, are they eager. For the most part, The Boy is a great person - responsible and kind and funny. But sometimes, man, he acts his age. He becomes the typical selfish guy. Maybe all guys are like this. I know most of the men I've dated in the past have been like this, so maybe it's a guy thing. I don't know. I just know there are days that I wonder what the hell I was thinking.
I married a younger man. A much younger man. He's 25. I'm 38. It's been an interesting 5 years, let me tell you. Younger men are great because, well, the stamina thing is nice. And man, are they eager. For the most part, The Boy is a great person - responsible and kind and funny. But sometimes, man, he acts his age. He becomes the typical selfish guy. Maybe all guys are like this. I know most of the men I've dated in the past have been like this, so maybe it's a guy thing. I don't know. I just know there are days that I wonder what the hell I was thinking.
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