The numbers game

"So, Rita, how you feeling these days?"

That's the terms that my friends use these days to ask about my diabetes. I never know how much of an answer to give. "Fine" seems trite, but a more detailed explanation, like "Well, my A1C number is higher than my doctor would like, but I am on a combination of meds, which initially didn't have much effect, so now I am sticking to a under 20 grams per day carb plan plus meds, which seems to be helping a bit" causes people's faces to freeze into polite, but faraway stares, eyes glazed over.

So, it's better to just say, "Fine, thanks!" So I do.

The truth is, I am learning to live with it. I have made some progress:

• I don't cringe and feel like I am losing consciousness when I prick my finger anymore, which is a relief.
• I am not plagued with panic about how long I will stay healthy anymore. The thoughts of possibly having to inject insulin in the near future don't feel as much like a death sentence as they did back in September, when I was first diagnosed.
• I have managed to kick the bread/sugar/rice/pasta/potato habit and most (not all) of the resentment that went along with it. The numbers on the scale were never enough of an incentive, but for some reason, the fear of the blood monitor flashing a high number at me is enough to keep me on the straight and narrow, something I have never been able to do in the past.
• The magic number is 125. More days than not, I am at or under that.
• The numbers on the scale are slowly going down, but they no longer matter to me. Neither does the incentive/punishment of fitting or not fitting into certain clothes, looking or not looking like a certain person, or any of the hundreds of other things I used to entice/torture/bribe/withhold from myself in an effort to forcibly change my ingrained bad habits. Outward appearance used to be my sole focus; I spent alot of time and effort on worrying about how I looked, or didn't look, or should look. I never considered or cared about the toll that was being exacted on my health. That seems to have all slipped away. The only thing that matters now is preserving my life.

Despite all of these epiphanies, I still have several "areas for growth" (that's Human Resources politically correct terminology for things that I am still fucking up):

• I don't exercise nearly enough. For diabetics, exercise is crucial to keep your sugar levels straight. For some reason, that hasn't clicked in my head yet.
• I don't drink nearly enough water. Never have, still don't.
• I only test my blood sugar level in the mornings. I really should test through the day. I don't.
• I don't eat three meals and three snacks a day. The Diabetic Association frowns upon that, and me, probably. But truth is, I threw their diet in the garbage after the first month.
• I still lean heavily on "mock" foods, like diet candy, diet soda, and other stuff that lets me fool myself into thinking that I can still eat junk. I should kick those, too, even if they are supposedly "legal". It's probably as risky as an alcoholic drinking "near beer". It feels like its just a small step back onto the real stuff. That would kill me.
• I haven't done anything to decrease my level of stress, another big important thing for people living with diabetes. I don't know how.
• I have put off going back to the doctor to have a new A1C level drawn. They have called me twice. I am going to go next week. That's what I said last week. And the week before.

So, for all of you who have asked, thank you. This is probably way more than you wanted to know. Maybe seeing these words on my screen from time to time will inspire me to "challenge myself with opportunities to enhance my growth areas", or whatever.

In Memorium (again) . . . Bye, Jack

I am immensely saddened by the loss (again) of my blogging idol, Jack. His blog, Texas Music, was a daily stop for me. Jack's blog was filled with some of the best writing I have had the pleasure to stumble across in this vast wasteland. His stories of drug busts, and victory and agony on the mean streets brought some of his reality into my quiet little space, far removed from the gritty underbelly that he willingly crawled into, day after day.

Jack left once before, and when he did, I posted an old chestnut that I wrote way, way back in June of 2004 (that is an ETERNITY in blogland.) In honor of the passing of Texas Music, I would like to post it yet again. Feels like the right thing to do.

Just a housekeeping note: I will sorrowfully remove Jack's link (again) from my Favorites list, and add a few new little spaces that I enjoy visiting pretty regularly. It's a bittersweet change, but I think that Fred Sanford (portrayed by the inimitable Redd Foxx) explained it best when he tearfully called up to his dearly departed wife, Elizabeth, on the eve of his marriage to his long-suffering girlfriend, Donna, "Honey, she could never take your place, but I just miss you so bad, and I'm so lonely, I just needed to fill your space."

Preach on, Fred.

Thanks for everything you posted, Jack. You will be sorely missed.

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If you lived in a friendly neighborhood for awhile, and made good friends with the neighbors, you would say goodbye if you moved away, right?

Not so in the world of Blog.

Reading the thoughts of another creates a very strange intimacy, and whether it is "real" or not, a friendship. I have a list of blogs that I am quite fond of. Over time, I have begun to build and actually feel a sense of community with my fellow bloggers, those that I visit every week.

Come to think of it, making my rounds of my favorite blogs is a lot like taking an evening stroll around my neighborhood. Checking in with frequently updated blogs is kind of like passing a busy house with kids in the yard, flowers on the porch, and someone giving you a friendly wave. You can stop, listen to what they have to say - happy or sad, offer up your own little impressions, and move on, secure in the knowledge that the friendship is solid. Occasionally, you might notice that someone has completed some bloggy home improvements, and you can cast an appreciative glance from your vantage point on the virtual sidewalk, maybe by leaving a comment like "Hey! Nice template change! Easier to read, and the colors are great!"

Sometimes, you pass a blog and realize that you haven't seen much change there for the past few weeks. As a matter of fact, the comments left by other passersby are like so many virtual soggy newspapers littering the driveway, and you figure your friend must be on an extended vacation. You pass by, day after day, not expecting to see them back and then one day you are pleased to see that all the newspapers are cleaned up, the lights are on, and they have, indeed, returned. More times than not, you are immediately given a guilt-ridden explanation of their absence, and maybe hear a little about their travels, see a few snapshots.

Again, everything is back in order.

Then there are those times that you walk toward a well-loved blog home and are shocked to see broken blinds dangling in dark, lifeless windows; the front door has been carelessly left wide open, revealing an empty shell where your friend once dwelled. And you think to yourself: what? no goodbye? after all of the time we spent sharing thoughts and experiences, they could just leave in the night and not say a word?

So, with a startling mixture of emotions (disappointment, rejection and ill-placed anger), you make a mental note not to bother to stop there anymore, and begin to wonder hopelessly if it is worth it to bother getting to know the neighbors at all. But then, in the midst of your thoughts, you spot a sign that you hadn't noticed before, and wonder who lives on "Next Blog" street. Allowing your customary path to be diverted, you decide to "just take a look" and inevitably see a moving truck parked at a house down the block, moving a new occupant in who seems to be both lost and eager to meet you all at once, and you think to yourself: I wonder what his story is?

And so it goes . . .

Freddie's dead . . .

. . . but I swear to God he is being channeled through THIS kid


Does no one else think that Gerard Way (the lead singer of My Chemical Romance) must be some kind of satanic love child of the late, great Freddie Mercury of Queen and Smashing Pumpkins Billy Corgan?

He sings alot like one, and looks alot like the other.

I caught the video for "Black Parade" this weekend, and there he was, all decked out in a marching band uniform. He even holds his microphone stand straight up in the air.

That's a straight up Queen move, right there.

Now, I'm not badmouthing My Chemical Romance.

Not at all.

It's sort of like Coke Zero. Do I like it? Yep.

Do I like it as much as REAL Coke? Nope.

But I can't have REAL Coke anymore.

I can't have Freddie Mercury anymore, either.

It's all about changing and moving on, people. But I STILL miss Freddie.

So, to recap: MCR, good.

Good as Freddie? Nope.

Happy New Year, ya'll

Emmylou Harris

Amazing. Always has been, always will be. She turned 60 this year, and she is as gorgeous as ever. Her hair, once raven black with a signature sweep of white is now fully and proudly silver.

Her lyrics are haunting, her voice is magical. She's been performing and writing for over 40 of her 60 years, and her discography is stunning.

She only gets better with time.

The Connection
The heel of my boot is on the leg of my chair
My chair leans back and rests on the wall
And the wall runs the length of my room to the door
And the door reaches down to the sidewalk

And the sidewalk leads to the edge of the street
And the street takes you out to the old highway
And the highway ends at the county line bridge
The bridge takes you up to the interstate

The interstate rolls on beyond the horizon
Where miles tend to turn into days
It finally runs into
The high road that winds through the city that took you away

And it reaches a sidewalk that kisses a wall
And the wall rises up to the 33rd floor
And the floor feels you stand at the balcony ridge
From the rail you look out on the interstate

The interstate rolls on beyond the horizon
A highway of dreams come and gone
And always leads back through the roads that connects you
To the fool that keeps holding on

The heel of my boot is on the leg of my chair . . .