Life Imitating Art.
This is a little, gray cat onesie in a laundry basket:
This is a not-so-little gray cat in a laundry basket. Not quite the same:
Siah, you're so close. Yet so, so far from helpful.
This is a little, gray cat onesie in a laundry basket:
This is a not-so-little gray cat in a laundry basket. Not quite the same:
Siah, you're so close. Yet so, so far from helpful.
BSparl loves to sleep ... but on her own damn schedule, thank you very much. She doesn't like naps between 9 am and 3 pm, she wakes up in the middle of the night whenever she deems fit, and she has no use for the bassinet that my very generous best friend loaned to us. So we moved the bassinet into the living room and I have these lofty plans of getting it back to the NBF sometime before we leave for Florida.
Unfortunately, someone else had plans for this discarded napper:
I can't stand this cat.
Don't think that you can come in here and be all small and cute and expect us to love you. Everyone keeps coming by and cooing over "Oh, how much hair you have!" and "You sweet baby, you make the silliest faces!" They want to marvel over your teeny hands and teeny feet, and the little snaps on your newborn baby clothes. They hold you and rock you and sing to you and when you burp, they laugh at how cute your burps are.
Not us, though. We're on to you.
Don't think we've forgotten that WE used to run this joint. It was once all about us, and how small and snuggly we were. How soft our fur was and how much we made her laugh. Kerri used to write posts about how we'd make silly faces and even how we'd alert her to low blood sugars.
Please. You think we're going to alert her to anything, when first she replaced us with that Dexcom thing, and now she's replaced us with YOU?
Don't you hear the noises you make, baby? You wail at a decibel that even we, as cats, can't tolerate. For something so small, your lungs are acutely developed and capable of some serious sounds. We tend to hide under the bed, but not because we're scared. We're actually under there, all three of us, conferencing: "She's LOUD, right?"
And those white things ... the diapers? Yeah, those. We think Kerri and Chris should be thankful that we use a litter box and it only has to be dealt with every other day or so. You, baby? Require attention in your nether regions every two hours or so, shooting out epic yellow poops on a whim. But we can't figure it out, BSparl. They like, celebrate your crap. They say, "Oh, that's a good one," and they mark it as some kind of success in a book by your changing table. They're never celebrated our offerings, even when we leave them outside of the litter box so they can get a better look. Most we get is an "EW! Which one of you crapped on the floor??" We don't feel appreciated for our efforts, that's for damn sure.
BSparl, you don't know how good you've got it. These two idiots worship you, even when you're gross. Appreciate that, little baby, because they buy the groceries for this house, so it's good to be on their side. And besides, they've purchased you all these fun things to sleep in, that we are trying to 'share' with you, but they aren't having it yet.
We, as a cat collective, know that we'll warm to you eventually. Because once you are able to work the can opener, you'll be useful to us.
All of our baby stuff has been stashed in our bedroom, in the corner, waiting to be assembled in time for BSparl. And then this hospitalization issue came up, and now Chris is left at home to build the nursery in my absence. He's been putting things together one at a time - the pack and play, the stroller, the bouncy chair, the swing, the changing table - and keeping them all carefully stored in our bedroom, waiting for the baby and I to come home and figure out where all the stuff should go.
"We just need to find a way to keep the cats off this stuff." I said.
"Absolutely. I don't want them going anywhere near the baby's bed or anything. We need to train them to stay away, but for now, I'll just keep everything in the bedroom with the door closed." He responded.
We shared a mental fistbump over this plan, firm in our resolve to keep those pesky furballs away from our daughter's new toys. But a mere few hours later, he sent me this photo:
With the caption: "Unbelievable." It appears that the baby shower was just a party to provide cat toys. (If I could find the photo of fat cat Abby sleeping in the car seat, I'd post that, too. In it, she looks like she's ready to go to the Wendy's drive through for tasty chicken nuggets.)
These critters will be learning a hard lesson a week from today.
Working from my home office definitely is making for a more comfortable last trimester. I'm able to put my feet up constantly (to ward off Le Puff), I can test my blood sugar and eat randomly at whatever schedule BSparl dictates that day, and I can (thank GOD) wear sweatpants more often than maternity clothes, saving me a ton of money on trying to find outfits that are appropriate for my basketball belly.
Only problem is ... well, my coworkers.
They're freaking animals.
Prussia takes meetings constantly, and is always on conference calls. (Oh, it must be Wednesday. She's wearing her Wednesday tie.)
(I apologize for the above post. This is what happens when Chris and I end up at Target, find ourselves staring aimlessly down the aisle with 50,000 choices in baby diapers, and end up buying what is tagged on our receipt as "cat apparel.")
A guest post from Ms. Siah Sausage. Strange little critter.
* * *
Today is Kerri's birthday, and she's taking the day off to spend the afternoon with her mom and then go out to celebrate with Chris tonight.
Birthdays. I don't care about those sorts of things, unless they are my own, in which case I fully expect a carrot cake with cat nip frosting, and my own Snuggie and maybe something I can use to scratch the couch because sometimes it just plain makes my paws tired to spend all that time fixing the couch. I deserve rewards for those behaviors. I am, after all, very tolerant of Kerri and her affinity for picking me up all the time and snuggling me to her face. She still has a face. See how tolerant I am?
So it's her birthday, and the other cats and I have decided to give her our respective gifts:
Abby has decided not to shed on the couch today. This is a big deal because Abby is almost topping out at 18 pounds of fluffiness, so having her refrain from shedding means that Kerri doesn't have to vacuum today. This is also a big deal. Kerri hates vacuuming, but when Abby's fur becomes a tumbleweed that rolls across the living room floor, she starts swearing and promising to send us all to Belgium (which I would be fine with because I hear they have nice chocolate and I like chocolate and also Teddy Grahams - they are good), and then she brings out that huge vacuum cleaner that is so LOUD and sends us all scurrying for safety. So Abby won't shed.
Happy birthday, Kerri, from Abby.
Prussia promises not to sleep on her sweaters. Kerri will be very pleased, because Prussia likes to get into bags of sweaters that have just been returned from that dry cleaning place, and then she sleeps on them. Which, again, makes Kerri swear. Creatively. So no Prussia Cat nestled in the pockets of clean sweaters.
Happy Birthday, Kerri, from Prussia.
And from me. Her favorite, even though she claims to like me the least. Today, in honor of Kerri's birthday, I have made a solemn promise to refrain from doing what she hates the most - I won't scurry over to the food bowls and devour as much as I can in one breath, and then go hide under the dining room table and heave my guts out in several different locations. I won't make her crawl on her hands and knees under the table with that can of rug cleaner and a wet towel, mumbling as she mops up my offerings.
Today, I won't puke on the floor.
Happy birthday, Kerri, from your favorite Sausage Cat.
* * *
Thanks, Siah. For making me feel so ... like this.
When I was a kid, I used to watch He-Man (and the Masters of the Universe!!!) and thought pretty much any superpower could be summoned by standing in front of something big and gray and hollering "I have the POWER!!!" This assumption also involved having a tough cat friend that would be my strong, clever sidekick. Like Battle Cat, who was seriously badass.
"I have the POWER!!!!" It would work in all kinds of situations, like when my blood sugar gets all crazytown and I need the insulin to start working immediately. I'd stand in front of something gray, hold aloft my magical ... sword, I guess ... and the blood sugar would start to come down without fail.
Instead, I get this 'gray thing':
I've tried standing in front of her and making reference to "having the POWER!!!" but she doesn't seem to care. She just patters around the house, leaving her little pawprints everywhere (see them, right near her leg, on the fabric of the couch?) and staring blankly into the crinkly tube?
She's even started using the tube as her own, personal top hat. Like she's the dim little rabbit in a sad magician's act.
I'm starting to think that she's the one that has the power.
We bought a crinkly tube cat toy to keep the cats occupied during our attempt to train them to stay out of the bedroom (in preparation for BSparl's arrival). More on that later, once I figure out how to actually keep them out of the damn room.
Siah has claimed it as hers. She sits in it for hours, forgetting how to get out.
She looks like a dim little "cat"-erpillar, waiting to transform into a pain-in-the-butterfly.
Happy Sunday. ;)
When I make a list of people who have helped with our move, this hobo cat is not on it.
Give her a can of beans and a lighter and she's fine. And I'm starting to wonder about that one ear there. It's never quite straight.
(Yes, posts are light this week. My apartment is a mess, my job is grinding to a close, and my mind may have been accidentally FedEx'd to Boston. Hoping someone signs for it.)
A lovely commenter, Fran, leaving a lovely comment:
"PS how do you get your cats to sleep with you. all my cats have to sleep just out of arms reach - you wear cat nip?"
Oh Fran. It's not my fault. I wish I could make it stop. I do not wear cat nip. I don't have a headband made of Tender Vittles. I don't even leave any room for the stupid cat on the pillow.
Yet she comes.
On my head.
When Karen (from Bitter-Sweet Diabetes) was getting ready to go on her cruise, she realized she was tight on pump supplies. But never fear - Fairfield County Dinner ladies are here! I had some extra sets I could lend out to her, so she went on her cruise fully-stocked and ready for diabetes battle.
And because she is a sweetheart, she returned the supplies to me (and lent me some IV prep wipe for my trip to Spain) - and also presented me with a little token of thanks.
She made me a Sausage clone.
Siah meets her Yarn Nemesis
Siah was not sure what to make of this little gray clone, but she sniffed it for a few minutes before walking away and sitting at the edge of the bed.
Where she watched the yarn cat for any signs of aggression.
Siah stalks ... herself.
Thank you, Karen, for such a cute gift! And if you want to check out the pattern for yourself, visit Karen's knitting blog.
I'm not sure why I'm even letting her do this, but she asked like a million times. So here is a guest blog from Ms. Siah Sausage.
* * *
I'm not as bad as she makes me out to be. I'm a little gray cat and I barely cause any trouble at all, so I'm not sure why she's always complaining about me.
Sure, I like to use the litter box and then attempt to snuggle with her, but I'm just as shocked as you are that she doesn't want to appreciate my olfactory contributions. Every scent I make is lovely, I assure you.
And of course I have to pad around the bed while they're trying to sleep. But how am I supposed to know which side of the bed is softest and comfiest unless I try both out, repeatedly? She's just grumpy because she goes to bed late and gets up early. It's not my fault. I just lay there, against her ankles, forcing her to sleep like she's the Vitruvian Man. (I looked that up.)
Yes, there's also some truth to her issues with me stalking her in the bathroom. But that's just fun for me.
Also, this whole "the cat ate my pump tubing" complaint is just plain silly. I am a cat. If something plastic and bouncy dangles in front of my face, I will go after it. Instinct, people! I haz them. Besides, insulin has a nice, chewy band aid sort of taste to it. Same goes for playing with and hiding test strips. Toys are toys - I don't care if they have your DNA on them. (Yes, I also looked up "DNA." I may be a cat but I can use Google.)
The plain truth is this: She loves me. When people aren't looking, she picks me up and snuggles me. She balances used test strips on my head and laughs at how I walk around without knocking them off. She talks to me when Chris isn't home, and I wouldn't be surprised if she was on the verge of issuing a commemorative plate in my honor.
So don't listen to her rantings about what a pain I am.
The woman thinks I'm my own pajamas.
* * *
I don't even know what to say.
Yes, Siah, we're going to be in RI this weekend.
In the morning when the alarm starts blaring, I stagger off to the shower and make attempts to wake up in the hot water. I shower, blow-dry my hair, and proceed to finding something that isn't too wrinkled to wear to work.
You would think I'd be able to do these morning rituals by myself. But noooooo.
Siah wants to stand between the shower curtain and the liner and purr while I shower.
She wants to slalom between my legs while I move through the house.
And God forbid she leaves me alone for five minutes while I use the curling iron.
Siah, you provide me with endless entertainment. Now please, for crying out loud, leave me alone for five minutes!
A trip to the grocery store brought home some very tasty items, like brie cheese and fresh avocados and a bag of salty-sweet kettle corn. We love grocery shopping, grabbing cups of Greek yogurt, blueberry tea, and organic meats. Everything we needed for healthy meals.
Oh, and there was a sale on blank-faced cats. Two-fer-one.
A special on Sausage.
Abby doesn't get much visibility on this blog because Siah is a scene stealer. So when there was a chance to be a star (a stah!!), Abby got first dibs.
I hate this cat.
(This is embarrassing. But true.)
At night, when I go to sleep, I tuck myself in underneath the down comforter and the blankets, I snuggle up against my husband, and I fall asleep, usually with my head about halfway on the pillow. And Chris and I sleep. For about twenty minutes.
Until the cats come calling.
Somehow, all 16 lbs of Abby the Fat Cat manages to launch onto my side of the bed. (I swear the bed lists to one side.) And instead of curling up at the foot of the bed, like a normal animal, she takes up residence on my pillow. She tries to stick her paws in my ears, she snores, and she completely disregards the fact that the pillow is meant for MY head, not her whole fuzzy body. (Usually, I end up sleeping on about 1/8 of the pillow.)
Unfortunately for Abby, things have changed in the Sparling household. Not only is there a Chris and a Kerri in the bed, but there's also a Dexcom. The Dexcom hangs from a headband that I have wound around the headboard of our bed. That way, if it buzzes, Chris and I both are certain to hear it.
And two nights ago, the alarm on that sucker sounded at 3 in the morning. Just as the sun was stirring, the Dexcom BEEEEEEEP!ed and I vaulted up from the bed. Unfortunately for Abby again, the receiver was sitting on her back, and she also freaked out.
"Meow!!!" Her claws come out and sink into my head.
Unzip meter. Shunk.
"Chris. I need juice."
'Mmmm hmmm." Juicebox with orange juice in it appears out of nowhere.
"I will be in a minute."
I'm sweaty, shaky, mouth sticky with orange juice and sleep. It's three in the morning and I want to go back to sleep. But I know I should wait a few minutes, so while I do, I take picture of what a 3 am low looks like:
There are days when I feel like I'm draaaaaging myself to the gym. Literally, like scooping my legs off the floor, forcing them into my workout clothes, and dawdling over to the door. The weeks after the wedding and through the beginning of August were particularly hard, because my numbers were on the level of "sucking royally" and my body was infected with a general feeling of "vlah."
Thank goodness that Chris is usually ready to roll. It helps to have someone who is also dedicated to being healthy, because it makes it easier for me to keep from slacking off due to my own laziness or vlah-ishness. Especially when work gets busy and freelance is hopping - getting my sorry butt to the gym becomes a real challenge. Chris and his equal quest for good health and a long life serve as more motivation to get moving.
It also helps that the Sausage does her part.
By trying on my running shoes.
Wrong foot, Siah. The other one.
There you go, piggy. That's the correct foot.
Diabetes requires support on all fronts. Even from the cat.
She's a menace.
While I'm convinced she doesn't have a thought in her head, I've realized that Siah is some kind of agent of evil residing in my house. She sticks her claw in my arm when she's feeling neglected. She sleeps on my pillow at night, making my head her personal resting place. She meows in my face when she wants me to change the tv channel. Bossy little piglet. She makes me absolutely crazy. It's a shame she's so damn cute.
I wish she had fallen asleep with her face slapped against her belly, but alas, Siah was just waking me up as she rolled herself all over the bed, trying to clean every inch of her fat little gray body.
She's so cute.
Yet so, so annoying.
(This is another bit of a grost (gross post), but it made me laugh too hard not to share.)
I had to groom Abby the Fat Cat on Saturday morning. The aftermath included a happy Abby and a disgusting ball of AbbyFur.
Somehow, the furball ended up on Siah's head. She sat there, patiently, balancing it like a seal. And she looked so much like Donald Trump that it made me laugh. Hard.
There is no reason for this cat. No reason at all.
Also, there was no reason for my entire morning today. I woke up feeling fine (a bit tired, but overall fine) and headed into work. Around 9 am, my head felt like it was splitting open on the left hand side and my eyes couldn't even look at the bright computer screen. My co-worker, who has experienced migraines before, confirmed for me that I was enjoying my first migraine headache.
"You mean it's normal for me to feel like my eyes were dilated and now I can't see right?" I asked.
"This is crap."
After an hour of attempting to write and focus on work, I couldn't take it anymore. I had to drop off the radar for a few hours to reclaim my brain. After a nap in a cold, dark room in my apartment, I felt much better and returned to work.
Do you guys get migraine headaches? This is the first one I've ever had and it was wicked. I do not ever want to experience that again, and I have such respect for people who have these headaches regularly. Is this a common occurance for people with diabetes? How do you manage your migraines? And what the heck can I do to keep this issue from cropping up again? Any help you can offer would be much appreciated.
(And, in case you haven't noticed the changes, I've done a bit of a reshuffling of the content here on my blog. There's a new archives page and a three-column layout now, in addition to a bunch of other crap that I'm still muddling through. Let me know what you think!)
This morning I had the pleasure of sitting down for a great breakfast with Mollie Singer and her mom, Jackie. (Yes, her sister is Jackie as well.) Mollie blogs over at CureMoll and has been type 1 since she was four years old.
We sat down for coffee and eggs at Pershing Square (right near Grand Central) and gabbed about college, relationships, and our experiences growing up with diabetes. There's something very unique about sitting down with another blogging diabetic and have that instant connection. Mollie's mom reminded me so much of my own mother, talking candidly about how an upbeat attitude can make all the difference. And Mollie, with her bright smile, was just as sweet and positive as I had anticipated.
To that end, we laughed, joked, and had a good time. Maybe too good a time, because when Mollie's mother excused herself to the ladies' room, this guy came over to our table.
"Excuse me, but my friends and I have a bet that you aren't from around here."
Did I hear him right? "What's that?"
"That you aren't from New York. Are you?"
Mollie shook her head. "I'm from Vegas."
"Me? I'm from Rhode Island."
The guy laughed. "So definitely not from New York. I knew it! You seemed to fresh-faced and happy to be from the city."
I couldn't help but laugh right back. "You're telling me that we seem too happy to be from New York? That we're too smiley? Well sir, I take that as a high compliment then."
Cheers to you, Mollie, for being another happy face visiting NYC!!
I'm off to get an early start on the weekend - have a good one!
I've been trying to keep to a recognizable schedule for the past few weeks and my body has thanked me for it. Just a handful of lows, no highs over 200 mg/dl, and the bags under my eyes have shrunk down to "clutch-sized" (vs. the "teacher tote bag" size they had achieved in prior weeks).
I opted to stay in CT this past weekend and finish an enormous project that was looming over my head. Chris headed off to RI by himself, so I had a weekend of quiet solitude and no distractions. I worked all day on Saturday, taking short breaks to visit my local Borders and then the little coffee shop down the street to grab a cup of tea and read The Diving Bell and the Butterfly. (Remarkable book, remarkable writer, devastatingly sad story. Now that I've read the book, I am allowing myself to see the movie.) My weekend was an odd blend of relaxation and focused work, keeping me up until all hours of the night on Saturday.
So, at 2:30 am, when I decided it was time to break for the night and crawl into bed, I was ready to sleep. The bed was empty, save for two down comforters and a cozy throw blanket. (We like lots of blankets to hide under.) I rested my head against the pillow and readied myself to sleep.
Then I heard it.
This steady wheezing sound coming from the corner of the room. Faint at first, it steadily grew in volume.
"Zzzzzzzzz ... zzzzzzz."
I sat up in bed and stared into the corner of the bedroom. There, on the floor, was a mess of chubby, muliticolored Abby cat, curled up against the floor board and snoring. Real-deal snoring with every breath.
"Zzzzzzzz ... zzzzzzzzz."
I hopped out of bed and grabbed her fluffy self, plunking her down on the edge of the bed. From my past experiences with Abby's snoring problem, having her up on the bed stops her from making that baby buzzsaw noise. I settled back in, anticipating that the problem was solved.
Until she took it upon herself to sidle up to the top of the bed, flop down on my pillow, and resume her snoring - but this time, with one paw on my face.
"Ridiculous. This is ridiculous. Abby, just because Chris is away doesn't mean you can slop all over the bed. Stop snoring!" Yes, I said this to her. Yes, I talk to animals at 2:30 in the morning. That's what you do.
Her response: "Zzzzzzz ... zzzzzzzz ... meow."
Grumbling, I moved over to the other side of the bed. She continued to snore. I poked her in the belly. She meowed, all grumpy, and stretched out. Then continued to snore.
"Abby, stop snoring!" I picked her up and put her on the floor. She toddled off (all 16 pounds of her) and hid under the bed. Where she started snoring again, louder this time, and completely out of my reach. Damn crafty cat - apparently she's the one teaching Siah all her tricks. Good thing these critters are cute, or I'd have already sold them to any bidder.
On Sunday morning, I slept in until almost 11 o'clock. Weekends are just awesome, especially the ones spent at home, doing whatever I want in accordance with whatever schedule I wanted. How was your weekend?
It's been wild at work this week already, from seminars in NYC to the new dLifeTV season to the Great Chili Cook-Off (more on that later). I've been a bit short on time lately, but I have plenty of posts in my mental queue that I just need time to write up.
While I was going through my mail today, I noticed that I received a direct mail campaign from dLife. It wasn't until several hours later that I noticed who the envelope was actually addressed to:
I know it's been a crazy day when the cat getting mail seems somewhat normal.
There was Fondue Night with my college roommates, dipping whatever we could find into cheese and then chocolate fondue (no, not at the same time), drinking wine, and gossiping like fools.
There was Thanksgiving with friends and family, spending time with our closest loved ones.
A visit to my mother's house brought us on an impromptu hike through the woods and snapping pictures at the shore of the lake.
The loooo-ong drive back down 95, back to our home and back to work this week. We're sleepy, inundated with emails, and toting suitcases crammed with half-folded laundry.
And even though they were all puffy-tailed, bored, and mewing when we came back home tonight, the cats survived.
So here's the part where it gets tricky for NaBloPoMo - on weekends. I spend my weekends spending time with friends and family, not necessarily blogging or ... internetting. Ah, November. You are the new monkey wrench in my plans.
I've got cartoons to keep me entertained.
I received this in my email from reader Emily Hastings and it had me laughing out loud. (Yes, aLOL. For real.) Darn internet cat memes. Darn giggling fits.
Off for some fancy Italian cuisine here in town -- must go get gussied up. Don't forget - it's time to change your lancets tonight (and your clocks, if you are so inclined). Daylight savings time ends today and now we're plunged into the darkness of winter.
Good thing I have this handsome guy to keep me warm. Oh, and like fifty thousand annoying cats.
The music swells, but in that quiet way. (So maybe it's not swelling. Maybe the music is pretty quiet, but I want complete silence because I feel like garbage and I just want to take a nap.) Small smidge of a fever, trace ketones, and a lethargy that made me test to confirm I wasn't 348 mg/dl (and I wasn't - 146 mg/dl instead). Instead of going to the gym, I toddled off to bed.
As my head rested against the cold pillow, I sighed deeply and welcomed the coming nap.
Instead, it was time again for the Sausage Opera.
She comes bounding in, trilling and purring, walking all over my face. "Meow ... meowmeowmeow -Wake up!" No sleep for Kerri, who feels sick and feverish and Crumbs Morrone-y.
That foolish gray cat has been a complete menace for weeks now. Earlier in the month, she was making her home on Chris's face, putting her nose in his ears, paws on his head, and occassionally trying to sniff his mouth. This did not go over particularly well with my husband-to-be, so we started shutting the bedroom door during the night. This should have been a good arrangement, as the cats were given 3/4 of the apartment to themselves, including the food supply, litter box, and a smattering of things to play with.
However, this was not enough for young Sausage.
She has taken to camping herself outside of the bedroom door and singing. Yowling. Picking at the floor with her paws and throwing herself against the door. Purring loudly. Singing her little gray head off.
"Oh my God, what is she doing?" I mumble in my sleep, fussing around and putting my hand on Chris's shoulder. "She's singing again. Make her stop!"
Automatic Response Chris reaches beside the bed, where he is stashing a supply of balled up socks to throw at the door. Mumbling incoherently, he fires one off, the door booms, and Siah stops mid-chirp.
There is a blessed 15 minutes of silence. We start to edge back towards sleep. Until ...
"Oh so la MEEEE-OW!!!" Siah throws her little six pound body against the door and belts out a second chorus. "Meow! Meow! MEOW!"
We have tried filling the food bowls to capacity. We have tried petting her before bed. We have even put a suitcase in front of the bedroom door to keep her at bay. Nothing stops the Sausage. This little bugger always has her way, from chewing on insulin pump tubing to leaping all over our heads at five in the morning. Now she's made the move to opera.
And we're not sleeping.
If you have any suggestions, we're all ears. HELP!
I watched this video and laughed until I almost fell off my chair. Chris came over to see what I was laughing at. I whispered, "It's like they're spying on you."
This is the battle between Chris and Ms. Siah Sausage every single morning.
The original video can be found on Tandem Films under Simon Tofield. Oh my goodness do I find this clip entertaining.
Yesterday afternoon was crummy - I had a low that lasted for over three hours and I felt like that truck, chock-full o' penguins, had made another run through my body. I managed a workout and trudged through two bottles of juice, holding steady at 74 mg/dl but feeling like I was teasing the edges of a low for hours. (Yes, I should have skipped the workout, but I was feeling determined and, well, stupid.)
Later that night, exhausted and full of grape juice, I was finishing up some work in our home office. I was feeling melancholy. Moody, even.
Then I saw her.
As though she had fallen asleep sitting up and had tumbled over, like a chubby man on a park bench.
It struck me as so damn funny. A laugh, louder than I expected, burst out of me. I grabbed my ever-present camera and took a picture of my silly sleep Siah Sausage.
Funny how quickly that moodiness passed. Thanks, Siah, for being a constant source of LOL. (But don't think for a second that you can continue to torment Chris and I while we're sleeping. You jumping all over our heads at 5:00 am is unacceptable.)
Better late than never, right?
1. Life has been spinning so quickly that I haven't had much time for blogging this week. The result of all this work will be worth it, but now, in the throes of it all, I'm realizing how much money I spend on iced coffee each week. Holy crap.
2. I followed a link on Julia's blog and took the Briggs-Myers personality test, online of course. My results? Apparently I'm in appropriate company: Robin Williams, Dr. Seuss, and Balki from Perfect Strangers. Of course. And in the recommended career paths, I see "writer" and "massage therapist." Of course again. Take it - what's your result?
3. Ever the walky-type, I've decided to do both the RI and the Fairfield County JDRF walks. Team dLife will make an appearance on September 30th in CT, and Team Six Until Me will be making it a hat trick on October 21st in RI. (Hi Nicole! Would love to have you join us!) Should be a rockin' time!
4. Siah has requested that I let everyone know there's a new LOL Diabetes Facebook group. Yes, Sausage, I told them. No, you can't type. No, Siah, leave the keyboard alone. Siah ... stop messing around on the oij 34tqg 24lkjmr wq olij WV . That cat is a menace.
5. Oh. My. Goodness. This is easily the most ridiculous site of all time: KittenWar! You visit, are presented with two competing kitten pictures, and you click on which one is the cutest. Completely foolish. I spent about an hour doing it. I'm ashamed. But it was fun. (By the by, there are other cats named "Sausage." I was shocked.)
6. I've recently been outed (at the enGAGment party, but prior to that at the Sting concert) that I have a serious musical guilty pleasure: Beyonce. I can't help it - her music gets stuck in my head and next thing I know, I'm priming my insulin pump and humming "Crazy in Love." I re-discovered another guilty pleasure today - El DeBarge. "Who's Johnny?" makes me sing along and also makes me long for Johnny 5. (More input!) Man, I loved Short Circuit.
Off to RI early in the morning for the bridal shower of one of my (six!) college roommates. Ah, wedding season. Maybe I should think about planning mine sometime soon.
Have a great weekend! See you Monday!
No cohesive thoughts this Friday morning. Everything is completely tangled. Life has been insane lately (but fun!). In efforts to unravel the threads:
Working remotely this morning. I first tried to get online at my mother's office, but the Internet Nazis who set up her office's wireless wouldn't let me access anything resembling a social networking site. Or my dLife email. Or IM. Or the goodies being worked through at Blogabetes. So now I'm holed up in a Starbucks in Providence, drinking iced coffee and trying not to spill it on my laptop. (So far, the "ctrl' key only has some crumbs from my Blueberry Nutrigrain bar.)
Tomorrow is our enGAGment party. My mother, in charge of the cake, confided in me that she wanted to have a big cake with Cinderella and Prince Charming on it. After seeing my face turn white with panic, she told me that she hadn't done that. After seeing the flash of disappointment, she told me she still could, if I wanted. (Note to self: Kerri, you are 28 years old. Start acting your age.) The enGAGment party will mark the first time that ALL of our family members will be at the same place. I'm excited, and definitely charging my camera battery to make sure I don't miss a minute. (Is it tacky to liveblog from your own enGAGment party?)
Siah's little paws are raw from typing, but she's doing a great job maintaining the LOL Diabetes site. She's also building her own staff team - with the help of Kahlua from Rachel's crew. Siah tells me that she's received many excellent LOL submissions, and she's readying hers for next week. Damn silly cat. Have you submitted something to Siah? Email her and send her your LOL Diabetes moments.
After my grammie passed away, my mother and her husband ended up with Grammie's car. My mom was driving it today. When she was putting some tables for the enGAGment party in my car, I noticed a big wooden table leg in the trunk.
"Ma, what is that?"
"Oh, that's the beating stick." She continued to load things into my car while I stopped and stared at her for a minute.
"I'm sorry - what? The beating stick?"
She went over to the trunk and picked up the table leg.
"This was under the front seat of Grammie's car. She drove with it there all the time, in case she ended up on the side of the road somewhere and needed to defend herself,"
"By beating someone with a table leg." I finished for her.
"Right." She brandished it with a flourish, and then a grin. She looked just like her mother - my grammie - for a moment.
I thought about my grandmother, silly and laughing and following through whenever anyone dared her to do something, like a handstand in the mud. She once accidentally cooked a bandaid into an apple pie. She once was the star of a short movie my brother made called "Grambo," where she pretended to storm a military base (which was nothing more than a fort in our backyard.) She hugged us a lot. She was sweet and loving.
The mental picture of her, standing on a deserted roadside if her car had broken down, brandishing a wooden table leg for protection made me smile.
It's true, that they're always with us. I saw her today, reflected in my mother's smile.