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My First Martini(s).

There was no way I could play it femme fatale aloof. I could barely keep the smile off my face. It was like a first date. We held hands as he ordered our wine and the room churned and spun with a mass of people but I couldn’t focus on any face but his, though we shared a bed every night.

The meal arrived. We talked animatedly through our meal, exchanging opinions between bites and making our way to the bottom of the wine bottle. Plates cleared, we finished the wine. It’s almost midnight at this point, but the conversation is energetic and animated and we’re not ready to go home quite yet. The waitress brings the bill but he sends it back gently with a request for two espresso martinis.

It was my very first martini. I drink about seven instances per year and I very rarely stray from the vodka/cranberry juice/orange juice combination, as I’ve got that one figured out on the diabetes front. But tonight there was that wine. And my first martini. So all bets were off. Bloodsugar tested. 183 mg/dl. Quick unit bolus to bring me closer to 120 mg/dl. Take a sip.

Should I be drinking, being a diabetic? Should I avoid indulging once in a while for fear of something happening? Is it enough that Chris is armed with the knowledge of how to test me, bolus, and treat any fluctuation in bloodsugar levels? It is okay for me to be out and drinking with my boyfriend? Is it the responsible thing to do?

My mother’s words resonate. “I want her to come to the end of her life and not feel like she missed out on anything. Not on anything at all.”

We leaned across the table towards one another and talked about the movies we’d seen over the last two weeks. We talked about my book. We talked about the website and the distribution deal and the Big Move to NYC. We talked about the moment we met. We talked about the precarious first date so many months ago.

Two more martinis were ordered. The Girl is in a deliciously inebriated state. Chris is happy to see his girl having such a good time. Bloodsugar tested discretely at the table. 147 mg/dl. No bolus necessary.

We held hands.

We closed the restaurant at two in the morning, bundling up to brave December’s cutting chill. A quick stop at a nearby party brought us closer to home and confirmed my status as RI’s Happiest Drunk Girl.

Home brought the comfort and warmth of our Christmas tree, with a cat asleep under its branches. The room spins but he steadies me with his arm. I test. I have a big snack before I go to bed. He lies next to me, brushing against the pump on my hip. It’s normal to him now. And to me.

I fell asleep, warm and safe.

Drunk on my first martinis. And comforted, knowing that I will not miss a thing.

New Bloggish Presents Under the Blog Tree. Blog.

Quick post before I head off to the office holiday luncheon and make an attempt at “Festive.” There are some new blogs to announce.

CuriousGirl: Nicole writes well. Very well. Her poignant and evocative tale of eight year old embarrassment in a department store and her parents’ reaction to her diagnosis must be read. In her words, “… I would have challenges — just like anyone else — but in the end, I would be fine.”

DIA…gonal: Skytor in Paris wrote a post about the A1c (and effectively renamed it for me) that made me snicker, out loud at my desk, to the point where the girl who sits behind me had to know what was so funny.

A Diabetes Discourse: Tyler writes an very informative blog about diabetes and “the potential for a cure.” He recently wrote a post about the “Halle Berry Diabetes Mystery” that had me scouring the internet for clues.

Go greet the New Guys, Faithful Reader. And ready yourself for my rendition of “The Undisclosed Service Center’s Attempt at Holiday Cheer” recap.

Today’s Irrational Thought.

I ate a banana on the way to work this morning.

I was afraid to throw the peel out the car window because I was convinced the tractor trailer truck behind me would slip on it and cause an accident.

Did I watch too many cartoons as a kid?

A Bad Year for Goodyear.

Sometimes the snow falls and I can see each individual snowflake. They tumble from the sky with such grace, as though they are attached to long, silken strings that could be snatched back up at any second by some ethereal seamstress. Sometimes snow gathers in feathery drifts as I watch from my window, sipping a hot mug of Earl Gray tea and thankful that I am warm and safe.

And sometimes snow comes crashing down against my car as I drive down 95 South on my way to work on a Friday morning, relentless, thick, and zealously cruel.

It was my first morning driving the New Jetta in less than favorable weather. My pressure against the gas pedal was minimal, for once. (Hello, my name is Kerri and I have a speeding problem.) The snow was pummeling my windshield and I kept the car steady at about 50 mph on the treacherous highway that is Route 95 South.

There was that sound. The thwump thwump of the tire going flat.

“Oh shit.” Internal Motivational Speaker, who usually makes appearances when I’m low, piped up.

Thwump. Thwump. The car starts to list a bit towards left.

“Slow down, get to the side of the road.”Internal Motivational Speaker urged calmly.

My foot hit the brakes sort of hard and the shotgun blast went off. The left rear tire blew out and threw The Jetta into the next lane of snow slugging traffic, without warning.

Oh shit!” Internal Motivational Speaker ducked under a blanket and hid.

No time to panic. Grab the wheel, turn into the skid, hit the horn so other drivers would know I was about to ruin their day, forcibly guide the rudderless Jetta towards the breakdown lane and away from the four lanes of surging traffic.

The car yielded to my firm hands on the wheel. It slid to a stop, barely in the breakdown lane, rear wheel smoking from riding the rim. I rolled up onto the embankment, as far from the highway as possible. I turned the car off and removed the keys from the ignition. Calmly, I reached into my purse, grabbed my phone, and dialed Chris’s cell.


And I then realized that the tire blew out, tossed me across the four lane, snow covered commuter highway.

“Chris?” [Enter tears] “My tire … 95 … I’m okay … [sniffling vehemently] My tire blew out. Um, can you come get me?”

The Boy arrives in less than ten minutes. My hero.

Calls AAA. (There was no way we were changing that tire with the car sitting less than two feet from roaring traffic.) Gets me out of The Jetta in case someone smacks the car as it sits, wounded, in the breakdown lane. Helps me climb up on the embankment for fear of a car skidding into us while we stand on the side of the road. Gives me an umbrella to stand under, a la Mary Poppins, while the AAA guy jacks up the car.

(Mind you, it’s snowing maniacally at this point.)

Chris sees me on my shaky way with a reassuring kiss. I get back behind the wheel. Ease out into traffic, which is substantially less now that we’ve been sitting on the side of the road for an hour.

Internal Motivational Speaker comes out from under the blanket that hid her. Shakes the snow off her head. And smiles sheepishly.

And the snow continues to fall.

‘Tis the Season for Blogging.

The stockings were hung by the chimney with care, and new d-blogs are popping up everywhere!

Here are just a few of the latest that I’ve snagged from recent comments left here:

Butterfly Kisses & Bedtime Prayers: Patti, mother of two and wife of a disabled veteran, writes about her daughter’s daily dealings with diabetes. They are currently living in Hawaii but are moving back to the mainland, so Patti is looking forward to engaging in support groups and finding other diabetics.

Sugar Overdose: Diagnosed at age three, Alex in WI is nineteen years old and an admirable athlete. She’s in search of some “words of wisdom” and offers to help those recently diagnosed.

Diabetic Princess: Having just turned the big Two-Oh yesterday, Bethany in New York has started her d-blog. She came across my post, “She still smiles” on the Children With Diabetes website, and thought to start her own blog. Visit and wish her a happy belated.

This is My Life: Megan’s debut was today. She was diagnosed this past September after dealing with hyperinsulinemic hypoglycemia. Acording to her, “My pancreas spazed out and created too much insulin my whole life, ’til it up and ran out of insulin this year.”

Sidenote: We put up the Christmas tree last night. White lights all over the place. Pretty silver and blue ornaments gracing the branches. We left the lights off until all the ornaments were in place so Chris could have a “tree lighting ceremony.”

We went to bed, happy with our festive little tree.

Woke up this morning to see it swaying gently as I walked into the living room, obeying some unseen breeze. Eyed it for a minute. Was I still asleep?

It leaned towards the bookcase, shuddering.

The branches rustled. I peered into the depths of the Christmas tree to see Siah, nestled happily in the bottom branches, the tree moving every time she scratched her ear with her hind leg.


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