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Yes Sir… I do understand you want privacy while in the bathroom….
But in my defense, it was only my paws that were in there with you.
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Here’s some more adorableness from these two.
( if you stop I will kill you )
Cross-posted between DW (here) and LJ. Comments welcome in either place; DW has
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runners! Please tell us about your past training week and upcoming goals**This is a weekly thread maintained by myself, posted every weekend. Runners of all ages and abilities are encouraged to use it to document their training and goals. Feedback is also encouraged, which helps keep a sense of community - thanks!
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HELLO, MR. MAILMAN. I’VE BEEN EXPECTING YOU!
i’ve been waitin 4 a looong tiem…
Cyoot puppehs and funneh goggies: I Has a Hotdog has ‘em all!
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But more on that later.
( Read more... )
There are two shows that have been causing a lot of discussion in my house, each about as diametrically opposed as media can get: Legend of Korra and Mad Men.
So, of course, I want to talk about both of them. Light spoilers may apply, but I’ve gone to some efforts to obfuscate details of what have happened – though gloves will be off in the comments.
If you haven’t been watching Legend of Korra, you’re missing out on one of the best action-adventure cartoons in a long time. Like the recent Star Trek movie, no knowledge of past Avatars is necessary, but you get an emotional tie to the old references if you have seen Airbender.
The big question is, of course: Who is Amon, the masked leader of the anti-bender faction?
Being a kids’ series, Korra’s gone the route of peppering the show with so many dicks that frankly, it could be any number of obstructionist gits. For a while, I thought Amon was clearly Asami, as she is a) an avid follower of pro-bending and the cheating team got decimated, b) the daughter of a rich industrialist who can manufacture anti-bending tech at will, and c) infiltrated the Avatar’s camp by literally running into Mako. But what happened in “The Aftermath” indicates that this is probably not true.
The too-obvious choice was Tarrlok, the sneeringly evil politician, and if the show had chosen him to be Amon I’d have torn my teeth out. But the most recent show seems to indicate that Tarrlok has his own agenda that’s overlapping with Amon but not parallel (note how clearly I am avoiding spoilers here). So while Gini’s not ruling it out, I am. So let’s go nuts with the speculation: Who do you think is Amon, and why?
In other, subtler, news, the big twist of Mad Men is what Joan chose to do at the end of the last episode – which was heartbreaking, ugly, and stayed with me for a couple of days afterwards. It was the implosion of a lot of Joan’s dreams, conspired by everyone at the company, and I think it was the big watercooler moment of a season that had already had a ton of them. (Was there ever a more realistic depiction of an acid trip than Roger’s LSD shenanigans? I think not.)
That said, I’ve seen some people complaining that Joan’s reaction was forced, that big strong Joan would never act like that. And that’s something I feel is completely inaccurate. Like everyone else on Mad Men, Joan’s a complex character, and her primary drive has been to go with the way the wind is blowing strongest. She chooses her shots within that, yes, but unlike Peggy who’s decided to buck the system, Joan’s decided to surf it. She has her own agenda, and she makes good choices within that realm, but realistically she dresses sexy because she realizes that a) men are going to treat her like a sex object anyway, and b) given that choice, this is the easiest way to get what she wants. So she uses that for her benefit, while still maintaining her integrity.
With what happened last week, well, it became clear that no one in the company was going to protect her. Pete was the slimy little prick he’s always been, Lane was quietly manipulating her for his own hidden ends (and I think he’s gotta be the guy in the elevator shaft, since now he’s got nowhere to hide), Bert wanted his hands clean, and Don walked away in disgust (but Joan didn’t know that).
(The only forced bit, to me, was the complete abstention of Roger, who theoretically cares about Joan and you’d think would have some input. That absence seemed damning, particularly because honestly I’m not sure that Roger wouldn’t ultimately told Joan to do it. But that may be a matter of time, or cold orchestration on the part of the writers.)
So to me, when Joan discovered that she had been isolated, given the double-whammy of everyone there hating her if she didn’t and despising her if she did, she went the way that got her a bunch of cold cash. It was not a pleasant choice. It was a delightful scene where she turned her back at the right moment, forcing this to happen on her own terms. But Joan’s compelling nature is that she actually bends with the culture in a way that appears to be completely on her own terms, but often is a small choice made while bowing to outside pressures that even Joan cannot escape from. And she never, ever lets that heartache show.
So I think it was in character, and one of the creepiest episodes of television ever. And there are two episodes left in the season. I can’t wait to see what happens next.
Cross-posted from Ferrett's Real Blog.
This entry has also been posted at http://theferrett.dreamwidth.org/216303.hTHEN
We go to a pay phone out front. And they pretend to all everyone they know.
http://www.parentwin.com/2012/06/th
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The poor thing is all squeed out. We should let him recharge his batteries.
Life’s too short to avoid the *SPLORT*! Visit Daily Squee for your daily cuteness!
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We habs unacceptable sitchuashun heer! Da sun iz NAWT SHININ on me!
Da onlee thing as big as da sun is mebbee mai ego.
Love LOLcats? Who doesn’t?! There are so many more over here!
For dinner tonight, Amelia ate probably 20 grapes, 1/4 of a carrot, and a teaspoon of feta cheese. This seems like a ridiculous amount for a 21-pound person to me, and it's definitely more than she's been eating. But maybe she is increasing her solid intake. Or maybe she's having a growth spurt. She's definitely not nursing as much as she used to, though I'm still keeping up with her milk-wise. I'm pretty much only pumping once a shift at work these days, which makes things a little easier for me.
I bought an Ameda hand pump because a. it goes with the horns I already have and b. my Medela hand pump had some issues--the center part couldn't be completely washed and it started growing things, so I threw it out. Well, I hate this hand pump. It's so hard to use and I get hardly any milk with it. Maybe some day (like with the next baby) I'll buy another flange for the Medela one and boil it every time I use it or something. In general I do not get why Medela seems to be the first name in pumping equipment. They're more expensive than Ameda by a good amount and they don't seem to have figured out, as Ameda has, that it's really not that hard to design your pump so that milk can't get into the tubing or so that it can be fully washed/sterilized. Though they did make a better hand pump than Ameda. Seriously. Hate this thing. Some people seem to like it and I have no idea why.
I don't think I am going to make it to my goal to not pump at work after one year. She still just doesn't eat that much solid food. But we'll have to see. The annoying thing about working rotating shifts is that I can't drop just certain feedings. If I reliably worked only a certain shift, I could cut out certain feedings and feed bottles during those times when home, and not pump during those times at work, but when I work 8-4 some days and 2-10 other days I would have to cut every day feeding and only feed first thing in the morning and last thing at night. So it's kind of all or nothing. I'm debating what to do with the next kid. (And I know, I'll figure a lot of that out then.) Part of the reason I've kept pumping and breastfeeding has been just to prove that I can. It's an in-your-face to the structures at my job that make it difficult for me. It's an "I CAN do this, even though you're going to make it hard". And now I've pretty conclusively proven that I CAN do it, so next time I'll have to think about whether I want to or not.
Because I honestly am iffy on the health benefits of breastfeeding. I mean, I do think it's probably marginally better for the baby, but for most healthy babies I don't think it makes a big difference. There is some population-level data showing a small boost for breastfed infants, but on a per-person level this doesn't necessarily mean anything, so I think each family needs to choose the feeding method that works for them. Breastfeeding is just plain more convenient for us. When deciding what to feed the next kid, my decision will probably hinge more on not wanting to mix bottles in the middle of the night than on that theoretical small health boost. Which is to say I'll probably breastfeed again just so I can get my sleep, and keep doing what I'm doing at work because apparently I am an in-your-face person.
I bought our tickets for our trip later this month, and after some agonizing decided to buy Amelia her own ticket partly for her safety on the flight and partly so we don't have to gate-check her car seat (because they get damaged during the checking process sometimes and insurance doesn't cover damage). The airlines pretty much no longer offer discounted tickets for kids so that's an extra $400, also we had to rent a car because 3 of us and our gear aren't going to fit into a car with any of Alec's family members. Travel is getting expensive. On the plus side, we got a direct flight, which is nicer than at Christmas when we had a 2-hour layover and changed planes in a city that was in no way en route to our destination. (Yes, I'm being oblique on purpose.)
The microfiber diaper liners smell after they're washed, and this isn't good. Some research revealed I need to strip them (which isn't as fun as it sounds) by basically washing them a zillion times until they get all the built-up soap out. We've been washing with way too much soap. I kept using more when they weren't smelling clean, but apparently sometimes you need to use less when they don't smell clean. *headscratch*. I estimate I've run somewhere between 10 and 15 wash cycles, and while there's definitely improvement I need to run more because there is still soap coming out. Good lord. It's funny too because I decided to treat all our microfiber so have Amelia in disposables for the first time in months, and her clothes definitely fit differently. She's so sleek without that big cloth diaper butt. And, I gotta admit, it is nice to not have to change her every 2 hours--disposables last a little longer. *hides*. This way usually we can get through an outing without a diaper change. Changing her in the middle of church has gotten old. Tomorrow I can take her to church and just change her when we get home, assuming she doesn't poop. (Today Alec dressed her in a onesie and overalls. Not a good outfit for checking a diaper.)
Amelia definitely knows her name, the word "no" (she cries when told no), and "clap" (she claps when you tell her to, sometimes). I think she knows either "wave" or "bye", because today I was leaving the house and neither of us waved and I actually had my back to Alec and I said "Wave bye-bye to Daddy" and she stuck out her arm and flapped it. But then she didn't do it again when I repeated the sentence; still, I don't think it was a coincidence.
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hello, hooman. remember me? the cat who hasn’t been fed or petted or danced attendance on for five minutes now
Unless you’re missing him awn purrpose. Weirdo.
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Two years ago I started practicing Buddhist meditation, and while the frequency of my meditation practices varies tremendously (like, say now, where if I get myself to sit still for ten minutes a week that’s something to write home about), there are certain lessons I have taken from the practice that resonate very deeply with me, and have changed the way I relate to the world. I think the reason I handled my diagnosis two years ago so gracefully was because, in part, I had just come off a ten-day silent retreat.
The biggest thing I have learned from meditating is the idea of ‘non-attachment’, or as some prefer to say, ‘this too shall pass.’ It’s the idea that we should be always aware of our reactions to things, and how they change: a happy feeling is wonderful, but is bound to change. A sad feeling can be challenging, but it is bound to change. If we grow too attached to happiness, we will suffer when it changes. When we are sad, we can remember that this too shall pass. Everything changes. Nothing stays the same. Basically.
This relates beautifully to diabetes. You know those weeks where you’re like, “sa-weet, I totally got this!” because all you have to do is breathe and your blood sugars seem to magically sort themselves out. We get those amazing numbers from our meter: 5.1 before a meal, 8.3 after a meal, 6.0 after a nice long run. We feel like rock stars. We feel like we’ve GOT this diabetes thing. Diabetes almost feels like a hobby, a skill we think we’re really good at it. We feel pleasure from the satisfaction of mastering something. Or at least I do.
Then it changes. What worked the day before doesn’t work today. Numbers become frustratingly high. Insulin seems to do sweet nothing. We shout profanities at our meter. Parts of our bodies beep a whole lot more often than we’d like them to. And we are reminded: diabetes ain’t no fun skill we can master. It’s a disease, resulting from a broken body part, and it absolutely defies logic. And gravity. (Well, maybe not gravity, but I was hearing Rachel from Glee singing the Wicked song and I wanted to get lyrical on you reader. But who knows, maybe diabetes DOES defy gravity. It’s stupidly-effed-up enough to pull something like that off.)
It’s a really hard challenge to learn how to celebrate the victories in diabetes (yay, great A1C! Yay, great numbers in my meter!) without getting attached to the idea of some numbers being ‘good.’ Because there is nothing we can do: there will be days where, through no fault of our own, our numbers will be ‘bad.’
That’s what I was facing a few weeks back. My A1C was creeping up into the 8s. My numbers were being stupid. Like, totally stupid. I was needing way more insulin than ever before. I was developing an actual fear of eating carbs because of the shit-show that seemed to follow after every single meal. It came to a head when one evening, as my friends laid out a beautiful lasagna with freshly baked cheese pastries along side it, and then excitedly broadcasted that a beautiful watermelon awaited us for dessert, I felt so much panic and anxiety that I almost cried.
I was hating how much energy I was spending yelling at my insulin pump. Didn’t like that I’d anthropomorphized this little electronic device to the point where it clearly had become the locus of my diabetes in my mind. The source of all suffering. The symbol, and the sign, of my broken pancreas, and my diabetic identity.
–
A lot of other things were going on. I’d just marked my two-year diaversary, and with it had come up some surprising emotions. I reflected deeply on the feelings and sensations of that particular day, what it was like to get a phone call telling me to go straight to the ER, what the weather was like that spring day, what I tried to find out about diabetes those first few hours. I reflected on how unfair it was that, within hours, my poor little brain absorbed so much new information about managing diabetes that I didn’t get a moment to process how much my life had changed. Realizing how much diabetes consumes my thoughts still today, I began to feel angry a few weeks back that such a massive weight had been impounded upon me, and how much of my identity must have been put on the back-burner for these two years without my even realizing it, simply because of this preoccupying disease.
There was overwhelming love for the friends and family who journeyed with me through those first few months. There was fresh anger at some individuals who chose not to stay by me during that difficult inward time. Most of all there was anger, sadness, and grief at the fact that two years have gone by, and I haven’t had, nor will I ever get, a break.
Mostly, there was the growing awareness that my identity has been saturated by this disease. Now that it’s been two years, and it’s sinking in that it is not going away, diabetes is no longer my hobby, my focus of half-marathons, or my summer camp job. It’s not even something I’m good at anymore. It’s just a disease. This consuming, unfair disease that I’m tired of trying to spin into a positive.
It’s taken two years, but I’ve finally now begun to process the anger and grief surrounding my diagnosis. I’m seeing a counselor at school to work through this process, and to help figure out how to give diabetes a place within my identity that I am comfortable with. I’m drawing on support from people in my life to express these feelings. It’s helping.
—
Last Saturday morning, I woke up with an inexplicably high reading, even after raising my basals and giving myself a correction bolus in the middle of the night. And I’d had it. I was tired of trying to talk my stupid blood sugar down from the cliff.
So I ripped out my infusion set, rummaged through the fridge for an old vile, and drew myself 14 units of Lantus. I’d been meaning to go on a pump holiday for awhile anyway. I’d just finished a study at Toronto General that had had me on a CGM for three months, and I was getting kinda tired of so much stuff attached to me. The weather was warm and sunny, and I liked the idea of being pump-free for a few days. I planned all kinds of pump-unfriendly outfits, like pretty sundresses and tighter shirts, for the duration of my pump-holiday. Figured I’d stay on shots for the weekend, maybe push it to Monday or Tuesday.
Turns out though, my control this week has been better than it’s been in months. Lantus seems to be fitting beautifully with my lifestyle, allowing me more opportunities to snack throughout the day, and shaving off some of the insulin I need at mealtimes. And I seem to be doing fine with just single-unit increments of humalog in my shots, rather than, say, the carefully-measured 4.7 units delivered over 30 minutes that the pump affords. Pumps are famed for offering people with diabetes way more control, but I seem to be doing just fine this week doing things the old-fashioned way. And nothing’s attached to me, and nothing’s beeping. It’s like kneading bread dough by hand versus using an electric mixer. I’m enjoying the simplicity of it. It’s just a little bit more hands-on.
Taking off my pump has also been an important symbol for detaching myself from an identity as a diabetic. It has been incredible to let my body breathe, to be able to be naked, to have nothing attached to me that not only tells the world, but tells me, I have diabetes. I don’t have to tell clients when I first meet them, “hi I’m Sarah and I’m a type-1 diabetic and I’m wearing an insulin pump so it might beep at us sometime during our session but don’t worry I’m not sending a text I’m only giving myself insulin do you have any questions just thought I should tell you blah blah blah.”
My numbers have been a dream. Textbook-awesome. I bet my A1C is great right now.
And there you have it. In detaching from my pump, I’m becoming attached to good numbers. I’m enjoying feeling successful at my management a little more than I’m comfortable with. I’m having way too much fun thinking about whether to spread my Lantus over two shots or just one evening shot. I’m booyeah-ing my single-digit blood sugar readings just a little too often.
Because, inevitably, this too shall pass. Next week, the 12-14 units of Lantus might suddenly no longer cut it, and the only way I’ll find out is through a series of really crappy high readings. I’ll feel icky and tired. I’ll feel defeated. I’ll be mad at diabetes for changing on me, and will resent having this source of pride taken from me.
And that’s when I’m gonna have to remember. This ain’t no hobby. This is a crappy disease. And I’m allowed to be angry about it, and it’s probably healthy that I am. But also healthy that I recognize, unfair though it is, it’s in my best interest to look after it. Not cuz it’s fun. Just because it’s life.
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