Hey,
My mom has revealed that she has found my blog, so I'd like to welcome my mom to my glorious six member readership...(I know that only six people read this thing. I know who you are and you are cool.)
One might think that when one's mom is reading their blog that they would pull punches, maybe censor out inappropriate stories / feelings / desires...stories like how me and my cousin were really good friends growing up and how we used to lock ourselves in the bathroom and I'd put on a show...
I'd make my penis talk, ala Puppetry of the Penis, I'd manipulate the meatus of my penile head, making the "piss-slit" talk like Kermit the frog to my cousin, who was a year younger than me. It was a good show, she was a great audience.
Is this what "Playing Doctor" was? There was no touching involved. Only professional showmanship.
Years later, she happily mentioned this in passing conversation...and I flatly denied it. I was so full of shame about it that I shut the whole conversation down. The confused look on her face still haunts me to this day.
But it wasn't "abuse", since she's well adjusted about it, right? Just nod your head. Yeah...
Embarrassing sex stories like that! They won't be censored. In fact, I'll offer a special "SEX SPOILER ALERT!" to any sexual activity that I may engage in during my Thirty Second Year on this planet. You can happily skip over any SEX SPOILER ALERT!!!! section that you come upon, especially if you want to keep a straight face whilst interacting with me in the real world.
Where were we?
I had my my meeting with Deb the Dietician. Eight A.M on my "Saturday".
I had been given a new Blood Glucose Meter from my nurse and the day before my dietician appointment, I had accidentally dumped my test strips in the sink. They were exposed to droplets of water, which rendered them useless. I was getting blood glucose readings of 30 mg/dl. Which means I'm in a coma. How nice would that be.
I woke up at 6 a.m to prepare myself for the DEB the Dietician.
I was five minutes late for the appointment, technically ten minutes early since the River Falls Medical Clinic requires you to be fifteen minutes early.
She came out and introduced herself. She was YOUNG. Not at all what I was expecting. I was expecting an upper-middle-aged Wisconsin woman dressed in winter layers, ala PACKERS sweatshirts and UWRF attire.
Deb the dietician looked like a slightly older version of Nancy Botwin from WEEDS.
I had prepared myself for this appointment. I made myself empathize for the position of a Diabetes Educator. This person must get pile after pile of non-communicative slob. I made a decision to be forthright and kind. I'll be swift and honest. I'll "Grow up" for the fifth time in my life and try to get through this ordeal.
Deb led me back to her doctor's examination room-turned-office. I congratulated her on her "digs". They looked half-way human. I always turn on the charm when I'm threatened. You should see my reparte with the Devil himself.
We pull out my Blood Glucose Meter and she gets me some control solution for the thing, which is valued at $20 on the streets. She whips some calorie-counter books and "low-carb pasta coupons" at me. I, in turn, tell her everything, weaving in as much charm as possible.
I may be a pile, but I am a pile of amusement, if nothing else.
She asks me to go over exactly what I ate in the previous twenty-four hours. She jots everything down, making comments on how I can make quick improvements.
She starts to lightly flirt with what "is allowed and what isn't." in my impromptu oral food journal.
I suddenly realize that I might possibly be a BDSM freak. My Mistress Matisse would be a Dietician who tells me what I "can and cannot eat," punctuated by the crack of a bullwhip.
She asks about the drinking. I am completely honest. They say that a doctor takes the amount of drinks you tell them you consume and they multiply it by three. Dr. Nancy Botwin tells me that, with my condition, "men can have two drinks, and that's all I'm going to say about that."
I had a memory of the previous diabetes dietician that I saw, she said that I should switch from beer to just straight shots, since the carb load would be less.
I make an "awwww" noise when she says men can have only two drinks, not because I'm dissapointed at the amount of drinks men can have, but because women can have so few. There is no quick comment to explain this and thus she intreprets my "awwww" as disappointment in how few drinks men can have.
We march on.
I tell her everything. When I get to the part about how, on Wednesday nights (my Fridays), I like to roll through a McDonalds Drive Thru at Midnight and order a large French Fries since, as a vegan, I can't order anything else through a drive Thru, she giggles to herself.
We make a compromise on me ordering a Small Fries instead of a large Fries. I'll probably still order the large fries, since I haven't eaten anything since early afternoon on Wednesdays (my fridays).
She shows me my medical records and asks me what happened between August of 2010 to now. In that timeframe, my blood sugar almost doubled. I share my tale of woe, of living with my sister while she was going through her first divorce, me moving back to my parents place, my friends all mocking me for my failure in life, all the things that, brick, by, brick led to gaining eighty pounds. This is a ninety second monlogue. Tops. And Charming. Don't forget that it is light and sweet, keep it light and sweet.
"I think," I said, "that the drinking didn't help, nor did the overconsumption of carbs."
"Well," she says flatly, "isn't that obvious? I mean look..."
For a second, I think she's going to say,
"I mean look at you."
"I mean look at these numbers." She is referring to my medical records splayed across her computer screen.
If I had unlimited means in this world, this is where my hired gimp would enter the room and smack her in the face. I think she sensed this and she quickly moved on, suggesting various exercise routines I could perform with an inflated exercise ball.
We agree to meet in a month and a half. That means I have a month and a half to make my Body Mass Index go just shy of the BMI range of an Aryan Youth. Otherwise, I will have to say hello to Mr. Insulin Pump.
To my horror, I find out that I need to test before each meal, and two hours afterward. That's nearly 8 times a day. A week into it...my left hand is a bruised bleeding stump. I'm like the joker in the Tim Burton Batman, when he comes out of his back-alley plastic surgery and his fingers smear blood all over the newspaper he picks up...
"Mirror...give me a mirror!! oohh hee hee haw haw haw haw haw haw haw..."
I get blood on everything these days.
In happy news, I finally got the new Ani Difranco album from the library. I usually buy her shit directly from righteousbabe.com, mainly because I want her to get 100% profit. Her album Which Side Are You On? is my Easter 2012 soundtrack. She's usually super depressed, super anxious and hyper sensitive, (almost as hyper sensitive as me), but this album is a nice blend of happy songs vs. angry political songs.
My fav tracks: Life Boat, Splinter, J, Albacore and If Yr Not...Might as well just list the entire album..but I linked my ultra-fave songs below, w/ quotes to boot.
"Hearse" is a nice dark song about love.
"I will always be your lover. Even after our atoms are dispersed. We'll be pushing up daisies and my crush will just be gettin' worse. And I will follow you into the next life like a dog chasing after a hearse."
Mariachi
Nice song to drink to. "I'll be the right hand, you'll be the left hand. You and me we make a mariachi band."
Zoo
This is the last song on her record, and it's either the most depressing or most hopeful song. It's spare and dark and my favorite lyric is reprinted below.
"And I walk past my self loathing, like I walk past animals in a zoo. Trying not to really see them and the prision they didn't choose. "
So there you have it. I'll be recording a bunch of bloody glucose numbers, smearing blood on everything and listening to Ani this spring. And Ke$ha. There's always room for Ke$ha! I'm like Bjork in Dancer in the Dark. I am nothing without my moo-sic!
My mom has revealed that she has found my blog, so I'd like to welcome my mom to my glorious six member readership...(I know that only six people read this thing. I know who you are and you are cool.)
One might think that when one's mom is reading their blog that they would pull punches, maybe censor out inappropriate stories / feelings / desires...stories like how me and my cousin were really good friends growing up and how we used to lock ourselves in the bathroom and I'd put on a show...
I'd make my penis talk, ala Puppetry of the Penis, I'd manipulate the meatus of my penile head, making the "piss-slit" talk like Kermit the frog to my cousin, who was a year younger than me. It was a good show, she was a great audience.
Is this what "Playing Doctor" was? There was no touching involved. Only professional showmanship.
Years later, she happily mentioned this in passing conversation...and I flatly denied it. I was so full of shame about it that I shut the whole conversation down. The confused look on her face still haunts me to this day.
But it wasn't "abuse", since she's well adjusted about it, right? Just nod your head. Yeah...
Embarrassing sex stories like that! They won't be censored. In fact, I'll offer a special "SEX SPOILER ALERT!" to any sexual activity that I may engage in during my Thirty Second Year on this planet. You can happily skip over any SEX SPOILER ALERT!!!! section that you come upon, especially if you want to keep a straight face whilst interacting with me in the real world.
Where were we?
I had my my meeting with Deb the Dietician. Eight A.M on my "Saturday".
I had been given a new Blood Glucose Meter from my nurse and the day before my dietician appointment, I had accidentally dumped my test strips in the sink. They were exposed to droplets of water, which rendered them useless. I was getting blood glucose readings of 30 mg/dl. Which means I'm in a coma. How nice would that be.
I woke up at 6 a.m to prepare myself for the DEB the Dietician.
I was five minutes late for the appointment, technically ten minutes early since the River Falls Medical Clinic requires you to be fifteen minutes early.
She came out and introduced herself. She was YOUNG. Not at all what I was expecting. I was expecting an upper-middle-aged Wisconsin woman dressed in winter layers, ala PACKERS sweatshirts and UWRF attire. Deb the dietician looked like a slightly older version of Nancy Botwin from WEEDS.
I had prepared myself for this appointment. I made myself empathize for the position of a Diabetes Educator. This person must get pile after pile of non-communicative slob. I made a decision to be forthright and kind. I'll be swift and honest. I'll "Grow up" for the fifth time in my life and try to get through this ordeal.
Deb led me back to her doctor's examination room-turned-office. I congratulated her on her "digs". They looked half-way human. I always turn on the charm when I'm threatened. You should see my reparte with the Devil himself.
We pull out my Blood Glucose Meter and she gets me some control solution for the thing, which is valued at $20 on the streets. She whips some calorie-counter books and "low-carb pasta coupons" at me. I, in turn, tell her everything, weaving in as much charm as possible.
I may be a pile, but I am a pile of amusement, if nothing else.
She asks me to go over exactly what I ate in the previous twenty-four hours. She jots everything down, making comments on how I can make quick improvements.
She starts to lightly flirt with what "is allowed and what isn't." in my impromptu oral food journal.
I suddenly realize that I might possibly be a BDSM freak. My Mistress Matisse would be a Dietician who tells me what I "can and cannot eat," punctuated by the crack of a bullwhip.
She asks about the drinking. I am completely honest. They say that a doctor takes the amount of drinks you tell them you consume and they multiply it by three. Dr. Nancy Botwin tells me that, with my condition, "men can have two drinks, and that's all I'm going to say about that."
I had a memory of the previous diabetes dietician that I saw, she said that I should switch from beer to just straight shots, since the carb load would be less.
I make an "awwww" noise when she says men can have only two drinks, not because I'm dissapointed at the amount of drinks men can have, but because women can have so few. There is no quick comment to explain this and thus she intreprets my "awwww" as disappointment in how few drinks men can have.
We march on.
I tell her everything. When I get to the part about how, on Wednesday nights (my Fridays), I like to roll through a McDonalds Drive Thru at Midnight and order a large French Fries since, as a vegan, I can't order anything else through a drive Thru, she giggles to herself.
We make a compromise on me ordering a Small Fries instead of a large Fries. I'll probably still order the large fries, since I haven't eaten anything since early afternoon on Wednesdays (my fridays).
She shows me my medical records and asks me what happened between August of 2010 to now. In that timeframe, my blood sugar almost doubled. I share my tale of woe, of living with my sister while she was going through her first divorce, me moving back to my parents place, my friends all mocking me for my failure in life, all the things that, brick, by, brick led to gaining eighty pounds. This is a ninety second monlogue. Tops. And Charming. Don't forget that it is light and sweet, keep it light and sweet.
"I think," I said, "that the drinking didn't help, nor did the overconsumption of carbs."
"Well," she says flatly, "isn't that obvious? I mean look..."
For a second, I think she's going to say,
"I mean look at you."
"I mean look at these numbers." She is referring to my medical records splayed across her computer screen.
If I had unlimited means in this world, this is where my hired gimp would enter the room and smack her in the face. I think she sensed this and she quickly moved on, suggesting various exercise routines I could perform with an inflated exercise ball.
We agree to meet in a month and a half. That means I have a month and a half to make my Body Mass Index go just shy of the BMI range of an Aryan Youth. Otherwise, I will have to say hello to Mr. Insulin Pump.
To my horror, I find out that I need to test before each meal, and two hours afterward. That's nearly 8 times a day. A week into it...my left hand is a bruised bleeding stump. I'm like the joker in the Tim Burton Batman, when he comes out of his back-alley plastic surgery and his fingers smear blood all over the newspaper he picks up...
"Mirror...give me a mirror!! oohh hee hee haw haw haw haw haw haw haw..."
I get blood on everything these days.
In happy news, I finally got the new Ani Difranco album from the library. I usually buy her shit directly from righteousbabe.com, mainly because I want her to get 100% profit. Her album Which Side Are You On? is my Easter 2012 soundtrack. She's usually super depressed, super anxious and hyper sensitive, (almost as hyper sensitive as me), but this album is a nice blend of happy songs vs. angry political songs.
My fav tracks: Life Boat, Splinter, J, Albacore and If Yr Not...Might as well just list the entire album..but I linked my ultra-fave songs below, w/ quotes to boot.
"Hearse" is a nice dark song about love.
"I will always be your lover. Even after our atoms are dispersed. We'll be pushing up daisies and my crush will just be gettin' worse. And I will follow you into the next life like a dog chasing after a hearse."
Mariachi
Nice song to drink to. "I'll be the right hand, you'll be the left hand. You and me we make a mariachi band."
Zoo
This is the last song on her record, and it's either the most depressing or most hopeful song. It's spare and dark and my favorite lyric is reprinted below.
"And I walk past my self loathing, like I walk past animals in a zoo. Trying not to really see them and the prision they didn't choose. "
So there you have it. I'll be recording a bunch of bloody glucose numbers, smearing blood on everything and listening to Ani this spring. And Ke$ha. There's always room for Ke$ha! I'm like Bjork in Dancer in the Dark. I am nothing without my moo-sic!
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