sueeeus

It dawned on me, as I was folding clothes yesterday, that I could give the munchkin almost free reign with a paintbrush and leftover house paint and an already paint stained t-shirt.  What better way to say Happy Father’s Day than a hand painted shirt   Mr. Gadget has a multitude of ruined shirts, since the house painting job took several days and he didn’t bother using previously stained clothes, but rather wore something fresh each time.  

We worked quickly, the wee one and I, while the daddy was out.  He had left to share brunch with his family on Saturday, and was planning to be back early that afternoon, as some of my family were to visit us on Saturday also.  We had loosely spoken of going to the lake and letting the children play with his new remote control toy speedboat.  I elected to stay home, rather than join him for his brunch, because I wasn’t sure when my family would arrive. 

Saturday morning turned into Saturday afternoon, which turned into Saturday evening.  Saturday evening became Saturday night, and after several unanswered phone calls throughout the day, I realized that Mr. Inconsiderate Gadget was probably not going to come home.  I had four children on my hands, and was feeling a bit overwhelmed.  I had volunteered to watch them, which is a joy to me.  Even so, a seven week old (such a beautiful little girl!), my toddler, and a seven and eleven year old all running in circles and making happy noises became a bit daunting every now and again.  For the most part it was a breeze, but I sure would have liked the man I married to have been there.   I was trying to decide whether I was angry or worried, but tried not to let it bother me, and went to bed around 12:30 a.m.  The ladies returned from their night on the town around 2 a.m., and I turned the baby over to her mother.  There’s something terrifying about watching an infant who is not my own.  I didn’t know her breathing and her sounds well enough to feel confident that I could fall asleep safely with her.  Of course she was fine.  Even so.  New life is a terrifying and precious responsibility.  

There it was, 2 a.m. and still no husband.  I went back to bed, and dreamed of the verbal lashing that I would give him.  Morning arrived.   I waited a little while before I called his mother.  No, she hadn’t seen him since 3 p.m. the day before.  This is the part where I got scared.  A missing spouse.  Many unanswered phone calls.  Not where I expected him to be, if he were merely being an inconsiderate @$$.  It was time to start calling all his other family members to try and find out more.  I rang his sister, and while it was ringing, he called.  The worry turned to relief in an instant, which quickly gave way to anger.  U N A C C E P T A B L E.  And when he finally arrived home, early Sunday afternoon, when I was asking what he was doing and why he didn’t answer my calls, he had the gall to ask me “What’s with the third degree ”  I could have slugged him.  I don’t have room in my life for an irresponsible spouse.  I don’t think he really understood how close he was to being kicked to the curb.  I was furious.  He laid low all day, and I cooled down.  He played with the children.  We had a nice family supper.  The rest of the family departed, and he turned on the Spiderman video for our love bug.  I’m not angry any more, but I think it will take some time for the disappointment in his complete lack of judgement to fade.

He is the father of my most precious and beautiful boy.  It’s his saving grace at this particular moment in time.

Even with an expensive camera, the results are only as good as the operator. One could say the lack of focus is intentional for the purpose of artistic interpretation, but one might be lying.

We’ve been busy at Chez Sueeeus.   The homes in the neighborhood were starting to look a bit tired, and some of the neighbors decided to have theirs painted.  Ours was looking a bit shabby, so we decided to keep up with the Joneses, only we didn’t hire out, and we used three colors rather than two.  I wanted a dark grey with a hint of slate, but when applied to a large surface, my carefully chosen color turned out more blue.  Even so, I like it much better than the original track home bland neutral pastels that comprise most of Suburbia.

(before)

I painted the lower half, and Mr. Gadget painted the high parts.  I did  a little high ladder work, but it was a bit too frightening to be teetering on a flimsy aluminum ladder, so I let the other half risk his life instead.  We saved about a thousand dollars or more in labor, and Mr. Gadget ended up with a fancy new ladder and platform to boot.  Now he has fewer excuses for future high reaching honey do’s, I’ve noticed that days upon days of slave labor has been somewhat beneficial to the blood sugar equation, and finally, I am reminded to be thankful that I don’t have to toil for a living.

On my way home from work yesterday I felt poisoned. As though something has sapped my life force away so that I can’t even bring to mind my hopes and dreams. I even thought that I don’t want another baby. I know what my hopes and dreams are, but it’s as though I don’t care about them anymore, or don’t want them anymore. The sky was a bright and beautiful blue, filled with happy puffy clouds, but I had my own personal cloud that’s dark and heavy with rain. I know it’s the same old repetetive tale, and I’ll be all bright and happy again when the pendulum swings.  At least I came home to a husband actually working on the honey-do list, with no nagging prompting.  A rarity indeed.  This made me happy. 

I was thinking recently, be careful what you wish for. I did finally get my metformin prescription, but only because I failed my A1c test. So I’ve now been officially diagnosed with type II diabetes. I went to a diabetes information class yesterday. Survival skills. All these years and I’ve never understood why they say that once you have it, there’s no cure. It didn’t make sense to me, that if your morning blood sugar is over 126 for 2-3 days during any given week, then you are deemed to have this incurable disease. But if your blood sugar is below 126, you don’t. It seemed to me that if one would change their lifestyle such that their blood sugar, although once above 126, is now below 126, that they would fall back into the pre-diabetic category. But no, it doesn’t work that way. I wish that it would have been made clear to me. I’ve been told by my family members who have it that there’s no cure, and that once you have it you have it. My older brother said that it’s not a matter of if, but when, as we’ve got the genetic makeup lined up against us. I was always offended by that. Speak for yourself, I’d say. Me in denial. I won’t get it. I’m healthy. I still wish that someone had explained why once you get it, you have it for good. What is so magical and mystical about 126

I learned in class that there is a phase of insulin resistance called pre-diabetes, and that people are pre-diabetic for 15 years prior to diagnosis as diabetic. From what I gathered, it seems that the reason that there’s no cure is that by the time one reaches the point where the body can’t regulate the glucose, that magical morning 126 number, the pancreas is just plain worn out past the point where it can recover. Like an over-worked motor or something. Why doesn’t anybody say we should eat right and exercise and manage our stress or else we’ll wear out our pancreas. That’s not so nebulous to me. I can visualize an internal organ failing. I can’t visualize diabetes. So I’m a dunderhead. So it’s a stretch for me to put two and two together and grasp that, oh, yes, it’s the pancreas that produces insulin. I’m a bit miffed that it took an actual diagnosis for me to finally get informed as to the real nature of the beast. I think that children should be taught this in school. Taught so that it sinks in. People. You have one and only one pancreas. If it gives out, you will need to take medication for the rest of your life.  All the “I told you so’s” are worthless if the message is never understood.

I’ve been marching steadily for the past fifteen years towards the precipice over which I’ve just fallen. Had I known I’d be hurling myself from a cliff, I like to think that I would have taken steps to change my path.

I am so frustrated.  I have a handful of domains for which I’m responsible, several of which I designed using ColdFusion.  I also have some sites that use php.  Two days ago I began receiving error messages from the CF sites.  I ignored them at first, because my hosting service occasionally has troubles and resolves them in a few hours or so.   However, the error messages persisted, so I contacted technical support, only to be told that they couldn’t help me right away, but would submit a ticket on my behalf.  Nice.  Now that they’ve responded to the ticket, they tell me that they have removed CF from the server on which all of my sites reside.  Furthermore, they say that if I want to continue using CF, I will have to be moved to a new server that doesn’t support php.  Arrrrgggggghhhhhhh.  And if I give them the go-ahead to move to CF, it will take 24-48 hours.

Luckily I generated static html pages for emergency purposes, if and when CF has problems, but even so, users will not be getting fresh data until I resolve this.

Sometimes I regret that I have these domains to support.  If the servers and technology would just stay put, and if things would remain stable, I would have much less stress in my life.  Maybe I shouldn’t have ever designed anything with CF, but it’s such a programmer-friendly language, and it’s used extensively where I work.  Out in the real world, though, it’s a very expensive platform, so it’s hard to find good hosting options.

What to do, what to do.  And when am I supposed to find the time to fix whatever has to be fixed   I could reprogram the CF sites to be php sites, but that will take me a little while, since I am so much less proficient in programming php than I am in programming CF.  If I did that, though, it would be much easier for me to eventually unload the responsibility of these domains, since so many hosting services support php.  Sigh.  It bugs me that I have to do anything at all.  Argggggggghhhhhhhh.

I would so much rather blog about other life happenings, but the stress du jour is the woe of technology, and I simply must whinge to get it out of my system.  Arggggghhhhhhhh.

I’m feeling beat down.  Pursuant to yesterday’s traffic faux pas, I was admonished this morning in the elevator for not checking someone’s badge.  About four people came through the door at the same time, but I’m the one he admonished.  Why is that   Do I wear a flashing neon ‘kick me’ sign   Thus far, I’m not having the best of weeks.  I know.  Toughen up. 

To further amplify the state of my self-image, and concerned that I am teetering on the brink of type II diabetes, I went to see my doctor.  Translation:  still trying to get my hands on a metformin prescription.  I had a convoluted tale to tell, and I ended up half blubbering out a string of nonsensical gibberish.  One would never know that I’m a moderately well-educated professional.

There was talk about depression, but I said that I’d read that many depression medications have weight gain as a side-effect, which is the last thing I want.  So the conversation focused on weight issues.  She recommended Weight Watchers, because studies have shown that consistent attendance at the meetings has been successful.  I’ve done it years ago, but I loathed those meetings.  I loathed the whole environment.  From the cattle prod feeling of waiting in line for the big weigh in, to the boring lecture repeating things that I already know, consuming a half hour of time that could be enjoyed in so many other ways, and finally the pièce de résistance –the honor of paying for this experience, week after week after week.  The price of accountability.  It’s just not for me.

This is the conclusion.  No food after 4:30.  Period.  At least 45 minutes of vigorous exercise, five days a week.  Period.  Set small goals.  Five pounds.  Five pounds is a reachable and reasonable goal.  I didn’t tell her that I’ve made that conclusion already, and am currently living with that guideline.  But I’m  having a difficult time wrapping my head around giving  up supper time.  What kind of people don’t eat supper   It’s practically the happiest part of my day, the thought and act of sitting down with my family and sharing a meal.  All those dreams of emulating the Cleavers or the Waltons,  over.  In my life, I’ve only known one person who doesn’t eat supper.  Only one.  Granted, she is teeny tiny and has no weight issues, other than not being particularly strong.  I am mourning over a lifestyle I’m being told must change.  Of course I’ll lose weight if I don’t eat after 4:30.  That’s pretty much when I eat.  And when am I supposed to be able to include vigorous exercise   It’s a major accomplishment to get outside and take a walk on a regular basis.  I strap my giant toddler into a stroller and push him around the neighborhood.  He spies an entrance to the playground, and says, “Go dat way,” but I keep on walking, amidst much protest.  The playground is the treat at the end of the walk.  First we have to walk around, down and then up the hill before we get to the playground.  Once there, he plays while I stretch.  When we leave, chances are there will be shrieking and flailing of arms and high pitched screams and a toddler form flung passionately on the ground, very much not wanting to go.  (If I didn’t use the stroller, there would be much more of this.)  Knowing this is what I face, until I’ve somehow managed to teach him that we will indeed come back, I find the prospect of getting out for the walk all the more daunting. 

And what about Mr. Gadget   Sorry dear, we’re not having supper anymore.  I can imagine how well that one will go over.  But you see, darling, I don’t want to be Two Ton Tessie anymore, and I don’t want to have diabetes and I don’t want to die too young.  So if you want supper, you’re on your own.  Yes, it all looks peachy from here.

The thing is, about metformin, I’ve read that it has helped so many people regulate blood sugar and lose some weight at the same time, with the added bonus of helping some with conception troubles overcome whatever barriers were inhibiting their ability to go forth and populate the earth.  I have seen these effects with family and friends, both, and was hoping that if I could try it, it might be a jump start to help me get and stay on a better path.  The doctor did order an A1c test.  In a few days I’ll know whether I’ve teetered over the brink.

Today I incurred the wrath of a school bus driver.  It was one of those four lane roads and we were approaching an intersection at which the light was red, so I was slowing down.  She put her yellow flashers on, and I was half way past the length of the bus so I continued, rather than lurching to a halt (and toppling the 23 gallons of paint that Mr. Gadget, unbeknownst to me, did not see fit to remove after our shopping trip this weekend, and for which I’d already had to stop once and rearrange after one large 5-gallon drum had toppled over with a frightening thud, upon navigating the corner of our cul-de-sac, thus making me yet a little more late for my afternoon appointment, and of course he wasn’t answering his phone when I called to berate him.  Luckily, the lids remained intact and no paint spilled.)

Flashing yellow means yield, proceed with caution or prepare to stop (as far as I know, but I’m a bit fuzzy on the school bus traffic rules on four lane roads).  I decided to proceed with caution.  Apparently, the bus driver thought I should stop, because she laid on the horn and blared it at me for a good long time, while she put on the red lights and extended the stop sign.  Of course I would have stopped immediately if she had flashed the red lights in preparation of stopping, but she seemed to flash the red lights at the same time that she extended the stop sign.  I think she was too busy honking at me to coordinate her signals.  Or something.  Then, when she resumed, she made a point to pull up and stop along side me, hang her head out the window and glare at me.  I ignored her.  Or at least tried to.  I just can’t handle people yelling at me.  It’s one of those things that reduces me to a quivering and useless blob of gelatinous mush.  It makes me sick in the pit of my stomach.  It completely ruins me.  And of course, being the well-grounded adult that I am, I feel like shouting at her.  Battleaxe.

The last thing in the world that I want to be is self-absorbed and irresponsible, yet that is quite possibly how I behaved in choosing to proceed with caution.  I’m the one who annoys everyone else by driving the posted speed and using my turn signals, even when leaving my own driveway.  I’m the one who drives 20 in the school zone and gets passed by impatient drivers.  When they glare and pass, I don’t so much care.  They’re idiots anyway.  But in this case, I probably should have stopped.  I mean, we’re talking about a school bus and about children.  Good grief, there should be no question.   Even so, it has nearly ruined my day, and now I’m a ridiculous mess because of it.

Of course, I can always blame it on Mr. Gadget, thus transferring these ugly feelings away from myself.  Never mind that he wasn’t there.  Those 23 gallons of paint clouded my judgement.

And maybe, just maybe, blogging about it will help me let it go, and the world can be a bit better off.  At least, Mr. Gadget will.  Nothing excuses, me, really.  We’re talking about children, when it comes down to it.  If my own beautiful boy were on a big yellow school bus, I would very much want all traffic to conform to the utmost in safety. 

Here he is, a beautiful boy who will thankfully be spared the riding of big yellow school buses for a few more years.  And there she is, his self-absorbed and temporarily irresponsible mother, reflected in his eye.

I’ve been tagged! Outside of work, I have no social life. This blog is it. Sad, sad, sad, but true. It is, therefore, a thrill to be tagged. A thrill!

The rules of the game:
Each person tagged gives seven random facts about themselves. Those tagged need to write on their blogs seven facts, as well as the rules of the game. You need to tag seven others and list their names on your blog. You have to leave those you plan on tagging a note in their comments so they know that they have been tagged and need to read your blog.

Before I begin, I’m sorry to say that I am breaking the rules, because it’s very difficult for me to muster up the courage (or audacity ) to tag someone. I am thrilled to be tagged, but not comfortable to tag. Sorry. It’s so interesting and entertaining to follow these memes, but I’m just not bold enough to tag. Actually, in a fit of boldness, I would like to tag Suse, Meg, Miscellania, Blue Moon Girl, and My Float. But only if you want to.

1. I had a school in Idaho. I like to say it the way Meryl Streep says, “I had a fahm in Ahfrica,” but it just doesn’t carry the same punch. It was a big beautiful old building overlooking a lake in a teeny tiny Northern town. It was a true yin-yang experience. It brought much joy and much sorrow and in the end, my life would not be the same, had it not been a part of me for those eight or nine years.
   
2. I am distantly related to Katrina Van Tassell of Legend of Sleepy Hollow fame, or so I’ve been told. My grandmother has a small table that has been handed down through generations that was supposedly hers, and both my grandmother and mother have been to Sleepy Hollow, NY, to tour the cemetery and find the grave stone. However, with a little internet sleuthing, I’ve come to the quick realization that possibly there was no Katrina after all, but an Eleanor instead. That is, if you can believe everything you read on the internet. But, if you can believe everything your parents have taught you, then perhaps there was a Katrina, after all. Or, perhaps those befuddled old womenfolk of mine didn’t bother to share the complete story. Anyhow, it does make for a somewhat interesting, if sketchy, story.
3. Along those lines, I have also been told that I am distantly related to Peter Stuyvesant. Of course, this information came from my mother and grandmother as well, and we all now know to take that with a grain of salt. He sounds a bit tyrannical to me, and if we are related, well. I guess that doesn’t surprise me too much. Trivia states that he was credited for introducing tea to the United States, though. Way to go Pete!
4. In 1990, I was named one of the top inventors of the year, in my company. It was a great honor, and I really can’t take credit for being a genius designer or anything like that. I was just a young whippersnapper, doing as I was told, and my saintly lead, the real inventor, submitted the team on the patent, and shared the credit (and the prize money). What a fine leader he was. I think our picture was featured in the newspaper because I was the only woman in the ceremony. Women in engineering. Newsworthy. Sensational. (And I don’t mind. Finally, a newspaper clipping on par with my golden cousins.)
   
5. My personality type is INFJ bordering on INTJ. I’m not sure if the tendency towards the T has to do with my 20 some years in the technical world, squeezing out my inherent F traits, or not. I do find all this personality exploration and analysis fascinating, though.
6. I save gift certificates for a rainy day, and then forget about them, and by the time I remember… Just last week I found an ancient gift certificate for a massage. I timidly called the number and found they were still in business, and asked if I could redeem it. Yes! They let me redeem it! It was so old, they didn’t even recognize it. It was at least 6 years old. Today, looking for that newspaper clipping (item 4), I found a $25 American Express gift cheque dated 09/18/1991. I think it was for ’employee of the quarter’ or something. It’s so pretty, I may never redeem it. Besides, I signed with my maiden name. It sadly reminds me of one of those parables about stewardship in the Bible, where the one who buried the money is reprimanded for not investing it. This $25 is worth so much less than it was in 1991. I have a file that currently has a dinner for two certificate from a swanky restaurant, another massage certificate, a Barnes and Noble card, a community theatre certificate from 1994, and a handful of others. I plan to redeem the massage, and I’m certain the book card is still good. The others I am suddenly remorseful at the waste.
7. I don’t know how to relax and unwind. I have to stay busy and keep my mind occupied, otherwise I tend towards depression. I yearn for some ‘down’ time, but if and when I get it, I teeter on the brink of depression, anxiety, and overeating, which in turn causes more depression, anxiety, and overeating. It’s a horrible spiraling slippery slope.

Yes, I know, necessity is the mother of invention. Even so.

I have always got the American Dream burning in the back of my mind, so the entrepreneurial embers are smoldering, waiting for that spark that will amount to something plausible.

We are currently immersed in the adventures of toilet training, and have thus far purchased two different products to assist in the endeavor. One is a potty bench and the other is a small padded seat that sits atop the family commode. I don’t like the potty bench, because I don’t like the idea of having to clean it (it has not yet been christened, so to speak). There has been a wee (ha, can’t resist the pun) bit of success with the seat, but both items have useless (well-intentioned) flap contraptions that are meant to serve as splatter guards for little boys whilst seated. They pinch little leggies, and worse, pop off and drop into the toilet (retrieval of which is unpleasant and doesn’t help maintain the encouring and positive atmosphere one must evoke for this most delicate of learning experiences). With a design in mind for the ultimate ergonomic and sanitary solution, I embarked upon some market research, only to discover that my idea has already, for the most part, been realized. Hrumph. Foiled again. Instead of rushing to the patent office, I find myself on eBay, bidding for a better deal than can be found with the standard online retailers.

Another day, another idea, another dollar spent.

I wonder about the inspiration behind the book, “The Five People You Meet in Heaven.”  If I were to die and go to heaven, and if I were to meet God, or Jesus, or St. Paul, or Mohammed, or my grandpa, or my brother, and have a nice long walk and talk, I wonder how many things could be pointed out that were close calls within my lifetime.  Off the top, I can think of two, and I am certain there are many many more.

I drove a few hundred miles Eastward to visit my sister a few days ago.  I travelled on a Thursday, so the freeway was nearly all mine once I was away from the city.   Ahead of me at one point was a pickup truck towing a tarp-covered trailer.  The tarp seemed to be secure.  I could see it ripple in the wind, but it wasn’t flapping or blowing loose.  I followed this truck for many miles, when suddenly something blew away from the load.  Luckily, I was enough car lengths behind that the object shattered to pieces on the road, rather than on my car, or worse, through my windshield.  It was a large picture frame with a glass pane, or perhaps it was a window.  Even so, I had to drive through the debris.  At 70 mph, there wasn’t much time to avoid the situation.  I prayed that I didn’t puncture any of my tires,  out there in the middle of nowhere, and thanked my lucky stars that I hadn’t been hit.  A fluke like that could have killed us.

Another time, on the same freeway, but Westbound this time, I recall seeing a blur whoosh by.  The freeway was full that time, and it took a few moments for my mind to decipher the whooshing blur, and realize that it was a deer, crossing the road.  We were all going so fast.  So many drivers.  So many speeding cars, changing lanes, passing one another.  And somehow, impossibly, a deer managed to dart through the maelstrom.  Had that animal hit any one of us at those speeds, there would have been much devastation.

So.  Every day it is a blessing simply to be alive.  Life is so fragile and fleeting.  There is much to be thankful for!