Luck? Nope...Don't Think So

Winning the lottery is lucky, and getting pooped on by a pigeon is full of this suerte.  But I’m not quite sure finding two silverfish (I think that’s what they’re called) and a frickin’ King Kong sized spider just outside the window to which you are just merely inches from is four leaf clover material.  Nope.  Not at all.  And although there is most likely no luck attached with finding these bugs, it doesn’t mean that I didn’t discover them, literally moments ago.

Okay, well that was sort of a lie because the first silverfish I sighted yesterday (I am currently failing you with my lack of research on the bug’s name [sorry, no tracing back to the heritage of it], and I apologize for that.  But I’m not going to type in silverfish and identify the bug’s appearance with pictures online.  I’ve seen too many of these slender beings recently to go ahead and look at one more J).  The sighting was around 10 a.m., in the shower, right near my bare feet.  A screech, a jump, and a quick run-away later, and I was on the carpet outside my bathroom.  Of course I figured I was free from bugs out there, until my mind started wandering to the many a spiders I have found crawling about that very same floor…

I gathered my wits, despite my creative mind (nice way of putting that, huh?  Creativity works for writing blogs, not when you want to steer away from thoughts of silverfish, and snails, and spiders, and germs…  Woops!  Sorry!  My imagination again!) and devised a plan.  I would grab the can of mirror spray, a trusty pal…that kills bugs…and douse the ‘fish in the chemicals.  I used my science k-nowledge (before the Great Vowel Shift!) of chemical reactions and put it to work on the bug. After about, I don’t know, 10 sprays (exaggeration) I saw with satisfaction that its wriggle ceased a bit.  But not enough.  It still wasn’t dead.

The big wad of toilet paper I gathered to crush this bug would have amused an exterminator.  Exterminators use bare fingers to kill a bug this size.  Me?  I was scared to even feel its lifeless body underneath the gathering of paper.  It took me 8 minutes and 17 seconds (no exaggeration…okay, maybe a little) to finally smush the silver little fish.  But I wasn’t done.  After the smush comes the fearful grab and throw into the toilet receptacle (nice word, eh?).  Add another 6 minutes and 2 seconds to the tab and finally the bug was flushed down the toilet, down to where all the other stuff that goes into the toilet, you know what I mean J,  goes.  Goodbye, old friend… that I met 14 minutes and 19 seconds ago.

After I pushed down the metal knob of the toilet, I figured that my silverfish troubles would be coming to an end.  (Oh my gosh!  Totally random, but I was just looking up pictures of toilets to find the name of the knob I just mentioned when I found a picture of a Victorian High Tank masterpiece.  Check this babe out:

Ain’t she a beauty?  Moving on!)  But nope, the “M”and the “F”and the “T” in My ‘Fish Troubles did not cease, for I found yet another one moseying about in my shower… again.  Oh my goodness!  Why me?  It makes me feel so special, in a freaked out, scaredy-cat way.

Anyway, this time I cut out the 14 minutes and 2 seconds and just asked my sister to kill it, taking her only a mere few seconds to dispose of it.  I wish I didn’t get so scared!  But the whole time I was showering I was constantly fearful of dropping silverfish, flying bugs that would land in my at-the-time knot of hair.  But I was worrying about the wrong thing because in the midst of my paranoid search about, I found a honkin’ big bleep spider just outside my window.  Of course, then I was wishing for the little silverfish!  I literally was close to tears, no joke.  Little whimpers escaped my throat now and then as I clumsily smeared conditioner into my hair, the whole time staring at the King Kong just a tiny bit away.  Why is it that the one person who is so freaked out by bugs, finds them literally all the time.  And you guys know this is true because of all my bug-related posts.  Why, why me? L

But in spite of my screams of death, I did indeed survive the cleaning.  “The worst shower ever,” I told my sister.  And that’s the truth.  But I am alive!  Surprise, I know.  You all thought the spider was going to crash through the window, spewing glass every which way, and attack me, huh?  I know.  I thought that, too.  But it didn’t happen and I am breathing (after washing my hands a thousand times.  I understand that I never touched any of the bugs but I still felt dirty.  My mind has an interesting way of thinking things, doesn’t it?

And by the way, I am deeply sorry to the exterminators that I stereotyped earlier.  I didn’t mean to hurt anyone’s feelings.  Not all exterminators may want to get ‘fish guts on their hands. J

I'm Back, Recharged and Shorter than Ever!

I’m so sorry it’s taken me so long to finally get back on the computer and blog it up (like that?).  These past few days have been full of craziness, Erin finishing up her homework at 9:00, a bit later even.  New teachers, new grade, new clothes.  Everything starting over.  And goodness did it go by so fast.

Well for a start, I love absolutely every single one of my teachers.  They’re exciting, super nice, and make learning just plain fun.  I’m excited to go to school, to see my friends, to catch flowers that fall from the trees (I.J.B.M.F.--Inside Jokes Between My Friends!), to take two quizzes today (not so much J), to wear new school clothes (YAY!  It’s the whole reason for shopping!  To enjoy the clothes!  Duh!), and most of all to endure the beautiful weather that was a big part of today (and by beautiful weather, I mean clouds, sprinkling, and freezing temperatures.  That was drenched in sarcasm…  Just in case you couldn’t figure that out… J).

Even though it was super crazy that first week of school, I collected my thoughts (and my soccer instincts--BIG-HEADED MUCH?!)  and got not one but TWO goals in my soccer game last Saturday.  Total stud!  Wow, this new eighth grade teenager--I love saying that!--title is going to my head!  Tomorrow I’ll be strutting my 4 foot 9 body down the streets with my head held high, my nose sniffing the air in the regal(est) way possible.

And that’s another thing that’s just so weird.  All of a sudden, in eighth grade, not in seventh, everyone (mostly just close friends, some just random girls in my class) are telling me how cute and little I am.  I don’t know if they’re all saying this now because they’re getting taller, and I’m getting shorter… if that’s even possible J.  So many people keep telling me this, how small my hands are, how I’m fun-sized (my personal favorite).  I love it!  I love being small and little and fun-sized!  But now I’m really tired from another hectic week and wish me luck, buena suerte, for another soccer game tomorrow!  Yay for me!  And more on a diabetic story I remembered recently that made me have a full-on meltdown (I also had to do a site change at the time and had a high blood sugar, a mix that made me very pissed off) but that’s tomorrow J.

A Hard Goodbye to Give

I’m melancholy.  Devastated.  Completely full of sadness.  An old friend is going to leave me soon.  Moving on to something bigger and better.  Leaving me to fend for myself in middle school.  All alone, I soon will be.  Because my best friend is going to be gone.  I will receive visits from this friend.  Occasionally during the work week, most likely on the weekend and holidays.  Mi amigo won’t be gone forever, and will be back for the summer season.  And you’re probably wondering who this special friend is.  And I will tell you that it’s my blog.

School is starting up again, and my blog will be winding down.  I’m really sad that this has to happen, but the good student I am J, I have to make sure school is the #1 priority.  I’m going to try to write as much as I can, if there’s time after my homework.  The weekends I will have time, I’m pretty sure of that.  And holidays, or any time I have school off for that matter.  But I’d have to say it’s been quite a summer.

What a great pastime for someone like me, who absolutely, positively, whole-heartedly, every ounce in my body, as much as Zac felt (they’re no longer L) for Vanessa, love writing.  Writing is something I’ve enjoyed for as long as I can remember.  The free writing in 2^nd grade, the extraterrestrial story in 4^th, the essays in 7^th, and now the blog the summer of 8^th.  You don’t know how glad I am that I finally started this website, a blog that I wanted to start last year, but never did.  Thank goodness I eventually got on the laptop and set it up.

I wrote about my weird little childhood, my fun Lucy, my killer bubbles.  A play on a hit song, an ad of a pocket, and dirty feet.  And on top of all that, I wrote about all the crazy type 1 stories that made me loony.  This is my 64^th post, 64 days I’d written something.  And 64 days that all y’all out there turned on the computer, typed in meplusduntilc.blogspot.com and read what I wrote.  Which really means a lot to me.  But I’m not here to be corny and all. J

Totally random, but I always thought it was weird that we said corny and cheesy when we thought something was too…  I don’t know how to explain it, but you all know when we would use those two words.  Corn and cheese sounds disgusting together, which I always thought was strange.  That was super out there, but whatever.  Just something I’ve thought about for quite a long time. J

So anyway, this is not goodbye.  This is see you soon… but not as soon as what it usually has been.  In hindsight, I posted this post too early.  I still have a couple more days to blog.  I’m saying so long ahead of time.  I’ve always been one to overachieve.  J  That’s just me!  So maybe see you tomorrow, maybe in a couple of days.  Ooooh.  Super elusive.  I like this new Erin.  And I know you do too. J

School is Cool. Stay in School.

Oh how I long for school to start.
 

The smell of cafeteria food in the air.

Projects topped off with my lame art.

Projects I’m embarrassed to share.

No more movies on a Monday.

Or summer days full of sunlight.

Less cans of soda on Sunday.

Because it’s a school night.

6:00 I awake.

9:00 I go to bed.

I’m tired, for heaven’s sake.

I walk around, my legs are full of lead.

But school is not as bad as it seems.

I’m just a bit of a dramatist.

Organization is one of my dreams.

And I can’t wait for the social jist.

And then I can wear my new clothes.  Which is totally worth it, if you know what I mean.

Apparently Not Project Runway

Why, why is there bad in the world?  Why do bandits rob banks?  Murderers stop hearts?  Banana peels trip people?  And most of all, why, why do catty girls kill their ex-boyfriend who fell in love with another girl, standing over his dead body, drenched in his blood, snarling, “If I can’t have him, no one can.”--Totally a Lifetime movie right there.  I actually saw one with that very same line, except it was an abusive boyfriend who killed his ex.  What he should’ve said was, “If I can’t beat her to a pulp, then no one can.”

That whole paragraph sounded like it came from a soap opera (goodbye cheesy Disney films, hello Café, con Aroma de Mujer, [Coffee With Scent of A Woman], a Columbian soap opera.  How do I know about Café, con Aroma de Mujer?  Let’s just say, I do my research.)

But in all seriousness, it really is sad, what with all the bad going around in the world.  Actually, my family was having a conversation, more like debate J, about whether the world was more violent, or if it is just more publicly televised.  It’s hard to say if it increased or not, because things were not broadcast on an AOL or CNN website, along with newscasts galore.  It’s like the question, which I hate to be honest (because I can’t find an answer!) does a falling tree make noise if no one’s there.  I’m reading this over, and that analogy stunk.  The tree-falling question had nothing to do with the original topic.  I guess I just wanted to sound professor-ish with my intellectual question.  Better luck next time, Erin.

Earlier in my life (gosh, I sound so old saying that.  It’s like saying, “When I was a kid…”  I guess I always knew I had an old soul in a young body. J), I met this girl after moving to a new school.  Our seats were placed right next to each other, making us fast friends.  She was sweet the first day, nice to me as the weeks went by, until she wasn’t anymore.  She started dishing these digs to me every couple of days.

But that wasn’t even the brunt of her nastiness.  I showed up to her birthday party, gift in hand, smile on my face.  It was at a local movie theater, a showing of some Christmas movie.  I walked up the stairs to the back row where all the girls were sitting.  I approached her, grinning wide.  And you know what she said to me?  Not, “I’m so happy you could make it!”  Or, “Thanks for the gift!”  Nope.  She said to me something I will remember for the rest of my life. She said, “That’s what you wore to my birthday party.”  On a side note, I thought the outfit I was wearing was cute, quite frankly.  But can you believe someone would say that?  Oh my goodness.  That’s just plain mean.

The terrible part about it, was that I didn’t stand up for myself.  I was sick at the time, the time being right before I was diagnosed with D.  So sick that I let her say something like that to me.  Which to this day makes me so angry.  I didn’t even tell my mom about it for a long time.  When I finally did, she helped me find the nerve to tell her she needed to stop being mean to me.  When I finally did, she let up a little, and I made lots of fun and nice friends, leaving her to find someone else.  I so wish she’d said that to me now because I would’ve told her off like nobody’s business.  She’d never get away with something like that.  Never.  I’d have someone hold my earrings while I threw my 4 foot 9 body on top of her.  It would not have been pretty to say the least.  But she moved states now, so I don’t have to worry about her anymore.  Thank goodness.  She did get progressively nicer to me when I passed her in the halls.  There was no way we were ever going to be close friends again, however I did respect her for trying to be sweet.  She gets a couple points for that.  Very minimal, but points nonetheless.  If this were a competition, however, she’d be left in the dust.  No question to it.

Pre D

I’m watching pre-season football right now.  Not a huge fan.  Never have been.  But, can sit through a game.  A lot better at it if there’s some snacking involved, like the Superbowl.  You can always find tortilla chips, extremely salty my preference, to munch on during the biggest football game of the season.  And the commercials are amazing.  Love them.  Live for them.  Even exaggerate for them.  Kind of like what I did just now.

I clearly remember the Superbowl right before I was diagnosed with type 1.  It’s kind of hard to enjoy when you feel like crap.  My numbers were so high, consistently high, that I was guzzling an abnormal amount of water, using the toilet quite a lot (that was kind of a gross way to say that…  Rewind.  Reboot).  And I’m sure I was cranky, something my family remembers probably a lot better than I do.  Mean things constantly popping into my head.  I was not the innocent, angelic little girl I am now.  I have changed for the better, and as I grow older, I just keep getting sweeter with every year.  Yep, sweeter.  Mmmhmmm.  Don’t believe me?  Well whatever you do, do not ask my family.  Comprende?  Muy bien.

Pub Mix, a scrumptious (I love that word!) assortment of pretzel sticks, and pieces of rye bread, and all sorts of stuff, was just part of the icky feeling in my stomach.  The first part was plainly because I had diabetes and didn’t know it, meaning eating was raising my blood sugar higher and higher, making me feel worse and worse.  This is where the addicting Pub Mix came into play.  I kept eating and eating, while I curled up into the fetal position on the couch.  Ow.  I felt completely sick to my stomach.  And then a couple weeks later, I went to the doctor, and they said I had diabetes, and they told me all about what it meant, they taught my parents how to give a shot, they taught me how to test my blood sugar, and blah blah blah, a weekend later, I went home.

A class Valentine’s Day party came up soon after, and it was pretty scary playing Bingo.  I couldn’t see the letters.  Everything was so blurry, I just couldn’t make out which letter was which.  When you’ve been high for so long and you start coming into the target range, your body and eyesight has to adjust.  Still pretty frightening, though.  I remember wearing the cutest boots that day, and eating jello in the shape of a heart.  Weird things I remember.  You can’t choose the things you recall.  I wish I could though, because then I’d remember what I was doing the Christmas of 1987 at 2:23 am.  Woops.  Wasn’t even born.  I guess I have to pick another date.

So it was a really big life change, this little pesky thing called diabetes.  But something I had to do, and so did my family.  But whatever.  It was that or die.  Dying doesn’t sound fun, less fun than having to test a few times a day.  Not too shabby.  Key word: too. 

But it’s not my dream, Mom.  It’s yo-   What’s going on with me?  I’m being Cheesy Disney fiml-ified.  Somebody stop me!--In the name of love.  Ack!

Expuse Las Burbujas

Bubbles.  In Spanish, burbujas.  They make baths exciting.  Days in the park entertaining.  Hand washing extraordinary.  They make me pissed off.  They can ruin an entire day.  Can you believe it?  Weightless circles that pop?  Yep, they can make my numbers sky-rocket.  Burbujas are not the innocent, clear spheres you thought.

It’s all part of their master plan.  First they take out the diabetics.  The Graves’ disease-ers (not a word…  I get it).  Blind people.  Deaf people.  Babies with colic.  The lucky people with ABSOLUTELY NOTHING AT ALL.  We’re all going down.  Why?  The bubbles.

For diabetics, the spoiled type 1’s we are, bubbles can be the difference from a low number and a high one.  Here’s what they do:

They originate inside the Humalog bottle (a type of insulin), being birthed right there with my synthetic insulin.  They plan their attack as soon as they come out of the womb (whose womb?), and force themselves into the reservoir my mom is filling.  She fights them with all her might (someone told me she was feisty.  I wonder who), personally battling all of them by using brute force, pushing them back into the Humalog bottle.  Some get through, to the other side, power in numbers, and move on to Level 2 of their Seize the D’s (diabetics) attack plan.

Time to make their way to the bottom of the reservoir.  The place where they can hide from Mom, who tries to once again push them out onto a towel.  Dissolve into the paper.  What a gruesome, gory way to die.  Some of them luck out, move on to Level 3 where they can enter my pump.  They are so close to sealing their mission.  They can’t give up now.  Forward is the only way to go.

Once inside Lola, they make their way, slowly, stealthily, across my tubing.  (Um, interrupting here.  But, the tubing is clear.  It doesn’t matter how slow they move, I got my eye on them.)  Their mission: to enter the canula inside my body, at the end of the tubing, and block the insulin.  The insulin that is trying to get into my jelly.  The insulin that will prevent me from being high.  But if the bubbles take their place, then all I’m getting is air, no Frederick Grant Banting insulin for me (look it up!  http://www.nobelprize.org/nobel_prizes/medicine/laureates/1923/banting-bio.html...  In short, he discovered insulin, won the Nobel Prize, and was knighted.  Pretty studly, huh?)

Not only do you know about their master plan, but also that they soak me in a Bubble Brain Bath.  They brain wash me to think that they’re not there, which explains why I never check to see if that’s the problem, why I’m high, even though they’ve been the problem a million times before.  It’s not my fault I forget, Mom.  It’s all the bubbles, Mom.   

In this battle, in this round of Seize the D’s, the bubbles won.  Today I was high, and waddya know?  There was a huge, honkin’, queen bee bubble in my tubing.  Great.  They seized me today.  But you know what?  I exposed them and their future attack on the world.  Expuse las burbujas. 

And I know you think I’m super studly with all the Espanol flying around on this blog, but I really just used Google Translate.  L  Shhhhh…  Don’t tell my readers…  I can’t let them find out I’m a fraud.

Ooops.  You just did.  Must be the Bubble Brain Bath.  Or the cheesy Disney films are making me crazy.  Place your bets.

What If...

What would our planet Earth be like if every person, every male and female, every dog and cat, every bird and worm, had diabetes?  I don’t know.  But here’s my guess:

Girls in love would leave behind the typical hair twirling.  Instead, they would pull out the tubing connected to their pump, and give it a good, old modern-day twirl.  Around and around and around, the tubing would be absent-mindedly wrapped around the finger of the one in love.  The boy is not sure if he loves the tubing twirler or the button-pusher (I’m not talking about a rule-bender…  I’m talking about a shy type 1 whose only way to cope with her nervousness about the boy she has a crush on is to push all the buttons on her pump).  Who will he pick?  How will he pick?  Ding.  The light bulb goes off and he realizes how he’s going to choose: whatever girl was fastest at filling up a reservoir (the insulin carrier inside of a pump).  And when he tells the tubing twirler that he chose her just because of her expert no-bubble reservoirs, she will squirt him in the eye with insulin.  She doesn’t want a guy who will just mooch off her skills.  Nope.  And when the guy tells the button-pusher that he chose her now, she just plainly slaps him in the face, old school.  She’s no one’s second choice.

 If the world was filled with type 1’s, friends would borrow alcohol wipes, test strips.  They would gossip about _____who has the biggest callus on her fingers than anyone in the school.  Oh how all the girls look up to _____, the girl with the calluses.  Everyone wishes they were her.

Mornings would be hectic, site changes being completed, pre-boluses performed.  Medical IDs would be the new status symbol.  Dates would consist of eating dinner at a fancy restaurant, giving each other a shot.  Romantic?  Totally.

And hopefully if everyone in the world had diabetes, a cure would be number 1 priority in scientists’ minds.  But who knows?  There still would be life-threatening diseases in the world.  The good thing about diabetes is it’s not a death sentence anymore.  Phew.  Because if that was the case, then there would be no Erin to type up this blog, or any others for that matter.  Wouldn’t want that to happen, now would we? J

Splat Goes Erin

Ow.  After a big fall, after flying through the air, after landing on hard, freshly cut grass, ow was all I could say.  And I tried not to cry, hold back the tears, as a big sting shot through my body and paused at the two hurting spots.  My left elbow and hip.  Ow.

The hip injury hurts the most, just stinging, but really it is nothing big.  Just one of those rug (or grass) burns that scream pain.  It was a scrimmage my coach put together at the end of our practice with the Plus team (the more elite team of our league [elite this year meaning anyone who tried out because not enough players wanted it]).  They are a bruiser team, one that is very pushy, shovey, and trippy.  We started the game and not long after I was on a fast break.  Then…  splat.  I was tripped.  By one of my friends on the foe team.  It was not her fault at all.  She didn’t do it on purpose.  But it hurt like (insert word of your choice).  And it took a lot of strength for me to not cry, because I was in, well, some pain.  I barely did though, which I’m proud of.  I need to seem strong on the outside.  This is the part where I’m supposed to say that the reason I found the strength to get back up was to be a leader for my team.  Be the tough one.  Well, I will tell you that I only did it because I have a reputation (that doesn’t exist).  And I certainly could not tarnish that (invisible rep) by being sprawled out on the grass crying my eyes out.  Nope.  Got to look cool (never going to happen…  Really no desire).

And then we lost.  2-0.  I really wanted to beat that team, more than any other team that’s out there.  That’s because I was on the Plus team, I could’ve been on it again.  But I chose not to try out again because I wasn’t entirely thrilled with the coach.  I guess I just wanted to beat them to ensure my decision.  But I’m pretty sure I did the right thing.  My new coach is super nice, the girls are just as sweet, and I just plainly love playing soccer.  And that’s just it.  It doesn’t matter what team I’m on, what girls I’m playing with, I’m just happy to be doing the sport I love.  That totally sounded like it was cut right out of a cheesy Disney film.  Eh, what can I say?  Cheesy Disney films are my specialty.

A Soccer Day Equation

About 90 degrees this afternoon.

Plus.

2:00 to 4:50 soccer day.

Equals.

A tired girl. 

That girl was me today, a girl who played lots and lots of soccer today.  But don’t think I didn’t have fun.  I had lots of fun.  I heart my sport, my soccer.

All it was supposed to be today was an hour scrimmage against one of the teams in my league.  It was a scrimmage that was to help new referees learn what to do and how to call the game right.  Well there was a problem.  The team we were supposed to be playing were a no-show.  My coach told us the news as soon as he got there, and said he’d hope some of the other teams would show up early so that we could play them.  When the other team doesn’t show up, you assume that your team would be playing a lesser amount of time than usual.  But that was not the case.

We started playing just a 7 versus 7 scrimmage by splitting up our team, and adding two players not on our team (one of them my sister).  That game my team lost, a game that I believe was 2-0.  But it was so hard playing with only one other forward to pass with.  So I didn’t really count that as anything because it was so far off from a real game.

Finally, though, another team showed up, and we were allowed to really work together again.  I don’t like when my own team is the enemy I’m supposed to just smash into smitherines.  That’s not good.  But when you’re playing complete strangers, I have no problem dominating them.

And it was so much easier to because playing with only 6 other players is tiring, especially in the heat.  But if yous gots mores peoples on yours team, then all you need to play is your position.  Gets its?

After yours truly and another teammate scored a goal, the game came to an end at 2-0.  Did we crush them?  Yes.  To smitherines?  Not really, but we won.  A quick cheer and round of “good game”s went by, when my coach asked if anyone wanted to stay and play for another team who was in need for players.  I was fast to raise my hand.  I was so ready to play some more, since I didn’t even want my scrimmage with my own team to end.  And in that game…

Wait for it…

I got another goal.  Woohoo!  A girl crossed the ball to the center, to the perfect spot, and I somehow managed to get it past the goalie.  It wasn’t a very pretty goal, nothing to write home about, like my gymnastics coach always says, but it was a goal nonetheless.  And it was the only goal of the entire game.  And I wasn’t even playing with my own team.  And it was my second game in the desert-feeling heat.  Yeah, pretty much nailed it. J

It’s even more impressive that I played good in that game because one of the girls on the team I was playing with…  Well let’s just say that we have a little beef with the man she calls daddy.

The girl, the teammate, she’s really sweet, nice, and a pretty good player.  Her mother is a nice and funny woman, who was never on my bad side.  But her dad, her dad’s the big promblemo.

Let’s just start with one of the practices he was helping out with.  Shots on the goal, or something like that, was the focus of the drill we were doing.  It was so long ago I can’t remember exactly what it is he said to me, but it pissed me off.  This next part though, I remember clear as water.

I kicked the ball hard in the goal because, I don’t know, I was pissed, which should be a good thing, that I took my anger out on the ball, making it an even better shot.  But no, not to him.

“Anger issues,” this forty year old man tells an 11 year old at the time.  Can you believe that that was a grown-up talking.  I sure didn’t and still don’t today.  What a weirdo.

Then, to make my lovely opinion of him even more lovely, he decided to bribe us kids on the team with quarters.  When he decided who played the best for all four “quarters” of the game, he gave them change.  The only way, according to Problemo here, to get the team to play well, is to give them money.  That may work for some kids, but not for me.

But here’s the part that made Problemo, such a big darn problemo.  I just walked over to the side of the field during the water break when he attacked me like a vulture, telling me everything I was doing wrong in the game, what I needed to do better.  Not the right time.  It was the time I was trying to test my blood sugar, while simultaneously listening to him drone on and on about how terrible I was playing, according to him.  Well I was just a little bit busy trying to test my blood sugar, hook up Lola to my site, and give insulin.  And my site was in my bottom, meaning that I had to somehow connect it without, um, flashing everybody.  Awkward!

“Can you not do this now?” my mom asked him, her voice a little sharp, as she could tell I was struggling.  Take that, Problemo!  I got my feisty mommy taking you down!

But he wasn’t ready to back down, and instead, randomly, fired back, “I’m done with your family!”

What the heck, man.  I mean seriously.  What have we ever done to you?  Ugh.  I guess there’s just no rationale to it.  He’s just a messed up old man who, to my content, has gained quite a few pounds that I noticed today when I saw him.  What joy I found in that.  Aww, that’s mean.  I have to be the bigger person even though he’s about 6 feet tall.  I hope he lives his life without regret, even though I could think of a few for him.  Best wishes to him and his family.  J  Have a great life, Problemo!

Another One of Those Days

*Pouty face*

*Tired face*

*Crinkled forehead*

I had a major headache today, off and on.  Currently it is nowhere to be found.  Thank goodness.  But that doesn’t mean it wasn’t very much so present around four this afternoon.  I hate headaches, and surprisingly, luckily, haven’t had one in quite a long time.  But it’s gone now.  Let’s make these next couple of minutes count.  J  Phew.

I think it’s the heat.  It’s been hot like (insert bad word) here, which always seems to give me a head pain.  I always thought that really stunk, that I could never really enjoy the nice weather because my head was giving me issues.  But my brain didn’t give me so much pain that I couldn’t be super witty tonight (if I do say so myself.  Which I just did!).  At the super market, I was constantly quoting my favorite movie Grown Ups to my dad, who is also a big fan. 

“I can’t believe you just stole you’re daughter’s canoli from Vigillio’s!” I yelled, quoting one of my favorite lines.  “It’s from Vigillio’s.  Leave me alone, woman!”

Then, as we were unloading the groceries, I saw Red Vines stuffed in one of the bags.

“Dad, are you trying to hide these from me?”  Me, a HUGE Red Vine lover.  “You were caught red vined.”  Get it?  Like red handed?  Yep, pretty witty, huh?

I’m so proud of myself.  You are too.  I know.  Words can’t even explain how much you think I should be a comedian.  And if you have absolutely no words about that, that you think nothing at all about my future, nonexistent career in the comedy world, then keep it to yourself.

“So long, partner,” from Toy Story.  There I go!  And once again, if you don’t have anything nice to say, don’t say anything at all. J

Dirty Feet

Summer’s amazing.  Days filled with nothing but…  Um…  Nothing.  Relaxation to the next level.  You can go to bed whenever to feel like it, sleep in until lunch (which I’ve never done).  You can do whatever you want, anything you desire.  But even summer has its downfalls.

#1:  Dirty feet.  Ugh.  I hate it.  You typically wear flip flops in the summer, no socks.  All that means is that your feet are covered with black dirt (okay, not really black…  That’s a bit of an exaggeration).  I’m constantly thrusting a paper towel underneath the sink, rubbing it on the soles of my feet.  In the school year, I typically wear my converse.  I wear my sandals a lot in the fall and spring, but never in the winter.  My feet would get numb in a second.  I get cold very easily.

Numero dos:  It’s too short.  We need another month.  3 months is not enough time to recharge your brain from school, not enough time to do absolutely nothing.  And if you do fun things every day, it’s even shorter.  And if you think about it, summer is not even three months.  More like 2 and half…ish.  (Pouty face)  I’m not ready for school time, not one bit.  But you can’t stop time.  Who knows what I’d do if I could halt the days as they go by.

Letter C:  Summer has absolutely zippo organization.  Sometimes that’s a good thing, but overall, it’s nice to know what time you’re waking up, what time you’re leaving for school, what time you’re putting your head on the pillow to sleep at night.  It’s also good to know what day of the week it is, which is something I never know in July and August.  It helps to have some kind of idea what the date is…  Just something that may be important, just maybe. J

But you know what good comes out of school?  Stories.  Entertaining stories that will give this blog some uuummpphh.  Some fun stories about ignorant, mean, no-thinking-before-speaking people.  But there will be some good stories too.  There always are, they are just not as fun to write about. J

I remember in fourth grade this super nice girl asked me how I did it.  Kept up the good grades with my diabetes.  It was really nice, really refreshing to hear something like that.  I mean, I don’t want pity from other LUCKIER people (just kidding!), but sometimes it’s cool just to be recognized for all the crap I have to deal with.  As I’m getting older, I’m getting more frustrated.  Every time there’s a high number, I get just so dang angry.  I hate doing site changes (not sure anyone would J), and having to figure out the carbs of the food before I eat it.  I can’t just grab a couple crackers whenever I feel like it, can’t just eat some grapes because I feel like it.  I have to test my blood sugar, bolus for it, and then eat it.  And if I’m high, like I was today, I either have to choose not to have it at all or choose something a little lower carb.  But I’m not just here to complain…  Or maybe I am…  Your call.

There have been plenty others of good stories in my diabetic “career”.  The bad just stand out, like in anything.  You barely remember your heartwarming memories.  Sad, huh?  That’s just how our brain works.  So we all just have to deal with it.  Stinks, huh?

Ignorance Bites

“Ohhhhhhhhh,” the ignorant boy/girl/man/woman draws out the word.  “You have the bad kind,” they say, a scrunched up, disgusted look on their face.

“I feel so bad for you.  You poor thing,” another boy/girl/man/woman/dog/cat/ferret would say.  Their eyes telling me the only reason they even brought it up: to be able to sleep at night, thinking they did good in their life.

“You use… the pump?” a look like there is something bitter in their mouth displayed on their face.  “You know that’s cheating, right?  Using the pump?”

“Three adult menus and one kid’s?” the server says with a condescending tone in their voice.  It’s not like there’s a 13 year old standing in front of them.  Nope.  Just a little kid, instead of a short teenager.  I guess this is off the diabetic topic, but still something that enrages me.

All of these ignorant, off-based words are so hurtful.  All of them have been told directly to me, or to my mom.  And I’m sure there have been plenty behind my back.  Ignorance is so annoying, and it comes to play in anything, any disease you may have.  All of them.

One of these comments, the “Pump…  Cheating…  Oh…” one, was from a referee in a soccer game of mine.  She is also the woman who, at my sister’s 8^th grade awards night, undermined her “Principal’s Award”.  This award is given to only two students, boy and girl, out of the entire 8^th grade class, almost 800 kids.  And the female version was given to my sister.  And according to this idiot woman, Jessica only received it because, basically, she kissed all the teacher’s butts.  Which was not true, and only said because well, her daughter received only one, tiny little award.  Poor thing.

All the other comments were said to me so many times.  Ugh.  And the kids menu thing?  Gosh, it makes me so angry.  Can ruin my entire meal, just because some stupid little waiter thinks I’m a first grader.  Can I help it that I grew 1.78 centimeters in a year (my mom just told me I’m obsessed with that number.  Sadly, I am)?  I’m so pissed right now, I’m putting an obscene amount of pressure on the keys.  Now I’m clenching fists in a tight, white ball.  So annoyed.

It happens all the time.  And used to not bug me as much.  But now, kills me.  Absolutely makes me die with anger.  I’ve got to go now, too heated up.  Toodles, my blaudience, blog-audience!  It’s so cool I made that up, like right now.  That’s just how I roll.