Went to my GP, Dr. Weng, today. Got my quarterly blood test results.
My a1c went down from 6.1 to 5.8. This means that the percentage of my blood cells with glucose stuck to them went down 3 tenths...which is awesome.
My TSH (thyroid stimulating hormone) went from 5.3 a month ago to .7. This means my body isn't working as hard to make sure I have some thyroid hormone which is great!
My cholestorol levels were good, and my triglycerides are just barely over range (amazing considering less than a year ago they were so high they couldn't get a real reading.
Everything else looked good as well.
SOOO good in fact, that I don't have to go back for 6 months!
YAY!
Friday, December 17, 2010
Tuesday, December 14, 2010
Thoughts today.
My brain decided to take the day off, I believe. It's so good to have my supplements again. I will have to take Lucky Vitamin up on their re-order option, although shipping did take longer than expected, I think I'll just buy all my vitamins there earlier. It was really stinking cheap. Like, so cheap, that with the name kinda sounding Engrish, I thought they might be located in China, but nope - Pennsylvania. Says so right here on the box.
I went to the orthopedic doctor today. I've been having worsening pain in my neck, shoulders, arms and hands. (I call them my T. Rex arms now, because they're useless if I get stuck in a mud pit.) Driving and typing for long periods aggravate it. So, it's been awhile since my last post...and I'm going to be doing a lot of driving soon...thus to ortho I went. My ulna doesn't sit in the wrist like a normal person. Dr. Sheely says it's short. I got my smarts, smile, rebellious spirit and open-mind from my mom, my hazel eyes, charm, sense of humor and mischief from my father, dark hair from the both of them, and then ALL their bad genes. Every single thing that lay dormant or recessive, or was out in the open, funneled into this genetic chaos that is Wendy. Point is, I'm a freak of nature, but I'm dealing with it. It's not easy to deal with, though. My hands are curling in, and the doctor didn't go into details, but she mentioned it could be Dupreytins...or something like that. Basically, a cord formation in your fascia that pulls your fingers down into a half fist. Bugger, let it be something else! I got fitted for new braces. And, then, when I get back from Georgia, a nerve test! This means a neurologist will stick needles in my muscles to see if my nerves are correctly transferring signals. They're not, you know...but I guess we gotta do tests. I really must be a masochist, trying to get better.
I went to the orthopedic doctor today. I've been having worsening pain in my neck, shoulders, arms and hands. (I call them my T. Rex arms now, because they're useless if I get stuck in a mud pit.) Driving and typing for long periods aggravate it. So, it's been awhile since my last post...and I'm going to be doing a lot of driving soon...thus to ortho I went. My ulna doesn't sit in the wrist like a normal person. Dr. Sheely says it's short. I got my smarts, smile, rebellious spirit and open-mind from my mom, my hazel eyes, charm, sense of humor and mischief from my father, dark hair from the both of them, and then ALL their bad genes. Every single thing that lay dormant or recessive, or was out in the open, funneled into this genetic chaos that is Wendy. Point is, I'm a freak of nature, but I'm dealing with it. It's not easy to deal with, though. My hands are curling in, and the doctor didn't go into details, but she mentioned it could be Dupreytins...or something like that. Basically, a cord formation in your fascia that pulls your fingers down into a half fist. Bugger, let it be something else! I got fitted for new braces. And, then, when I get back from Georgia, a nerve test! This means a neurologist will stick needles in my muscles to see if my nerves are correctly transferring signals. They're not, you know...but I guess we gotta do tests. I really must be a masochist, trying to get better.
Sunday, November 28, 2010
Tonight, my hubby and I were out with some friends at a bar. A bunch of bands were playing, and like normal, I was hiding in the back in my wheelchair. I was feeling really cute. I'm still feeling really cute. <br /><br />I'm not sure how to go about this story, so I'll just hop right in. <br /><br />I saw a short fat woman there who was middle-aged, and wearing a sequins scarf that looked like tinsel. I didn't think much about her at first other than, hey she's relatively my same size and shape and ew...sequins (only because I personally dislike sequins). Later, however, I realized she was a part of one of the bands, and changed into costume. Her costume was basically a tube top and pink tutu. After her performance (I have no idea what she did because I couldn't see the stage and was violently bored by the band), she put on a hoodie and joined the audience. I thought she looked so cute and so much younger in this other outfit. As she was getting settled back into the audience I heard the couple who was sitting behind us for most of the show, and their friend have this conversation:<br /><br />Friend: Is that a tutu? <br /><br />(giggles)<br /><br />Man of couple: I think it's a four four. <br /><br />At this all three of them cackled and the laughter of the couple carried on for several minutes. Way too long for a good, normal joke.<br /><br />I was horrified. I hope that lady didn't hear them, but I had ear plugs in and heard them plain as day. What I found most shocking of all is these weren't 'normies' or even 'inbetweenies'. These people were fat. The woman from the couple probably weighed the same amount as the other woman, but was at least a foot taller, maybe more. Doctors would definitely call these people obese. <br /><br />As the laughter continued, I texted my husband: Don't those people realize they're fat? He whispered in my ear he was thinking the same thing. <br /><br />I also saw another woman gesturing to her friend about how tutu lady was shaking her hips. There was a little bit of giggles, but I don't really know, maybe they thought her attitude was cute....but it really seemed like they were making fun of the fat lady in the tutu. And here again this woman doing the gesturing was fat.<br /><br />I found this all rather upsetting, and I didn't feel right at that place anyhow...so we left early. <br /><br />I talked to my husband about it over fries and he agreed the tutu lady was adorable. I thought she was very brave to get on stage at all, and then in a tutu! We just didn't understand how these people could joke so openly about this other woman's size when they were fat people, too.</p>I guess I could've yelled in their faces, "YOU ARE FAT!" I definitely felt like doing so, but I'm gimpy and can't run away and I hate confrontation. <br /><br />I really just wanted to vent and share this experience, I suppose, but I'd also like to hear your thoughts. <br /><br />Also, here is a pic of me and my hubby tonight, because I know you people love to look at pictures. <a href="http://www.facebook.com/photo.php?pid=415823&id=1714588905">http://www.facebook.com/photo.php?pid=415823&id=1714588905
Wednesday, November 24, 2010
A few more...
Leonard Cohen
It's the tantalizing curiosity
of a dank, dark alleyway...
and it dares you to
brave its mystery.
Anticipation
tugs,
and you step forward
in the face
of danger.
Deep in the midst
of its
cold, cold
blackness
wisps of smoke
like ghost-arms
curl around
you.
Through this...
Embrace of Oblivion,
comes the laughter of
an aging playboy,
and the assurance
that
all
is
well.
Golden Girls.
Tiny little lines around my eyes.
Most women dread and fear them,
but I'm thinking I'll embrace mine.
How do I know that I won't be
exponentially cuter with
a few more creases,
folds,
pounds?
I want to grow cute-old
like Betty White,
being me,
living life.
If you come along,
maybe one day I'll
thank you for being a friend.
Behind a smile that asphyxiates.
A laugh that lies.
Far from the vain banter and passion-choking, soul-munching drudgery...
Drink a cup of tea with me.
We'll shed the masks we use to pass through this world.
Slough off this decay.
Be new and intimate again.
Twins in the womb.
Warm.
Safe.
Dec 1, 2005
This tattoo on my arm
Mocks me.
Never Give Up.
I want to cut it out.
It was one year ago
This week
I got it.
Tacoma was there.
The last trip I
Saw him out of
A hospital bed.
We smoked pot
And ice
(in broken lightbulbs
because I shattered the pipe
fiending)
at my suite
in the Hampton Inn,
and hid a fugitive
for awhile.
I (like always)
Spent too much money
On people
That will never
Appreciate it.
But
For the moments longer
It gave me with my
Beloved,
I would burn everything
I have now.
For one more conversation,
Hug
Or
Kiss…
I’d torch it all.
True friendship is not
A marriage of
Convenience,
But
A labour of love
That bridges distance,
Status, age, creed,
race and reason.
Dec 3, 2005
Go ahead.
Sip that coffee-
Black.
Peer out over this river
Of nameless faces.
Judgement waters
Your eyes
Like pre-cum.
Don’t think I don’t know.
That I can’t feel
Those waves of contempt
Crash over me.
Suck on my sweet smile,
On my coy, demure shell.Temp Job - 1
Temp Job - 2
I won’t be one of your
Little ducks,
Or pretty maids
all in a row.
I won’t go gently into that good night.
Like Dylan Thomas said,
I’ll rage against the dying of the light.
I won’t race to climb into my casket,
I’ll live to be the thorn in your side.
I’ll be that pebble in your loafer, motherfucker.
The reason you can’t sleep at night.
Winston Churchill, I'm sorry..7
Molly. An unfinished short story.
Oct 2, 2006
A miniscule grey spider paused on the ragged edge of the cracked porcelain before diving into the darkness. He spun his web inside, behind Molly's tattered face. She named him Ned. For a few days, they spent quite a lot of time together. Ned scurried around trapping gnats for dinner and Molly would talk to him while he slurped, but Ned wasn't much for conversation. Eventually, he realised he had not, in fact, chosen the perfect place for attracting his meals and Ned left for good. He didn't even bother to tear down his snare.
Years before, Enid Snitchkins, the blonde, skinny and bad-mannered neighbor girl decided Molly wanted to bounce on the trampoline, when Molly was quite sure that she did not. One good hop and Molly was tumble-soaring. She saw the sky, blue and speckled with white clouds. She saw waves of green bushes dotted with purple and blue flowers. And, just a second before her cheek made contact with the rusty metal bed, Molly saw the bright yellow dump truck, forgotten in the tallest grass. That was the day that Mrs. Welsh, having seen the jagged hole where applish cheek should be, declared Molly 'ruined' and banished her to the dark, musty attic. Since then, a plethora of eight-legged friends - some for days, others for weeks, rarely for months - had rented out the space in her head. Needless to say, Molly had cobwebs for brains.
When Molly was first given to the Welsh's oldest daughter, Cynthia, she was flawless and terribly excited. She was soon disappointed. Cynthia was nice enough, but dull as a butter knife and did not like to play with dolls. So, when she finished brushing Molly's lovely chocolate brown hair, she always put her right back on the shelf. Molly felt like a very bored trophy. She longed for full on adventures.
Most people forget as they grow older that every toy that's handcrafted with care, as Molly was, has a bit of the maker's soul built in. That toy (even the simplest grandma-fashioned ragdoll) has emotions and desires, same as anybody. As the toy is played with, they collect the love and laughter of children, which becomes a sort of battery charge. Mix the charge with the toy soul and you have what some call "doll magic". It takes a lot of concentration, but occasionally when a toy has built up enough reserve, they can use that doll magic to move or speak. Toys that are especially adored and played with, build that charge quickly and sustain it for longer. Adults, and some mean, spiteful children will not notice, but if a little girl squeezes her beloved, fuzzy brown teddy bear, he really returns that hug. Now, this is not the same with plastic, factory toys, because they are mass-produced by machines with no soul.
It was one year, nine months, six days, seventeen hours and forty five seconds before Molly had charged enough from her occasional brushings to explore the rest of the house. The journey down from the shelf alone was arduous. She hopped onto Cynthia's bureau with a faint clack of porcelain, and then slid carefully down the wooden face. Molly found her legs were sturdy enough to hold her upright, but it took a few minutes to adjust to the soft, cloth joints that connected her firm limbs. The fluffy, white petticoat ruffled softly under her royal blue velvet and Queen Anne's lace frock, and she glanced at Cynthia. The child did not even stir. Molly raged with excitedment as she neared the dark doorway, and peered out into the dimly lit hallway.
The first room Molly encountered smelled awful. Sometimes, Cynthia made funny noises and soon after a similiar stench would fill her bedroom. Molly determined that this was the designated spot for the entire family to engage in such foulness. By this time, she was down to about a quarter of a tank of magic, but she couldn't stop. Just one more room, and then she'd return.Molly.
A miniscule grey spider paused on the ragged edge of the cracked porcelain before diving into the darkness. He spun his web inside, behind Molly's tattered face. She named him Ned. For a few days, they spent quite a lot of time together. Ned scurried around trapping gnats for dinner and Molly would talk to him while he slurped, but Ned wasn't much for conversation. Eventually, he realised he had not, in fact, chosen the perfect place for attracting his meals and Ned left for good. He didn't even bother to tear down his snare.
Years before, Enid Snitchkins, the blonde, skinny and bad-mannered neighbor girl decided Molly wanted to bounce on the trampoline, when Molly was quite sure that she did not. One good hop and Molly was tumble-soaring. She saw the sky, blue and speckled with white clouds. She saw waves of green bushes dotted with purple and blue flowers. And, just a second before her cheek made contact with the rusty metal bed, Molly saw the bright yellow dump truck, forgotten in the tallest grass. That was the day that Mrs. Welsh, having seen the jagged hole where applish cheek should be, declared Molly 'ruined' and banished her to the dark, musty attic. Since then, a plethora of eight-legged friends - some for days, others for weeks, rarely for months - had rented out the space in her head. Needless to say, Molly had cobwebs for brains.
When Molly was first given to the Welsh's oldest daughter, Cynthia, she was flawless and terribly excited. She was soon disappointed. Cynthia was nice enough, but dull as a butter knife and did not like to play with dolls. So, when she finished brushing Molly's lovely chocolate brown hair, she always put her right back on the shelf. Molly felt like a very bored trophy. She longed for full on adventures.
Most people forget as they grow older that every toy that's handcrafted with care, as Molly was, has a bit of the maker's soul built in. That toy (even the simplest grandma-fashioned ragdoll) has emotions and desires, same as anybody. As the toy is played with, they collect the love and laughter of children, which becomes a sort of battery charge. Mix the charge with the toy soul and you have what some call "doll magic". It takes a lot of concentration, but occasionally when a toy has built up enough reserve, they can use that doll magic to move or speak. Toys that are especially adored and played with, build that charge quickly and sustain it for longer. Adults, and some mean, spiteful children will not notice, but if a little girl squeezes her beloved, fuzzy brown teddy bear, he really returns that hug. Now, this is not the same with plastic, factory toys, because they are mass-produced by machines with no soul.
It was one year, nine months, six days, seventeen hours and forty five seconds before Molly had charged enough from her occasional brushings to explore the rest of the house. The journey down from the shelf alone was arduous. She hopped onto Cynthia's bureau with a faint clack of porcelain, and then slid carefully down the wooden face. Molly found her legs were sturdy enough to hold her upright, but it took a few minutes to adjust to the soft, cloth joints that connected her firm limbs. The fluffy, white petticoat ruffled softly under her royal blue velvet and Queen Anne's lace frock, and she glanced at Cynthia. The child did not even stir. Molly raged with excitedment as she neared the dark doorway, and peered out into the dimly lit hallway.
The first room Molly encountered smelled awful. Sometimes, Cynthia made funny noises and soon after a similiar stench would fill her bedroom. Molly determined that this was the designated spot for the entire family to engage in such foulness. By this time, she was down to about a quarter of a tank of magic, but she couldn't stop. Just one more room, and then she'd return.Molly.
One of these was published...
Mar 19, 2007
Though thy colour recalls,
sick urine...
thy tangy-sweetness
doth
draw me in.
Oh, that I might multiply thee,
exponentially,
like Jesus
with the bread and herring.
Guard thee,
day and night,
for though there be a-plenty...
Thou, Apple Juice, are not for sharing.
Mar 18, 2007
Standing and singing,
with arms around shoulders,
and fists in the air,
pushing,
and tipsy teetering.
ears bleeding,
emersed,
deep in the heart.
My envy churns,
here, sidestage,
where they give too much space,
and don't know the words.
Oct 25, 2006
A Bit of Gratitude.
Tiny dancer,
Perrenial smiles
sunshining out my shadow.
Envy wielded caustic words.
Punched, bit, kicked...
but, secretly, I was always on your side.
You are my advocate.
My therapist.
My confidant,
my friend.
I am a worm,
baking on the sidewalk
after a rainstorm.
You pick me up,
tell me I'm beautiful,
and return me
to the safe,
yummy
dirt.
Oct 12, 2006
Sometimes
you gotta do
what no one else understands.
Simply so that
YOU
can have
understanding.
Sometimes
you gotta say shit
that only you think is funny.
Simply so that
YOU
can
laugh.Art and Blather.
Aug 22, 2006
I am self-absorbed.
I am an introvert.
Gotta stay on my tiptoes.
Wary of the eggshells...
always...
Wary of the eggshells.
I've had vacations.
Tropical paradise.
Floating in the water,
on hot, summer nights.
Flip. Switch. Back.
All the things I've left undone.
All the things I can't remember.
All the things I want to forget...
taking turn to ridicule.
My back against the brick at recess.
The stares.
The names.
They say to laugh it off...
(because it's oh so funny).
They tell you it will stop if you ignore...
(and it hurts so much, that for a time you believe with all your heart).
But, it never stops.
You grow older,
and you are still on the outside...
peekin' in.
Survival is-
juggling flaming torches
on a unicycle...
balanced on a tightrope
above a shark tank-
whistling Dixie.
Aug 7, 2006
Deja vu yields nausea.
I remember what I said to you.
I may be crazy, but I'm not stupid.
I loathe who I was when I ran with your blind multitude.
Or rather who I tried to be.
Fleeting glimpse then I cannot shake and..
I want to claw out my own lobotomy.
I hate you.
I hate you.
I hate you.
I hate you.
I hate you.
I hate you.
I hate you.
I hate you.
I hate you.
Break.
Spoil.
Fail.
Rot.
Be bruised, wounded and afflicted.
Be fruitless, and divide.
Pestilence on the crops of your pseudo-good deeds.
No treasures laid up.
No great and mighty things.You Wouldn't Like Me When I'm Angry5:30 am...thoughts...a bit unfinished.Still, I'd Rather Have This Than Silence.Ode to the Most Delicious of Juices
Though thy colour recalls,
sick urine...
thy tangy-sweetness
doth
draw me in.
Oh, that I might multiply thee,
exponentially,
like Jesus
with the bread and herring.
Guard thee,
day and night,
for though there be a-plenty...
Thou, Apple Juice, are not for sharing.
Mar 18, 2007
Standing and singing,
with arms around shoulders,
and fists in the air,
pushing,
and tipsy teetering.
ears bleeding,
emersed,
deep in the heart.
My envy churns,
here, sidestage,
where they give too much space,
and don't know the words.
A Bit of Gratitude.
Tiny dancer,
Perrenial smiles
sunshining out my shadow.
Envy wielded caustic words.
Punched, bit, kicked...
but, secretly, I was always on your side.
You are my advocate.
My therapist.
My confidant,
my friend.
I am a worm,
baking on the sidewalk
after a rainstorm.
You pick me up,
tell me I'm beautiful,
and return me
to the safe,
yummy
dirt.
Sometimes
you gotta do
what no one else understands.
Simply so that
YOU
can have
understanding.
Sometimes
you gotta say shit
that only you think is funny.
Simply so that
YOU
can
laugh.Art and Blather.
Aug 22, 2006
I am self-absorbed.
I am an introvert.
Gotta stay on my tiptoes.
Wary of the eggshells...
always...
Wary of the eggshells.
I've had vacations.
Tropical paradise.
Floating in the water,
on hot, summer nights.
Flip. Switch. Back.
All the things I've left undone.
All the things I can't remember.
All the things I want to forget...
taking turn to ridicule.
My back against the brick at recess.
The stares.
The names.
They say to laugh it off...
(because it's oh so funny).
They tell you it will stop if you ignore...
(and it hurts so much, that for a time you believe with all your heart).
But, it never stops.
You grow older,
and you are still on the outside...
peekin' in.
Survival is-
juggling flaming torches
on a unicycle...
balanced on a tightrope
above a shark tank-
whistling Dixie.
Aug 7, 2006
Deja vu yields nausea.
I remember what I said to you.
I may be crazy, but I'm not stupid.
I loathe who I was when I ran with your blind multitude.
Or rather who I tried to be.
Fleeting glimpse then I cannot shake and..
I want to claw out my own lobotomy.
I hate you.
I hate you.
I hate you.
I hate you.
I hate you.
I hate you.
I hate you.
I hate you.
I hate you.
Break.
Spoil.
Fail.
Rot.
Be bruised, wounded and afflicted.
Be fruitless, and divide.
Pestilence on the crops of your pseudo-good deeds.
No treasures laid up.
No great and mighty things.You Wouldn't Like Me When I'm Angry5:30 am...thoughts...a bit unfinished.Still, I'd Rather Have This Than Silence.Ode to the Most Delicious of Juices
I'm throwing several in here.
.23
I got the bad.
Both rush in
and out
like
karmic tide.
I've been dear - tried to straighten that curl.
I've been horrid.
You can flip that nickel,
a hundred times.
See Jefferson ninety nine,
but bet the last is Monticello.
Or, Shame On Us Both
a call to Arms.
Battlecry -
unsheath your Swords.
Able bodies,
cease wasting idle.
Become the wails
of maimed infants in
the street...
"Our blood is on your hands."
Severe Thunderstorm Warning
and I was sprinkled as
I left my first art lesson.
I glanced at the interstate,
and I chose to take the highway as
I noted streams of melting brake lights.
I hydroplaned into an empty lane,
and righted myself as
I took the on ramp.
I could just make out
the strong current that
already engulfed the asphalt,
then lamp posts failed
and the only light
was streaking
veins like eels
from the sky
touching down
in the not so distant
yonder.
I took the wrong exit,
and failed to realise until
I was back where I started.
I thought there was no use,
and didn't bother turning until
I came across a familiar side street.
I struggled to keep in my lane,
and refused to panic until
I felt the sprays rushing under my floorboard.
I began to fear I would not
make it home,
the thunder
like a motorcycle
revving
in the passenger's seat,
hitting every wicked spot
in this once familiar
now Twilight Zone
eerie and too long
road.
I contemplated:
that Garcia boy
who drowned last week in Killeen,
Flash floods,
sinkholes,
grabbing my cigarettes,
before my car was swept away
having a smoke,
while attached to
a street sign
waiting to be rescued.
and
muddy live burial -
the last moments
before death,
hopeless, helpless
in the myre,
alone
with
my dirty thoughts.
distracted.
distracted.
america, the faux-free bubble.
count your calories.
get your new gadgets.
let your debt pile up.
forget the hungry,
and displaced.
yes, darling.
there's a war...
but, it's so very far away.
no, darling.
nothing like that happens here
so, you don't have to worry.
I think I'll listen to the blues today
and offer a prayer to St. Francis de Sales,
cuz nobody knows the trouble I've seen,
well,
nobody 'cept Bessie Smith.
I might smoke too many cigarettes,
throw some of this frustration to the wind,
searching for a glimpse of inspiration
on the faces of coins,
and the bottoms of ashtrays.
God knows, I want to be a vessel.
Thalia come sail on me.
Apr 10, 2007
I braked as the light changed from yellow to red,
second in line to turn.
A raggedy heap
of dirty clothes
perched on the guardrail -
a buzzard scavenger
with a cardboard beak.
I cocked my head to the side, and shut one eye.
He disappeared into my blindspot.
I had a brief philosophical discussion with myself,
about how easy it is
for the fed
to dismiss the hungry,
as I fiddled with the change in my armrest.
35 cents was all I could spare,
and 35 cents seemed embarassing.
So, I pretended I didn't care,
turned, and gave him nothing.
I Can't Afford to Be the Hero.Blank Screen Blues
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