Because I Said So

Chocolate: Because Ham Is Not a Carb

I saw a dietitian yesterday who helped me set out a diet plan to control my gestational diabetes (GD). I've been feeling really low on energy the last few days, and I wasn't sure if it was just the usual pregnancy stuff or lack of carbs. It's probably both.

It turns out that I am a very good student, TOO good of a students, when it comes to cutting down on carbs. I've essentially cut them out (except for the "free" ones like salad, and some vegetables and fruits) and that isn't good. The problem is that adding more carbs will also make my blood sugars rise, so I'll most likely be countering that with medication. Fortunately there is a pill form so I probably won't need to be dealing with insulin injections. Just looking at the diagram of the best injection sites printed in my handy-dandy GD book makes me a bit queasy. Even the word "bolus" bothers me. I try not to think of it.

But now it's in my brain. Bolus, bolus, bolus! Ugh. Stop it, brain.

The upside is that I am eating some very nice chocolate. Not a lot, just a square of dark chocolate here and there, combined with a handful of peanuts or cashews. The sweet and the salty. Ah.

As for pregnancy news, I lumber when I walk. And strangers come up to me and say things like "You look like you're about to pop!" (woman at coffee shop) and "Whoa, you're gettin' BIG!" (guy at thrift store), and another woman who raised one eyebrow when she saw me, scanned my midsection, then shook her head.

What's that about? It was most puzzling. Does she think I should be hiding myself somewhere, and not lumbering about in public, my protuberant belly prominently displayed for all to see? Should I be "confined" as in days of yore, with a nursemaid or house servant scuttling hither and thither with towels and boiling water? (What was the boiling water for?)

I haven't had anyone try to touch my belly, though. There, I would draw the line. Or at least charge something, say, $5 for a good pat -- $10 for a rub. There's got to be something in it for me.

All I Want for Christmas Is A Functional Cervix...And A Donkey

And it looks like I might actually get one. The functional cervix, that is. Had another check at the doctor's office today and everything is looking fine. Of course, it's still early. The real test will be in a few weeks time, once I get into week 20+ and the weight of the baby and her habitat becomes more of an issue.

Jon left for China for a business trip last week (bearing Harley Davidson t-shirts and gummi vitamins, gifts from a Minnesota-based Chinese worker to a co-worker back home). This morning he sent me an email update on the food he's been eating. He's now had donkey twice and says it's surprisingly good. He also had what we used to call "salty head-on shrimpies" at our fav Chinese restaurant in our old neighborhood in St. Paul. These also got a thumbs-up.

Meanwhile, I am (barely) holding together the household and relying on easy foods like pasta, soup and frozen pizza. I'm not saying I want to be slinging back the donkey burgers (I'd put the donkey to work hauling the laundry up and down the stairs, rather than eat the poor beast), but it would be nice to have a little more exotic fare to choose from -- especially fare I don't have to cook. Or even heat.

Off the Wagon

This afternoon Jon took Henry to the health club to go swimming so that I could sit on the couch and drink Diet Coke and eat leftover Halloween Kit-Kats and write a bunch of crap. Thus, I accomplished my word count goal (and then some -- over 3000 words today). On Friday I went to my studio and got in about an hour and a half of very productive writing time. I love those times when the entire world seems to recede, and I fall into an almost trance-like state. It doesn't happen often, but I have a feeling that if I wrote more often (such as every day) those times would become more frequent.

Jon said today that I took on two big projects this month, doing both NaNo and NaBlo (hm, did I detect a note of criticism in his observation? why, yes I did), but I honestly feel that this is the way I should be living: dedicating a chunk of time each day to writing. Except that the laundry doesn't get done, and the house is a mess, and I haven't been cooking so we've been eating a lot of take-out.

Also, the careful reader will note that I mentioned Diet Coke in the above paragraph. Yes, I fell off the wagon and have been imbibing caffeine again. Including (gasp!) coffee. I've missed it so much! And it goes so well with homemade blueberry muffins. And Kit-Kats. And crusts of dry bread. And smelts. Anything, really.

But it has got to stop or I will once again experience those stabbing pains in the sides of my breasts, like someone is going at them with a hacksaw. An unpleasant sensation, I assure you, and not worth the fleeting pleasure of Kava and something-laden-with-sugar for breakfast every morning.

In Which Our Heroine Buys Some Juice Glasses

We saw Henry's pediatrician today, the first step in the process of having Henry medically assessed for AOW. It was rough. So rough, in fact, that I don't want to write about it yet.

I will write, however, about the nifty new juice glasses I bought at the online outlet of Crate and Barrel. Both my grandmothers had juice glasses. The "good" grandma (blue hair, wire-rimmed glasses, loved kids) had glasses with the Archies printed on them. We could have as much juice as we wanted, although we were usually too full of bacon and eggs and toast and pie and pork roast and mashed potatoes and watermelon and fried chicken and cookies and 7-Up (from green bottles) to ask for more.

The "bad" grandma (compulsively tidy, didn't like kids, tear-drop glasses) had teeny-tiny little juice glasses into which she squeezed the precious fairy dew with an eye-dropper, one drop apiece.

My new glasses are heavy at the base, giving them a pleasant heft. They hold nine ounces, a generous yet not overly indulgent juice-holding capacity. Good granny (bless your departed soul), you would have liked these glasses.

As well you might, too, dear reader. You can click on the pic above and buy some for yourself. The kickbacks I receive from C&B will keep me in juice for a loonnng time.

Although with the Democrats back in power, I hear the price of juice will be dropping. Power to the people!

Caffeine is the Devil

Yesterday was the first day in two weeks that I did not have a caffeine-withdrawal headache, that I was relatively free of body aches and intense crankiness, and that my mind was clear and lucid. Who would have thought that caffeine withdrawal would be this bad? Not me. I thought, "Ok, headaches for a couple mornings...I can handle that." Three days in, I thought I had the flu. But I hadn't a fever. And no one I knew had the flu. Who gets the flu in June? Of course, my next step was Google. Sure enough, there is a fair amount of info out there about caffeine withdrawal, recounting all of the symptoms I was experiencing plus an interesting tidbit about it being included in the DSM V (or VI, or whatever they're up to now).

And like the phoenix I have arisen from the ashes of my addiction! I actually miss the diet Coke more than the coffee, because the weather has been hot and there's something so satisfying about taking those deep gulps, feeling it burn my throat on its way down. But after what I went through to get that monkey off my back, I'm not seriously tempted.

You know what I'd really like, though? Weed. A little weed. Just one joint. I want to sit out on our porch and smoke it and look out at the little woods behind our house, and at the newly-primed-and-elder-bugged playhouse, and just enjoy the evening. (Not this evening, because it's pouring rain. But some other, weed-friendly evening.) But it's not gonna happen. It's been years and years since I've even had the opportunity.

One thing about growing up and growing older: you just don't go to parties like that anymore, where people would disappear into and reappear out of the back bedroom or the back porch, where there was always some guy who had something. Or at least I don't go to parties like that anymore. But if there were parties like that thrown by people in my age group, a bunch of 40-somethings still smoking joints in a back bedroom, there would be something rather pathetic about it.

Far classier would be offering it around after a dinner party, as if just another dessert or post-dinner drink. "Cheesecake? Joint? Another glass of wine?" "Hm, it all looks so good...I think I'll take a joint -- does anyone want to split this with me? There's no way I can smoke this whole thing."

A Lot of Little Pieces

Today is my second day being caffeine-free. I decided to give it up because I started having shooting pains in my breasts and back. I just had my first mammogram (results: normal), and having ruled out more serious health concerns the next likely culprit was diet. Thus, I'm on the wagon.

Yesterday was hard. I dragged myself around, took a handful of ibuprofen to get me through the morning, found myself standing at the 'fridge, gazing longingly at the shiny cans of Diet Coke lining the door, and feel asleep about 1.16 seconds after putting Henry down for his nap in the afternoon. I slept heavily last night, too -- probably the best night's sleep I've had in a long time. But now I feel hung over. Blah.

Ah, my beloved Kava! It's over now. For too long I've let you rule my life. You gradually extended your hold over me. At first a teaspoon was okay, maybe two. But I grew accustomed to that little spark, that little morning jumpstart. I needed it. And how.

Soon I had to have more of you. A tablespoon. Soon, two. I used the more modest Diet Coke to ease me down from that first, morning high -- two or three cans throughout the day. One morning I woke to find myself in a strange diner in an unknown city, a hole in my cheek, vomit staining my clothes, a severed hand stuffed into my left pocket, the waitress leaning over to ask, "Another cup?"

Ode to Kava Instant Coffee

Kava, my Kava, on cold mornings I come to you.
You sit patiently in the cupboard, asking only for hot water.
You dissolve in an instant; you give yourself completely.
Kava, lovely Kava, you spark the pilot light of my brain.
I flare up like a furnace.
I burn only for you.

Kava, fickle and petulant,
There are times when I cannot find you.
The discount store says you have run out;
They don't know when you will be back.
Another store carries you no longer.
You leave no forwarding address.

I confess, my little beverage of love, having lost you
I turned away
And tried another brand.
If Maxwell House was good enough for Mississippi John,
It would be good enough for me:

What folly!

The cool blue label belied the acid-y gut-bomb within.
I tasted the bitterness of my regret
for many hours afterward.

Your perky red cap flitted through my consciousness,
A reminder of better days
Now so distant.

Kava, my Kava!
Return to me, my love.
I want to wake up
to your smell, your taste, your crunchy freeze-dried thingies.
Humble and penitent,
I kneel before you and make my choice:
Buy direct.

I will gladly pay shipping.