Bone Marrow and Stem Cell Donations

Today I went back to the dentist. After about 18 or 19 years of not going, I went last month. I had one cavity. So today it got fixed. I love my dentist. Despite having not been to one in almost two decades, every single person in his office who I met (four people) were simply friendly, reassuring, and expressed happiness that I'd simply gotten there.

He owns his own practice, and while I was confirming my next appointment six months out, I saw a piece of paper on the ledge. It was sandwiched between two photographs - one of two kids, and one of two adults. One of those adults was my dentist, but with hair. He looks better bald.

The piece of paper, it turns out, was something my dentist wrote about his sister, who was the girl/woman in the two pictures. Apparently she has leukemia, and is dying of it. She has two little boys. The only chance of her living is to get either a bone marrow transplant or stem cell transplant. My dentist is asking if anyone would be willing to get tested to see if they might be a match.

Here's the thing. If you're reading here, you're someone who's been reading here for years. So to a certain extent you know me. While I give homeless people backpacks, I also laugh at people who trip and fall down. What I'm saying is, I'm sort of middle of the road when you average me out.

It would be a nice thing to see if I'm a match for the dentist's sister. My only hesitation is, if I actually am (and I understand it's a long shot) then I'd kind of have to then donate either stem cells or bone marrow. Otherwise I'd be a total asshole, and more than cancel out the niceness of getting tested. It'd basically be cruel.

The truth is I went through a lot of physical pain when I was 18. Actually, I'm in pain right this very second, though it's from the cavity filling (I hope). So I'm not really sure I'm down for a painful medical procedure. Getting bone marrow extracted, while done under general anesthesia, is still really painful. The stem cell harvest requires that prior to donating blood, you get injections of a medication that like, plumps up the blood (I'm a little vague on the reasoning) and one of the side effects is that it makes your joints stiff. I already have arthritis, so ... Granted, the stiffness goes away after a few weeks.

I would absolutely never, ever consider this if I didn't have health insurance. Which I do. Part of my hesitation is about the physical - how much will it hurt? But another reason I'm hesitating is because I don't want to be that person. What if the dentist thanked me? What if he wanted me to meet his sister and she like, introduced me to people and told them? I don't want to deal with that. I hate concentrated attention. You can extract bone marrow, but can't extract introversion.

Also, I don't want people saying things to me that are stupid. Like if I bitch that something hurts, and someone says, "Think about what a wonderful thing you're doing to distract yourself from the pain"? If that happened, I'd be thinking about how stupid that is to say because it doesn't at ALL distract me from pain, and I'm not even distracted from pain by thinking about how stupid you are.

I really like my dentist. He's a great dentist, but he's also a great guy. So if there were a way to help out someone he cares about who he can't help himself, I want to say I'd do it. But what if I'm not a match for his sister, but I am a match for like, some totally random person? I don't want to do this for a stranger who has no Kevin Bacon connection, you know? But then that's terrible. Who am I to decide that one person is deserving of living and another isn't?

Can I just be tested to help the dentist's sister? Without going on some national database? Because I might be interested in being helpful, but only to like, one person. Clearly calling me a bitch is not a strong enough word for what I am.

Everything I've read about this talks about what a great thing it is. I don't care about that. That's what you get from someone who has been disenchanted with life for a couple of decades. I don't think living is such a fantastic thing. So I don't care about doing some wonderful, noble thing that helps other people live. I grasp that others don't feel the way I do, and they do love life, and do want to live it. Having gone to high school with a few kids who grew up without a parent, or had a parent die in their childhood, it's clear how devastating that is.

Now you say something deep.

Vote With Your Fork

I was reading this article by Marion Nestle where one of the phrases she says, is to vote with your fork.

One of the things she says is that you set an example, and make it social acceptable for others to care. There are no grocery stores in San Francisco that use plastic bags anymore. The smaller food grocery stores, like Trader Joe's and Whole Foods sell reusable bags, and most give you five cents off your bill or something if you bring your own bag. However, they also have brown paper bags for bagging food.

Maybe a year ago, a TJMaxx opened two blocks away, and because I'm an old lady, I went to check it out. I bought a frying pan, and they gave me a reusable bag for it. When I go food shopping, I try to remember to bring it with me. I can't even tell you how many people have commented on it. Always tourists.

I'm not the most environmentally friendly person around, but I'm always happy to promote doing something that's less damaging, so I'll stand there and talk about how no, it's not a huge inconvenience to go through life without plastic bags. Yes, it really is possible to remember your bags when going food shopping. Then I tell them how to get to Macy's, Old Navy, or Fisherman's Wharf.

It's almost like, because I do so little for the environment, I owe it to said environment to encourage others to do what I do. Because it practically is the least that can be done. I'd like to get better in this area. The whole bringing-my-own-bags and refusing bags in stores is not enough. Buying more organics, buying less meat, recycling, composting - these all need to happen. I would like to make sure I donate everything that can be donated, rather than throwing things out. Does it make sense that I want to set a better example for myself?

I Used to Love Soap Operas

As a little girls, I called them "so boppers" and then learned they were really called "soap boppers." I never questioned the reasoning behind this term. Little kids are so open to learning, you could probably tell them all sorts of weird untrue shit and get away with it.

I'm older and wiser now, and love nothing more than asking questions. It's weird to work at a place where nobody likes the boss. Wait, it's not that people don't like him. They actively dislike him. Here's one of the gems that endeared him to the staff (before I got there):

When it's someone's birthday, he takes the firm out to lunch. The firm pays for it. When it was Turkey's birthday, he chose a super-expensive restaurant. Like, the kind of restaurant where you're being modest if you only get three courses. He got all five courses though. The bill came, and he refused to put down the company credit card, saying it was his birthday and he wasn't paying for it. Word in the sunken living room is people were kicking each other under the table freaking out that they each had to plunk down over $100, on a day when they thought they'd be getting a free lunch. People were beyond furious. And he claimed to not understand why.

On Friday, when the WASP and Office Manager were telling me these types of stories, I confessed that the one thing I didn't understand was Turkey's gay lovah. I mean, he's kind of hot, he's French, he dresses well, he's younger. He could do better. Why was his married to this Turkey?

So glad you asked! Gay lovah was a counter person at Bloomingdales for years, it seems. Years! Until he got fired for stealing. Then Turkey got him a job at an upscale furniture showroom through a client from the firm. How'd they meet, you ask? Lucky for you, I asked too! Well. Gay Lovah was married before Turkey. To a WOMAN. To which my jaw dropped, and I asked Office Manager, "Turkey TURNED Gay Lovah?!" She laughed. Apparently, they both went on some vacation for boy toys to meet sugar daddies, and that's how they wound up together. Gay Lovah has a sweet deal. I mean, aside from having to live with the Turkey, and you know, be his gay lovah. Not that I think gay love is gross, but that Turkey himself is quite gross, in both looks and personality.

Office Manager also shared that Gay Lovah contributes about $600 a month towards their household. They have a home worth over a million dollars. Turkey has this law firm. The two of them go on fancy trips two to four times a year. They eat out often, see shows often, go to the opera. Sweet deal. Except for the Turkey part. Now if Gay Lovah had hooked up with the Hot Gay Subtenant I'd be in awe of that, because Hot Gay Subtenant is outrageously hot and also totally helpful and pleasant to be around.

So that's the story of how the Turkey got his Gay Lovah husband. And how did you meet YOUR husband?

Changing Your Mindset

I wonder how long it takes to go from being food-stamp poor to being upper-middle class rich, in your head.

Tonight I rolled $26.50 worth of coins. It took about 20 minutes. I know a lot of people who say they don't have time to roll coins. I think what they truly mean is that they don't want to use their time to do that. So they are willing to spend money to have a machine sort and count their coins for them. I am not. I never have.

It's the principle of it. Who the fuck am I, a doctor? What am I so busy doing that I can't take the time to roll coins every few months? Granted, I grew up with a dad who worked full time, and took an active roll in parenting his two kids, and was a husband who I routinely saw sitting on the edge of his bed rolling coins some weekend mornings.

Recently my brother told me the grocery store near him will count your coins for you, and then give you a gift card to their store in that amount. It's a chain I use, and sounds like a great idea. Except it'd cost me $2 to get to that store. I'll have to look and see if the one near me does it. It's a little satellite store, so they don't have all the bells and whistles.

But I wonder how rich I'd have to be to let a machine count my coins even if it charged a fee, or a percentage. I wonder if I'll ever not get a rush when I see that a product I use is on sale. People say being poor builds character and shit like that. Sure, but it also changes your mindset. There's nothing noble or good about feeling insecure about having a roof over your head, enough money to eat. It doesn't build character to be sad at having to put on shoes that are wet because it's been pouring for three days in a row and your shoes haven't had a chance to dry before you have to wear them again.

The Turkey handed me some crumpled up papers today, to throw out for him. He was standing right in front of the garbage pail. Literally, his shoe was touching it. He is exactly the type of person who I bet has never rolled his own coins.

Snapshots of an Employment Agreement

You will see many things that are wrong. None of them are errors on my part. I am typing exactly what was given to me. Because this is too jaw-droppingly shocking not to share with you guys, especially after all the encouragement you've given me.

Duties: ...You will be asked to make observations on what files can be put away, and periodically ask what other items can be put away. That is one hell of a clunky sentence, am I right? I had to clarify with the lawyer exactly what he meant by the second half. Turns out if I see a random box or a pile of papers, I'm to investigate and overall am in charge of keeping the sunken living room looking nice and orderly.

...We may assign you new or different duties from time to time. Additional duties may be stated in the job manual to employees (I do not have one of these) but to the extent that manual differs from this letter, this letter will control. Will be stated in the manual we will provide to you and a job description when you begin your employment with us. Um, okay? I had to go through this agreement with him today, and it took so much to hold back from saying, "Dude. What the fuck?"

Hours of Employment: 8 hours per day, with sometimes-flexible lunch scheduling between 8:30 am and 5:30 weekdays (with the proviso that you and our office manager f coordinate your lunch schedules so that there is full coverage). ... Asking you to stay any more than that will be something we always try to arrange the prior day. that. On y infrequent occasions you may be asked to work one weekend day.

Overtime: All overtime must be pre-authorized by a partner, so please see me in advance when you feel it is necessary to exceed 8 hours a day. First of all, there are no partners. This lawyer has his firm, and he has ONE part-time associate (the WASP). In order for someone to be a partner, there must be at least one other person to partner WITH, which he does not have. Second of all, he is the ONLY one who ever asks me to stay late. So what he should really say is something like, "Any self-directed overtime must be pre-authorized by me." Or something to that effect.

Sick Days: Paid sick days accrue at the rate of 8/12 day per month. Earned but not taken sick time may be able to be carried forward from one calendar year to the other. On the other hand, payment may be made, at our (who is our? he is ONE guy) discretion, for earned but unused sick days, at each year's end, and will be made at termination.

Vacation: You will have 12 paid vacation days per year, earned as one per month. Vacation days or more than two days must be arranged with the firm at least three weeks in advance, and two days arranged no later than 10 days in advance. Okay, what? Whoever can figure that one out gets a free vacation to Hawaii.

Evaluation: I will give you a performance evaluation at the end of three months and again at the end of six months. This six month period shall be a probationary period, during which either party may terminate with two weeks notice. After probationary period, termination by either party requires three weeks notice to the other party. Please note he switched from "our" and "we" now to "I". You know what has been drummed into me working at law firms for over a decade? Consistency! Even if you are making a mistake, at least make it consistently throughout the document! By the way, California is an at-will state. He can fire me at any time, without giving me any notice, and although it'd be a shitty thing to do, I can leave without giving the standard two weeks notice. Could he sue me in court, telling a judge, "She only gave me two weeks notice instead of the three she agreed to, so I want her to pay the cost of hiring a temp for a week"? Well, he could, except what are the odds of him winning that one?

At the end of the document there's a signature line where I'm supposed to sign. My name is typed underneath the line. As Green Yogurtt. Whoops.

So hey. If you ever wonder what I do all day, I look at documents like these (and I didn't even show you the spacing problems) and fix them before they're sent out to clients. He sends out the most unprofessional-looking shit all the time. Last Friday we sent out a document that was supposed to have about a dozen exhibits. Except since he didn't start working on the document until around 1pm, he ran out of time. So instead of the document saying things like, "In Paragraph 4, Sentence 6 of the attached Engagement Agreement (Exhibit C) Dr. Doodle initials his agreement to blah blah," it said things like, "In Paragraph 4 of the attached Engagement Agreement (see attached) ..."

That's not even the worst part though! The worst is that because the documents referenced weren't referred to as Exhibits, I couldn't use exhibit tabs. Instead, we just used colored pieces of paper to separate each "exhibit" from each other. But wait! We didn't have enough colored pieces of paper that were all the same color. So what we submitted looked like a legal valentine. Pink, red, and purple pages were all shoved in there. Oh, and the "exhibits" were not in the order they were referenced in the document. How unprofessional is that?

Everything is NOT About YOU

A few days ago, while my parents were in town, we went to see a movie. Two girls were sitting in the row in front of us, and they had their feet up on the seats in front of them, which pushed their seats back. Directly into my knees. The girl in front of me kept throwing her head back every few minutes, further jamming her seat into my knees. I couldn't find a way to sit that was not uncomfortable. Finally I ran out of patience. I leaned forward, and very quietly said, "Excuse me. Is there any way you could stop pushing yourself back in your seat? It's going directly against my knees every time and really hurting me." Her friend barely looked back at me as she responded, "Why don't you move?"

Why don't *I* move? Because I'm not the one doing something I shouldn't be doing which is then causing someone else difficulty! If you want to do something like put your feet up on the back of the chair in front of you that's none of my business ... until you make it my business. After they finished exchanging "She's such a bitch!" looks, and "Oh my god, can you BELIEVE her?" looks, they each got up and moved to the row ahead of the one they'd been sitting in. My knees and I were very relieved. The bruises should be gone by the end of the week.

Yesterday as I was walking home from work, there was a middle-aged plump woman with a bad perm walking in front of me. She was on her cell phone, and walking slower than the average pace. She was also weaving and each time I tried to move around her, she weaved in front of me. My only option besides continuing on behind her would be to step into oncoming traffic.

I chose to open my big mouth. "You keep weaving in front of me each time I try to pass you," I told her. She looked at me, pausing from her phone call. "Sorry ... bitch!" I was a little surprised to be honest. Probably because it was clear she'd surprised herself by calling me a bitch. She didn't have any way of knowing what I was listening to on my iPod, that I was all pumped up from it. That the song, combined with the physical exercise outside after sitting inside all day, plus her calling me a bitch, shot adrenaline through my system in an instant. I was a little amused by the predicament she'd just put herself into, and my lack of fear clearly made her feel she was in over her head. She scurried ahead and then ran across the street. For half a second I thought about staying on her heels just to rattle her, but did the mature thing and hung back, putting some space between our surprising confrontation.

It got me thinking, though. Twice people did obnoxious things that, while not illegal, a little ... dickish, and twice when these people were called out for their dickish behavior negatively affecting someone else, they got angry. As if the person they'd hurt/annoyed should have just taken it and stayed quiet. As if "me" is more important than "you." Why? And when did this happen? Didn't it used to be different? Didn't people used to trip all over themselves to help others?

When I talked to my friend about this, she suggested that nobody ever wants to be called out on their bad behavior. It's not as if someone littered and I tsk-tsked at them. Why are people caring so much about their lives, their comfort, that they don't care if their comfort infringes on someone else's comfort? How do we change things back, to the time when if we realized we hurt someone, we immediately apologized and felt badly about it?

May Madness

Getting what you want is never quite as good as you think it'll be. It's really hard to go from zero to sixty and that's what I did, literally. This lawyer had me working tons of overtime - so much that some nights I just came home, set my alarm for the morning, and flopped into bed for the night. The having money part is great. The structure to the day is great. It's just hard ramping up. Now he is away in Europe for a couple of weeks, so there's no more overtime while he's gone. Hopefully (sort of) he will make me a permanent employee when he returns from his vacation.

One of the great things about working is it streamlines my reading. I read on my lunch hour every day, and then a couple of chapters at night to calm down enough to go to sleep. When I think about how libraries were in the pre-computer days it makes me sad for all the library goers. How awesome is it to read a magazine, see reviews of books that interest you, reserve them and get an e-mail telling you the books are ready for you to pick up? Remember the olden days when we needed to just go there and hope they had what we wanted? Or when we needed to haul our asses all the way there just to reserve a book?

Meanwhile, one friend died and another friend seems to have dumped me. The first was expected and a years-long, drawn-out process while the other was sudden and shocking. I have cried over both. I have so few friends that to lose one for any reason slays me.

On the home front, the washing machine ate $2 worth of quarters this evening, so a letter was written to the landlord and dropped in the box where rent's supposed to go. Hopefully he will reimburse like he did last time.

There is a little Indian toddler who lives on my floor. She goes with her mother to do laundry, and likes to follow me around any time we see each other. Once she followed me into my house, and I almost stepped on her by accident. I haven't seen her in a few months, but tonight on the way home I saw a little Indian baby who is just the cutest thing, and I want to steal her. There seem to be a lot of babies living here - over a dozen. I count them based on the strollers kept all over the hallways. The landlord likes to write yelly memos in all caps that he puts up around the building, but they're in English and a lot of people here don't read English.

So You Think You Can Dance is starting up in a few weeks, and I'm very excited. Few things make me as happy as seeing people dance who love it.

I have a secret. I have volunteered at the same place for ... two years? There are four or five guys who are there. They all have names like Peter and Steve and I have zero idea which name goes with any of the guys. Of course at this point, not only do they all know my name, but it's been too long and it'd be awkward to ask now. Normally I'm better with names than this - I don't know why the block exists here. I do know the name of the volunteer coordinator, if that redeems me at all.

So that's what is going on here. What's going on with you?

Why Couldn't I Have a Boyfriend?

At the place where I'm temping, the lawyer rents out space to other lawyers, which makes them sub-tenants. There are some former sub-tenants who still receive mail here, which means someone has to come by on a semi-regular basis to fetch said mail. One of the people who is a fetcher is a bald, corpulent man. He's probably in his late 30's or early 40's. He walks with a cane. I temped at this place last year, and I remember this guy from then. He'd come up the stairs, ask if he had any mail, and I'd hand it to him. After a while I got busy and told him he could just help himself to the folder where it's kept.
I started temping here again a few weeks ago, and the second day I was here, when he saw me he asked what my plans were for lunch. I was planning to run a bunch of errands I hadn't gotten done before starting to temp, and told him that. When I heard his response of, "Maybe some other time then?" I realized he'd been trying to ask me out. Oh.

Yes. So. The truth is, I had zero interest in going out with him. Even aside from not being physically attracted to him (and it's not because he's bald - there are plenty of hot, bald guys), there are other issues. I'm attracted to people who are smart. Nothing in our brief chats ever led me to believe he's smart. I'm attracted to people who are funny. To people who are the slightest bit extra nice. He did not seem to be any of these things. Plus, every day when I see this guy, he is wearing sweatpants. Not even just regular sweatpants, as if those aren't bad enough. No, he wears sweatpants with elastic around the ankles. Also, he tucks his t-shirts into the sweatpants. To say it's not a good look is a severe understatement. I never really liked the show Seinfeld, but sure did appreciate when Jerry spread the word that it's unacceptable to wear sweatpants in public.

Anyway. If you feel that I must be a snob for not liking this guy, and not wanting to go on a date with him, then so be it. You're attracted to whomever you're attracted to, and I'm not attracted to this guy on any level. I mentioned this asking-out to two people - my friend, and an associate who works here part-time. My friend told me, "Just tell him you have a boyfriend. You have to lie; it's the most humane thing to do." I agree with her. Any other reason I'd give for why I won't go to lunch will just translate to, "I don't like you." And even though I don't, he's not a bad person, just a bad dresser. No reason to make him feel badly.

The associate also told me to lie and tell him I have a boyfriend. But here's the reason it bothered me that she said that: she assumed I don't have one! My friend is my friend - she knows my life. The associate doesn't know I don't have a boyfriend! Why would she assume? Do I in some way LOOK unboyfriendable? I wanted to attack this point and force her to feel as badly as she'd (inadvertently) made me feel. I dug deep down, realized I felt nothing, and borrowed maturity from someone else in order to keep my mouth shut.

But it really hurt my feelings. And every time I think about it, it hurts my feelings all over again.

Please Weigh in on a Fat Problem

(And that will conclude the fat jokes for this blog post.)

You are me. You are friends with someone who lives nearby, and is, shall we say, zaftig. She has invited you to parties she's thrown, you've attended twice and had lovely times (when you are not surrounded by jewish people, to all of a sudden get to hang out with one brings out very good feelings, but that's not the only reason you like her). You have not reciprocated because you have not thrown any parties, but if you had, you would have.

Now you've found yourself volunteering for an event, specifically for zaftig ladies. You think she would enjoy it a lot (I almost typed tons, but then re-read my first sentence). You think of inviting her (to partake, not to volunteer).

Then you realize what you'd wind up saying is, "Hey! You're fat! Wanna go to this fattie event I think you'd dig?" You realize that if the roles were reversed, even though clearly everyone can look at you and see your size, to be actually called out on it would mortify you, and you'd promptly move to the mountains of Kentucky where you know noone. Yet on the other hand, you do realize that you are a delicate and overly sensitive flower, while not everyone else is, so perhaps you should not put your neurosis on others.

You are socially savvy. Tell me what to do.

I Know Someone Who DIED From That

Many, many moons ago, I worked with a girl who had a tramp stamp in memory of her father who'd died. She also had a teeny, tiny stud in her nose, and her boyfriend had one undesended ball (I'm more mature now, and if you tell me these things about your boyfriend or husband I no longer want to giggle each time I see them, because I immediately try to forget I know the second after you give me this type of information). She also had diabetes. Once, the manager for our department went up to this girl and asked her, right in front of my desk, what she should if she "has a diabetes attack" and so the girl launched into a two minute explanation of some needle that she kept in a certain spot in her desk and where to jab it into her body and how to do it so the insulin would get in. I was on the phone at the time and didn't hear the details, but clearly remember the look of shock on the girl's face when the manager wrinkled her nose and said, "Oh, that's way too complicated, never mind," and walked off.

Recently someone on Twitter raged a few times about people being ignorant when it comes to diabetes. Which made me think, "Umm ... I'm pretty ignorant. Shit, have I said anything offensive about diabetes lately?"

I always sympathize with the ignorant asshole - probably because so often it's me - and this time came up with a way to do something about it. I asked said Twitter-er if she'd like to do a guest post (!) on my blog about her diabetes. And now you will know what not to say when someone tells you they have diabetes. (Thanks to my Twitter Friend for doing this, and apologies for font issues - there was a lot of cutting and pasting going on.)

1. What kind of diabetes do you have? The kind that's kept in check by diet, or do you need insulin shots?

I'm a type I diabetic. It's the kind that they used to call Juvenile diabetes, or insulin-dependent diabetes, but neither of those names are used too frequently anymore. I take insulin, but in my case, instead of taking shots, I have an insulin pump. That's a small computer, about the size of a cell phone, that's attached to me by a teensy little catheter. It holds a reservoir of insulin and the computer gives me a very low dose constantly. When I eat or if my blood glucose is high, I give myself extra insulin. It's a lot more convenient than having to give myself shots. I've also found it's a lot less conspicuous than having to pull out syringes and insulin if I want to have a snack. A syringe tends to draw a lot of attention and curiosity, and that curiosity is often negative.

2. If you have to walk around with needles, how do you get on airplanes with them? Do you carry a doctor's note?

That's exactly what I do, actually. Before I fly, I have my doctor write a letter stating that I am diabetic and must travel with syringes, insulin, my pump, and monitoring equipment on my person. When I go through security, I put everything but my pump and continuous glucose monitoring system in a clear plastic bag so that it's all visible, and I inform the security agent that I'm traveling with medical equipment. Then when I go through the metal detector, I turn my pump off, detach it (which is not at all a big deal), let them X-ray it, then turn it back on and re-attach it. Not a big deal, as it turns out--I thought it would be the first time I flew, but the screeners have seen it all a million times before. Yeah, yeah, lady. Just make sure your laptop is out. What's interesting to me is that I do have to turn off and disconnect my continuous glucose monitoring system, which is a little plastic radio transmitter, when I fly. You know how they tell you to turn off laptops, cell phones, and other devices before the plane takes off? It's just like that.

3. If we know someone with diabetes, should we not offer them sweets?

Oh, wow. That's really a great question. Diabetes treatment has changed so much over the last 20 years, even over the last 10, and most of us can (and do) occasionally indulge without it being a big deal. My first inclination is absolutely to say yes, I do think you should, especially if they're a part of a group and you're offering something sweet to everyone--dessert, for example. Offering doesn't quite have the impact of, say, offering a drink to someone who's in recovery for alcohol abuse or something like that, which is fraught with all kinds of...I don't know. Part of this disease is learning to make good choices for ourselves, and while you might feel a little awkward about offering, we're just fine with saying no thanks if we need to. What's so much worse for us is feeling singled out or excluded for being diabetic. I know a diabetic who was diagnosed at 8. The year after she was diagnosed, at her birthday party, her mother baked a birthday cake, served everyone else but her, and then handed her a bowl of apple slices.

4. What's a good thing to say (other than 'Oh....' or 'Hey, my dad's cousin died of that in the 80's') when someone tells you they have diabetes?

One of the things we struggle with is finding a way to tell people that isn't a total downer or conversation-ender. Most of the time, people notice my insulin pump and ask me about it. People love technology and are curious about things they've never seen before, and I would much rather answer questions about it than hear about how someone's grandmother went blind and had all her toes amputated. Although I'm sorry to hear about that grandmother and her toes, I already got the memo that diabetes is scary. You wouldn't believe some of the things I've heard people say. My all-time favorite is still, "But you're not that fat!" Oooh, thanks, but I've got the other kind. Anyway, I guess the best answer to your question is probably to ask a question. Ask them if they're type I or II. Ask them when they were diagnosed. Most diabetics would much rather answer a question or two--we're always impressed to hear that someone knows something--than hear about the multitude of awful ways we could die.

5. What should people avoid saying?

Ohhh, the internet. A little knowledge can be a dangerous thing, and I've been told that I can cure diabetes with cinnamon, cayenne pepper, a vegetarian diet, a vegan diet, the power of prayer, and roots from a certain tree that grows in the U.S. Southwest. Let me just say this: there is no cure for diabetes, and people who try to convince you otherwise are, without fail, pursuing an agenda that has nothing to do with you or your health. I would avoid any sentence that starts out "I've heard you can cure diabetes with..." The implication is that we're fools to still be suffering from the condition, because there's a cure. Believe me, there's not a cure. With nearly 25,000,000 Americans now suffering from diabetes, the word would be out by now.

6. What assumptions do people make about you when they find out you have diabetes?

The usual: I must not be very active or energetic. My health must be very fragile. I'm not crazy about the assumption that someone knows all about me just based on the fact that they have a cursory knowledge of the facts of diabetes. Probably the assumption that I like the least is one that, surprisingly, often comes from medical professionals, and that's that I don't know anything about diabetes. My experience is that many doctors who aren't specifically diabetes experts don't know as much as I do. I had a baby last summer, and when I was pregnant, I had an excellent obstetrician who freely admitted he didn't know a great deal about diabetes. He was terrific about asking questions about things like my insulin pump, how often I checked my blood glucose and what range I tried to keep it in, some of the little foibles of the disease. He was eager to work with me, he said, because my health was very good and pregnant diabetics who are in good shape tend to have fewer complications than those who aren't, and even fewer than some non-diabetics, because we are so knowledgeable about how our body works.

7. How old were you when you got it? Do your kids have it? Are your kids more likely to get diabetes because you have it?

I was diagnosed at 25, in the summer of 2001. I got the flu the winter before, and my doctors think that the virus caused my immune system to mistake the cells that produce insulin for invaders, attack, and kill them. I have no family history of diabetes--nobody in my family has it. Neither of my children have it, and they're not any more likely to get it than any other kid with non-diabetic parents. I'm not genetically predisposed to diabetes--it's just one of those crazy fluke things that happen sometimes. My kids are actually at higher risk for type II diabetes--my mother-in-law has it--than type I. Of course, I'm a mom, which makes me crazy and paranoid, so I went through a terrifying couple of days when my son was 2 1/2, when he began demanding a bottle of water to take to bed with him at night, resulting in a sopping wet bed every morning. I had him tested for diabetes, and he tested negative, but still. Scary stuff.

8. Does diabetes get research funding like cancer? Is somebody working on a cure? Is there such a thing as a cure?

Diabetes does get research funding similar to cancer. The American Diabetes Association, the Juvenile Diabetes Research Foundation, and the Federal government are among those who are working like mad for a cure. Like with all autoimmune diseases, it's tough to find a strategy to selectively turn off the immune system--to tell it to stop attacking one specific cell. There's a really exciting development in Australia: a nanovaccine that does exactly that in mice. It could potentially lead to a human vaccine against type I diabetes. There's also been some promising research into islet cell transplant, or taking insulin-producing cells from a donor and transplanting them--but in the long term, that hasn't worked very well. Transplant patients have to take huge doses of steroids in order to suppress the immune system, and one of the effects of steroids is that they raise blood glucose levels. So basically, in order to make insulin, they transplant these cells, which ultimately raise the demand for insulin so much that they basically end up exhausting the cells that they've transplanted. But 100 years ago, diabetes was basically a fatal, acute illness--there was no real effective treatment at all. So the bell curve that research is on says that we're close to a cure. That'll be a good day.

9. What do you wish people knew/understood about you and/or diabetes that they (we?) don't?

We don't all look like Wilford Brimley. Diabetics are an exceptionally diverse group of people, many of whom take great care of themselves and are proactive about their health. Despite that diversity, we almost universally hate being told what diabetics are "like." It's like trying to describe what people with curly hair are like--just way too broad a category to accurately form a generalization. Diabetes is serious, but it doesn't have to occupy every corner of your life. I give it the same effort as I do raising my kids or maintaining my relationship with my husband, and I do it as much for them as I do for myself. As much as I'd like to see a cure in my lifetime, my assumption is that there won't be one, and so I try to take as good care of myself today as I did the day I was diagnosed.

10. Since you have a catheter in you all the time, do you worry about people bumping into you? Can you not play contact sports because of it? (Do you have to be careful when you're having sex because of it?)

I don't worry too much about people bumping into me. The catheter, which is the part that's actually under my skin, is a little tiny flexible plastic tube that's about the diameter of a thread and less than half an inch long. It's taped in place right near my hip and most of the time I can't feel it, The bigger problem is the tubing--if I don't have it all tucked under my clothes, I've done things like catch it on door knobs and that kind of thing. I've never accidentally pulled it out that way, but it hurts, mostly because of the tape. I have yanked out the catheter pulling my pants on or off a couple of times, which is also not that much fun. I usually forget to carry an extra infusion set and inserter with me if we're just out for the day, so if I do that, it means we have to turn around and go home.

As far as sports, it tends to be a personal preference, but in general it's fine to wear the pump during. They make holsters and that kind of thing, similar to those armbands people use for their iPods, that go around the arm or the leg, which keep it pretty close. Some people will reduce the amount of insulin they get while they're playing sports or exercising, because the activity can cause blood glucose to drop. On the other hand, you don't want to be off the pump for more than an hour or so, because you'll start to become hyperglycemic unless you're really exercising hard. The pump is water-resistant (one of the very first things I ever did with mine was to accidentally drop it in the toilet) but not waterproof, so I take it off when I swim or shower--it's got a little detach mechanism right at the skin, which leaves this little grommet stuck in my side. And as far as sex goes, usually I take it off. It's not that it freaks my husband out, he's adorable and surprisingly non-squeamish about it. It's just that we tend to get tangled up in the tubing or roll over on the pump. It doesn't hurt the pump, but I've ended up with a pump-shaped bruise on my butt before.

Spreading the Power

So there's this girl Brandy. In Canada. She's funny. She's a teacher. She tweets. She does this awesome Secret Project thing. And she has a boyfriend. A really nice one, from the sound (read?) of it. And, well ... here's the rest, in her words.

My name is brandy. And I have a blog.

And a plea.

I use my blog to showcase the crazy I meet everyday, share the stories of the kids I teach and document my love for tequila, dairy products and the abdominal muscles of Ryan Reynolds. Rarely do I talk about personal issues on my blog- as personal as the dude that I adore (who I actually met through my blog- single ladies, let that be a very good reason to blog, the possibility of meeting someone as wonderful as my man), but I need your help. And it involves my dude.

He’s a guy who made math comics for my class, so they would love learning about addition. He’s the kinda guy who sends my friends gift cards when they are having hard times, who remembers every story I ever told him, who was the first person I celebrated with when I got a teaching job. He’s the guy who sent flowers to me at school- dozens of my favourite pink roses just because he loves me. He’s a guy who has spent a year patiently explaining (and re-explaining) everything there is to know about football during the important games when silence is preferred. He’s made me word puzzles and comics and stayed up late playing Scrabble with me (even though I beat him almost every time). He’s listened to me cry about school and family and jobs. He is everything I never knew I needed and everything I always knew I wanted.

The holidays have hit us hard. He’s recently been told he may have something called multiple myeloma- an incurable cancer, that gives a person an average of five years of continued life. Though this news has came as a shock, he continues to be exactly who has always been- spending his time worrying about me, rather than worrying about himself. He’s the most selfless individual I know- (he stayed late on Christmas Eve to work, so his co-workers could leave early) and a post like this would never be something that he would promote or encourage but when I’m overwhelmed and feeling helpless, the blogging community has always given me tremendous support and comfort, two things I desperately need at this time.

As I write this, the future is uncertain and we aren’t sure what’s happening. He’ll need to see an oncologist soon, to verify what’s going on in his body. My hope is that everyone who reads this think positive thoughts and if you are a person who prays, could you add him to your list? (You can refer to him as ‘brandy’s hot awesome dude’). If you don’t pray, please keep him in your heart.This cancer is only a possibility and I believe that the prayers and positive thoughts of people can make sure it never becomes a reality.

I want to give a big thank you to the blog owner who scrapped their original blog plans and graciously put this up. My goal is to get as many people as possible to see and read this post. If you are reading this and want to help, copy and paste my plea into your blog or send a link through twitter, so more people can keep him in their thoughts. I would be so very grateful (even more grateful than I am to my friend who first showed me the picture of Ryan Reynolds on the cover of Entertainment Weekly. If you haven’t seen it, Google it. You. Are. Welcome).

I realize this all sounds dramatic, a Lifetime movie in the making- but this is life. Right now. And I’m throwing away any hint of ego and am humbly asking for you to pray or think kind thoughts. If you are able to pass this on, thank you and if you know anything regarding MM- please email me (my email is on my blog). This isn’t a call for sympathy or a plea for pity. It’s just one girl hoping you can think positive thoughts for the person she adores. If my current heartache provides you with anything, let it be with the reminder that life is short, love is unbending and no one knows what could happen next. Maybe it is silly, but I really do believe that positive thoughts can make a huge difference. Thank you for reading this and if you haven’t already? Please tell someone you love them today.

I did.

Oh, Comcast. Oh, Management

The day after I moved I was at a friend's house when I called Comcast and arranged for them to come on Sunday within a two-hour window. Unfortunately, when the Comcast guy arrived he told me he'd have to get the weekend manager to unlock some door so a switch could be flipped. Two minutes after leaving he was back and very hesitantly telling me the weekend manager refused to open the door because he was only on-call for emergencies and this was not one.

You could tell the Comcast guy is used to getting yelled at with how nervously he relayed this information to me. How sad. No need to kill the messenger.

I am bummed out to now have to wait until Tuesday for my new four-hour window when Comcast will come back during regular management hours. Living without the internet is hella hard these days.

Please Join Me

... in wishing Be The Boy a very happy 35th birthday. I am loving the summer blogging hours and am sure you will too.

It's All Just Too Much

A. The trip to Mexico
B. The move
C. How it ended with 9am
D. The new roommate
E. The new 'hood
F. The future of well, my future

You decide.

No Midgets Involved (Though They Are Welcome)

Brandy put the call out to ask questions of people, and I answered. So, in the particular order they were asked, here are her questions and my answers.

1. Both of your parents recently friended you on facebook. Did you accept their friend requests, and would you rather give up facebook or twitter? (And yes, I know that's really two questions disguised as one, but let's not quibble about numbers).

After a careful review was done, their request was sent to the board, the board discussed it at their semi-tri-annual conference, a vote was taken, and the friend requests of both parents were accepted. My mother always told me as a child that she hoped we would be friends once I became an adult. Now all her hopes and dreams have come true. Or whatever.

If I had to give up one, I'd give up Twitter. I agree - quibbling about numbers is so bourgeois - let's quibble about letters instead.

2. Who are your role models?

I've never really been into the concept of role models or idols. There have been famous people whose careers I've enjoyed following, but there's something about it that strikes me as unhealthy. Both for the admirer and s/he who is being admired.

Having babbled about all that, the answer to your question that you'd like more is, my friends. They all have different things about them that I admire and strive to emulate. One friend told me once that she doesn't like drama in her relationships, and over the years I have seen her sidestep drama when it's come up. She is very direct in her dealings with people. This impresses me. Another friend once said what I consider the most brilliant statement of the 2000's, which is that people are not all good, or all bad. It's such a simple thing, but very important to keep in mind. Nobody is perfect. Expecting perfection from people sets you up to be disappointed. Someone can disappoint you and still be a good friend; they're just human.

3. Would you rather have to chew a sandwich left on the counter of a public bathroom, or gum you found under a seat on a bus?

This is a tough one. Gum found under the seat of a bus was probably only touched by one person, thus rendering it cleaner than a sandwich touched by a bathroom counter which was (hopefully) touched by many. My first instinct was to say I'd go for the sandwich, thinking I could just chew on the middle of it where it didn't touch public bathroom counters, but the gum would probably be cleaner.

4. What do you think your blog readers would be most surprised to learn about you?

I'm not sure. Maybe that despite how critical I am of how others dress, I tend to dress like a slob? Hard to say really, since I've written for a few years now.

5. If you could have any job in the world, what would you like to do and what would be your salary?

When I was a toddler, I wanted to be a bakery. Not a baker, but a bakery. Luckily I got over that before embarrassing myself even worse than I did on a daily basis in elementary school. As a child I once told my mother I wanted to open an "in-between store" which would be a clothing store for kids who were in-between two different sizes of clothing.

You know what? My ideal job would let me do a different job each day of the work week. I'd love to run a school for kids with learning disabilities. I'd love to be a liaison between doctors and patients, stepping in to explain to patients and their families about what's going on after the doctor delivers his/her rushed speech, holding hands of patients who are getting spinal taps, etc. I'd love to be a professional problem-solver in business settings. Also, I'm excellent at decorating and designing spaces, and would love to walk around a person's house and help them move furniture and knock down a couple of walls to maximize space and things like that.

A cool quarter of a million dollars each year would be fine with me.

Thank Yous To Those I Don't Know

Shit you guys, way to make a person's jaw drop. Thank you to the Oaklander (Oaklandnite? Oaklandnette?) who sent this. I don't know where to send the thank you so I'm posting it here in the hopes you'll see and know it's for you.

In less than one month three members of my family have died. Since a few days ago when rent got paid, I have had less than $100 in my bank account. It's the least amount of money I've ever had since opening a bank account. To say I am scared would be an understatement.

However. Things are slowly and cautiously looking up. There's this picture. There's my friend who hired me to watch her baby for a couple of hours each day for the next week or so. There are some interviews coming up. There's email and real mail and comments and encouragement and intuitive healing and as of today's trip to the library there's now the dvd for My So-Called Life (until the 11th, when I will return it).

So I am feeling hopeful. If everything goes well, there will be a lot of paying it forward I'll be doing in 2009.

Appreciating What You've Got

I am currently accepting any and all advice (as long as it does not come from Oprah) on how to appreciate and be satisfied with what I have.

The other day I was looking at some Facebook pages and saw a "friend," a girl I went to high school with and was friend with then, a girl I've gone to lunch with since moving to San Francisco, is now married. And she never told me.

This is the second time someone I thought would have at least told me they were getting married, hasn't. And I'm wondering if maybe people think I'm one of those single bitter people. Who thinks all married people are Smug Marrieds, like Bridget Jones. Which I'm not. I don't. I was completely pleasantly surprised to discover I'm totally capable of being happy for other people.

Anyway. So obviously this girl is not my friend, she is simply a girl I used to know. And yes, I know. That's what Facebook is about.

But the thing is. What is the thing? The thing is, I am hurt that a girl I am not friends with did not tell me she got married. I am sad that she does not consider me a friend, because surely you tell your friends when you're getting married, right? I mean, even if you're not inviting a friend to your wedding, you let them know that you've gotten married, right?

It would be sad if I had things like this were happening, but what's bothering me more than this is that there are other people, real friends, who ARE reaching out to me. Who do call when big things happen. When they are buying first houses, when my grandpa has died. These are the people who ARE my friends.

And I do appreciate them. I totally notice and am blown away by every little gesture they make, you make. I even try to reciprocate when I can. When I think of it. When I'm in a position to do it.

But why can't I stop being upset about being left out of things? I mean, when somebody draws a line you have to respect that. In 9th grade I was in this art class and overheard a girl named Christine tell a story one Monday morning. Over the weekend she and some friends had gone to a party, and a senior stood up on a table and yelled that freshman weren't welcome. So she left. She said, "Why would I want to be someplace I'm not wanted?" That stuck with me and made an impact.

I don't want to be where I'm not wanted. Really. But why can't I stop wanting to be wanted by people who don't want me? Why can't I just appreciate the people who do want me? Why can't I be happy with what I have? It's more than I ever thought I'd have. So much more.

Please, Won't You Join Me?

I am begging you to give your support to Dave tonight and tomorrow. His little three-person family has been through more in one year than many families deal with in a lifetime.

His wife is very ill, he has had surgery after surgery, and all while their teenage son is just plugging along at school and life.

Dave, wishing you all the best tomorrow morning. Good luck.

Help a Girl Out

I don't know what to write about, so I've decided that once again, it's time for you to decide. Vote early, vote often.

A. First grade
B. Facebook (just kidding)
C. The partner I worked for who got FIRED from the law firm
D. A list of things that piss me off (I have nothing prepared, but I'm sure I can come up with something)
E. My college roommates (there were two, but not at the same time)

Karen Duffy Syndrome

For those of you who were, say, off in India going to high school and not around to know this, Karen Duffy was an MTV VJ in the early 90's. I once saw an interview with Karen Duffy, who explained how she came to be a VJ. Apparently she was simply watching MTV, saw a VJ, and just thought, "I could do that," so she applied and got the job.

I found this quite inspiring at the time. You see, I wanted to be, at age 13, a cashier at the supermarket. A lot of high schoolers worked at the supermarket and it seemed like the coolest job to me. But two things were preventing this dream of mine from coming true. One is that I was not old enough. The other was that I was scared I wouldn't be able to do the math needed to make change. Lucky for me, my older brother worked there, and came home to report that the cash register would do the math for me. I was still nervous, but then I found out some important gossip.

Aileen F. had gotten a job there! She was in my grade, not very smart, and a total bitch. That clinched it for me. I applied what I'd learned from MTV's Karen Duffy (see Dad, MTV teaches important lessons!) - if Aileen could work at Foodtown, I could work there too. That's why less than a week after turning 14, I was at the supermarket asking for an application.

The Karen Duffy approach is helpful when you need to inspire yourself. A lot of people do that with blogs, have you noticed? Huh, I could write about toasting my bagel too! That's what seems to have happened. There are a lot of blogs out there. The more publicity blogging gets, the more blogs pop up. Some people have more than one blog.

What I'm noticing now though, is that certain bloggers have gotten all fired up by seeing other people's successes and are determined to make their blogs that successful as well. They are trotting out topics that used to be kept private, revealing family secrets, and doing whatever they can to get more blog hits. It's as if people are sensationalizing themselves. They are TMZing themselves in an effort to get more readers.

There's something about it that feels impure to me. I think blogging is supposed to be cathartic. It's supposed to be for communicating with people you don't know yet. It's for keeping a record. Not everyone can be Dooce.

My guess for why this is happening? Karen Duffy syndrome. Everyone is looking around at the bloggers they think (because nobody but Dooce will admit how much they are earning) are earning a living off their blogs, and thinking surely they can do that too. But I don't think so. The blog posts written in an effort to draw in readers seem obvious to me, and ring untrue in some way.