Until later...

Off to spend the long weekend visiting the outlaws.

I have lots of long thoughtful posts brewing in the pipeline, but I am semi-forbidden to blog until I finish my autobiography. In the meantime I will leave you with this bit of snark.

Don't get me wrong.

I heart my pregnant friends.

And I understand that sometimes pregnant ladies have achey bellies, and this leads to public belly rubbing.

But pregnant lady ahead of me in the airport security line: was it really strictly necessary to crop your t-shirt to expose your little bump, which you were so considerately rubbing?

Interview Meme, Rebound

In a weak, I have nothing to say moment, I sucumbed to Shelli's charms and put myself up for the interview game. A reminder for those who haven't seen this before - if you'd like to be interviewed leave a comment and say so. I'll post questions for the first five to do so, which they will answer on their blogs with the same invitation to be interviewed.

1) What is the hardest thing about living with diabetes?

Geez, ask an easy question, why doncha? How can I choose just one? I have lots of things I hate about living with diabetes - the extra suitcase I need when I travel to carry enough supplies for just-in-case-I-get-stuck-in-a-ditch-on the side of the road in a blizzard for two weeks and the inevitable oh crap I forgot x, y, or z, the diabetes drive-by comments

(an anecdote, because I have to get this one off my chest: said to me last night, on the phone with the director of my graduate program, a somewhat ditzy woman who I genuinely love and respect, "I forget because you don't look diabetic." In my iciest tone, "Annabelle (not her real name, by a long shot), tell me then, what does a diabetic look like?" A good conversation ensued, in which I once again educated the world that not all people with diabetes are old, fat, and gangrenous)

Then there's the moments when I hit the wrong spot and OW OW OW! Or the moments when my blood sugar will not cooperate with what I want to do. Or the lows - at intimate moments, in important meetings, at 3 in the morning. Yeah, all those things SUCK.

But the worst thing overall, which really encompasses all of the above, is its constant hum in the back of my mind. The am I hungry or am I low hum, the should I ask when we're going to stop for lunch hum, the how many carbs are in that, and should I bother testing when I've already eaten half of it, hum. The, do I just pull out my meter and test in front of this person when I really don't feel like having a Diabetes Conversation? That constant hum separates me from other people. While you're jumping up and down with excitement at the thought of going to the water park, I'm wondering: how will I carry my supplies with me? Will Smokey be safe? (Also, how many people have peed in that water? Ugh.) I wish I could just be there, in the moment, without this constant buzzing that only I can hear.

2) Have you two "picked" which gender you prefer? Can you just say "the youngest one you've got?"

Sure, we've picked which gender we prefer. Pili prefers boys and I prefer girls. Babies in Guatemala are generally referred within a week or two of birth, so age doesn't work as a decision avoidance method. And the wait for boys is less than the wait for girls, so if we say we want whichever comes first, we're saying we want a boy. So here's what we've lit upon and what our agency has agreed to: We will put our name on both lists. When we get to the top of the boy list, we will be passed over until three months have past. If we have not been referred a girl by that point (which is within the range of possibility, but not the range of extreme probability) we will take whichever comes next, which will probably be a boy. In other words, we've found a way to leave it somewhat up to chance. Now I just need to write my damn autobiography, yo, so I can get on to my interview with Vaseline Teeth.

3) Can you share your thesis with us in 25 words or less?

Once again, ask an easy question... My thesis is pretty specific to my work, which is not something I want to get into here. So, in 25 words or less: It has to do with making a content area which is generally seen as developmentally inappropriate for young children more accessible to them. During the discussion with my program director last night, we agreed that if I had not made substantial progress by labor day, I'd do the comprehensive exam option, and just get my damn degree already.

If that hasn't put you to sleep, email me and I'll tell you more.

4) Could you start a recipe blog, please? Your food pictures make.me.drool!

Aw, thanks. The comments I've gotten lately on my pictures, along with the recent disruption in my daily routine, have been inspiring me to focus some energy again on my photography. I love it when I do it, but am far too insecure about it to hang out my shingle as artist. I don't think I cook enough to have my own food blog, but I'd certainly hint hint be happy to contribute to someone else's...

5) As far as the embryos - can you do a "natural transfer" cycle - just stick um in, and add progesterone, and call it a day. ALL the while you are focuing on adoption?

A couple of people have suggested that, and I think it's worth looking into. Mind you, I'm not the one being poked and prodded, but I think that the parts Pili minds are: a) the suppositories b) the ass shots (both of which are involved in adding progresterone) and c) being probed and medicalized in general. Right now, we're still agreeing to disagree on what to do next. I'd like to do one more cycle, sometime before referral, and just put all four remaining embryos back, and pray that one of them sticks around long enough to say hi. Pili is still, a) bleeding, and b)not so interested in getting back on the table anytime soon.

Anyone who has more experience with this and can explain why a "natural transfer" FET would be significantly less unpleasant than an unnatural one, please speak up.

Photo I Can't Believe it's Actually Friday: Rainbows

I love this fountain in flat cosmopolitan city. There are the obvious rainbows in the refraction of the sun in the spray of water.



As well as the more subtle rainbow of all the people - young old black brown peach male female tall short thin fat clothed or almost naked - enjoying this work of art together. Indeed, being part of the work of art.




And then there's also the rainbow lights in the glass bricks, caught at a certain angle -



And the constant flow of different faces into each other on the statue itself. A funky urban rainbow.

Bloggy Happiness

I am happy for...

Cecily and Insane Animals, who have made the move - both in somewhat dramatic fashion - into the "Got Kids" category.

for hd, dizzles and Queer in the Head who are all hot on their heels

and for Kerri who is NOT pregnant, as far as I know, but got a kickass new job and a new home town.

Smooches one and all. Back to work for me.

p.s. A note to the big guy/gal upstairs: Please stop fucking with Katie. She's gone through enough shit already. Thank you.

Clearing skies

Thanks so much for all your love the last couple of days.

I had a good, sky clearing howl last night, brought on by the crime of Pili egregiously failing to listen to me twice. I'm still sad - I loved what I did at Job that Does Not Blow - and I loved the professional credibility that I got from working there. But the plusses of having some more time on my hands - to finish the Thesis, to work on my photography, to do what I can on the adoption paperwork, are definitely there. Adoption paperwork: SIGH. As I've mentioned, Pili has to do a lot of these things herself. She is, I think it's fair to say, slightly less detail oriented (i.e. anal) than I am, and also less comfortable being firm with people. So she doesn't insist on the right language the first time around, in the face of snotty bank employees for example, and then it turns out we have she has to go back and do it again. And I feel like the ultimate back seat driver, wishing I could just do it myself.

On the subject of Smokey and her recent crankiness: A second bolus cleared things up yesterday, and I had a stellar evening, capped off by a workout without Unfortunate Eating Incidents(!)

But I finally gave in and changed my site about 18 hours early (and took an injection) this morning after another unexplained high. There was a puffy little bubble there which oozed insulin when I took the site out. Moral of the story: Listen to Julia. And Lyrecha.

General Grumpiness

My sugars have not been playing nice today.

I had a high last night (where high is defined as 300+) due to some petulant post-dinner snacking. It came down nicely with a bedtime bolus and I woke up a little on the low side (62) this morning.

After breakfast, I was 170. I gave a wee bolus.
At lunch I was still 170. I ate the lunch special at our local Japanese resturant - miso soup, edamame, a small ball of rice, three pieces of tempura, and salmon teryiaki - which was a little hard to count for, especially since my trusty calorie-king book had exited my purse without permission.

An hour after lunch I was 231. I decided to wait and see just how much action I get out of my humalog.

Two hours after lunch (which admittedly was pretty heavy in the fat and protein dept) I was 284. I took the bolus wizard's suggestion, and bolused 2.2u.

Smokey just beeped at me to test, so I did (three hours post lunch, one hour post bolus). 291.

Any thoughts pumpball wizards? Should I do an injection? Change my site? I just disconnected and did a fixed prime, and there is insulin coming out of the tubing...

Ugh. This does not make me happier.

Also, why do you have to manually turn off the check bg alert? Why can't the silly pump turn the alert off itself after the meter has sent over a reading?

Well, I still have all my limbs

After a fantastic weekend in flat cosmopolitan city (shout out to our lovely hostesses and the beauticious bride & groom) I came back to work today to find out that I am being laid off from the job that does NOT blow due to not getting the grant that would pay for my position to continue.

I was very composed and did not cry in the director's office as he and my boss explained to me how wonderful I am and how sorry they are and blah blah blah blah.

But this sentence in the letter he handed me just infuriates me:

"Art-Sweet, it has been a true pleasure to work with you and I expect our paths will cross again. Thank you for your service and dedication to Organization X. Given your qualifications, proven abilities, and broad network of colleagues, I am confident that you will able to find a full time position that suits your talents and needs soon."

Riiight. I haven't found a full time job that suits my talents and needs in the three years since we moved to this god forsaken corner of the country.

I will continue on at the job that blows (where the director asked me, in reference to our wedding, who would be the bride and who would be the groom) and I suppose make good use of my additional two days of free time a week to actually complete the Thesis and etc. etc. etc.

But right now, I am convinced, more so than ever, that a black cloud hangs over my head and follows me around and surrounds me with my own personal microclimate of raining crap.

Very quick post

We're leaving at the crack of dawn tommorrow morning to go to flat cosmopolitan city for a wedding (congrats dearest one). I won't be back until monday night and don't know if I'll have a chance to blog or comment in the interim. The horror, the horror. Will she survive?

The one good thing about waking up to make a 6:15 flight is that it means I we don't have to wake up at 4am for a basal check. Because we'll already be up. Ugh.

Quickly quickly then as I still need to pack and do a couple of other things...

I HEART SMOKEY.

Our first night together was a little rough. I still had a half dose of Lantus coursing through my system and I against my better judgement decided to be a Good Diabetic and not mess with my 12 hour old basal program without consulting medical authorities first. Had I either a) called McClinic at midnight, or b) followed my instincts and programmed a 70% temporary basal, I would not have had a string of unnecessary eating incidents and a string of lows culminating at 55.

Today, however, has been bee-u-tiful. If the novelty will wear off, and I will stop using the bolus wizard when I would previously have said, eh, it's not worth taking a shot for that half a cookie, please don't tell me. Because I have not strayed over 160 or below 120 ALL DAY. (I should probably test before I say that, shouldn't I?)

Anyways, must pack before my eyelids collapse. Big smoochies everyone, see you next week!

Meet Smokey!

At the moment, .5u/hour of saline is pumping into my abdomen.

Tomorrow we go live. Woohoo!

I have already had a Tubing Incident. The World's Most Wonderful Electricians came over today to fix a lengthy list of small things. For what it would have cost for them to say hi in Flat Cosmopolitan City, we had:

• two GFCIs installed
• broken closet light fixed
• two broken outlets replaced, one of which could have burned down the house
• outdoor motion-sensor light installed, switch fixed
• a couple of other things fixed
  

This involved me taking one of the electricians up to the attic.

I scooped up Bart to try and extricate him from the fascinating new playground of the attic. He struggled. Paws were entangled in pump tubing. Ouch.


By the by, I'm really enjoying the comments on my OLGA (obligatory lesbian gender angst) post, so do scroll down and keep them coming. Big smooches also to the lurkers who have delurked and congrats to "anon" aka My First Boyfriend, who's newly engaged to his boyfriend. Congrats sweetie - I'm so frickin' happy for you!

Photo oh crap I better get this up before it's too late

Assignment: A Bug's Eye View

I really wanted to get out and take some pictures for this one. But it is COLD and RAINY and YUCKY and my macro lens is with my father in the Big City. So you get reheated, yet hopefully still yummy leftovers once again.

First, a couple with the bugs in the picture:





What the bug saw:



I imagine this would be one of the last things the bug saw.



Close up view.

There's more on flickr...

I'm popular! (The obligatory sitemeter post)

Someone with an ISP in Hinsdale, IL was my

10,oooth hit!

I'm soooo curious about these lurkers, especially the ones who show up on my statcounter again and again and never comment. Am I scary? Do I smell? If so, why do you keep coming around?

I know that people wind up here and probably don't get what they're looking for.

These folks for instance, who were led here by Professor Google.

pictures of tickled belly buttons just belly buttons
(A: I don't think this site is what you were after)

picture of a cat wearing pj's
(A: Four outraged cats spitting at the screen at the very thought)

Is it possible to be pregnant when it feels like AF is on it’s way?
(A: Yes, supposedly, but we wouldn't really know. And "AF" is on "its" not "it's" way - the possessive does not take an apostrophe)

our friend stole our sperm donor
(A: I'm sorry, I think.)

jiggly flab
(A: Plenty of that here, but not online, I'm afraid)

16,000 hcg pregnancy
(A: yeah, I can see why you didn’t linger here very long)

were does the snowbelt begin
(A: Where? Do you mean "where"? Because "we're" where the snowbelt begins. Or at least it feels that way today.)

Coworker can’t give me insuline shot
(A: And why should s/he?)

sugar & spice & so on

I started writing about this in the comments over at j's, and then realized a) I was totally hijacking her comments, and b) I wanted some feedback on this myself!

A decisive cntrl-x, cntrl-v later, here I am:

J. was writing about gender, and her anxieties and preferences about the gender of her as-yet unconceived child. I think there's some kind of lesbian blogging rule that requires all adopting/ttc-ing/baby contemplating dykes to have at least one of these posts in which they despair over their own uncontrollable biases. (I'm totally not making fun of J. here - she's smart and articulate and honest and big smooches J.) So I guess it's time for my own obligatory lesbian gender angst (OLGA) post.

See, the bizarre thing about adopting from Guatemala is that you essentially get to pick the gender of your child. Which is not to say that your child will not have his or her own opinions about that gender down the road, but that's an entirely different post.

There tends to be a preference for girls among parents adopting from Guatemala. I'm not sure what this is about, and I'm sure everyone has their own good reasons for the choices they make, but I can't ignore the fact that it sure makes my little racism antennae stand up on end. Susan over at Holding Pattern promised to blog about this a long time ago and never got to it... hint hint hint Susan. Foreign women = exotic and demure, foreign men = dark and threatening? The waiting list is longer for girls, which means that if you do request either and try to leave it up to fate, as is the case with pregnancy, you will in all likelihood get a boy. So you're not really leaving it up to fate at all. And there's creepy ethical stuff too - intermediaries are apparently asking for more money for girl babies? I do not like that one bit, and it's one of the reasons we choose the agency we did.

Um. So. Yeah. Did I mention that I am really really tempted to request a girl?

This probably doesn't come as a big surprise to anyone who knows me. On the outside, I'm a girly girl. I like funky skirts and cute shoes and silly barrettes for my hair. And I love to work in my garden and get my hands really dirty. I can change a flat tire and deal with rodents and insects, no problem. Before we moved, I was close to getting my black belt in karate. And I love the idea of raising a little girl who will be fierce and sweet and fuck with people's expectations. I know the crap that girls do to each other, and I have some ideas about what I can say when my daughter encounters that.

I have some really good male friends, but I don't know what it's like to grow up as a boy. I can't visualize my life with a son the way I can visualize my life with a daughter.

Pili, of course, feels similarly. Except reversed. Oy.

What do you think, my beloved computer friends?

ETA: Thank you for all your wonderful comments. Just to fine tune my freak out a little ;-) I know we'll love whatever we get. I like the idea of not having control. The problem is that WE HAVE TO CHOOSE. How in the name of all that's holy do we do that? And while I hope we'll get to enlarge our family further, I don't want to assume that's going to happen... Also interested to know what you all in the computer think about this preference for brown girls vs. brown boys in adoption - are my antennae over-sensitive? Sue/Life Postponed (not linking b/c it's passworded), I'll bet my right ass cheek you have an opinion about this...

---

P.S. This all makes me think of the wonderful Dar Williams song, "When I was a Boy"

I won't forget when Peter Pan
Came to my house, took my hand
I said I was a boy, I'm glad he didn't check
I learned to fly, I learned to fight
I lived a whole life in one night
We saved each other's lives out on the pirate's deck

And I remember that night
When I'm leaving a late night with some friends
And I hear somebody tell me it's not safe
Someone should help me
I need to find a nice man to walk me home

When I was a boy, I scared the pants off of my mom
Climbed what I could climb upon
And I don't know how I survived
I guess I knew the tricks that all boys knew
And you can walk me home, but I was a boy, too

I was a kid that you would like
Just a small boy on her bike
Riding topless, yeah, I never cared who saw
My neighbor come outside to say
"Get your shirt," I said "No way
It's the last time I'm not breaking any law"

And now I'm in a clothing store
And the sign says, "Less is More"
More that's tight means more to see
More for them, not more for me
That can't help me climb a tree in ten seconds flat

When I was a boy, see that picture, that was me
Grass-stained shirt and dusty knees
And I know things have gotta change
They got pills to sell, they've got implants to put in
They've got implants to remove
But I am not forgetting
That I was a boy too

And like the woods where I would creep
It's a secret I can keep
Except when I'm tired, except when I'm being caught off guard
I've had a lonesome awful day
The conversation finds its way
To catching fire-flies out in the backyard

And I tell the man I'm with
About the other life I lived
And I say now you're top gun
I have lost and you have won
And he says, "Oh no, no, can't you see

When I was a girl, my mom and I we always talked
And I picked flowers everywhere that I walked
And I could always cry, now even when I'm alone I seldom do
And I have lost some kindness
But I was a girl too
And you were just like me, and I was just like you"

In which I ramble and offend just about everyone

What do you call someone who is teetering on that fine line between acquaintance and friend?

There is this woman, a friend? I will call her Hippie Sunshine, although that is not, believe it or not, her real name. I am sure she would say we are her friends, because she is of that sort of person who takes ownership of everything around her and makes it a reflection of her. I say that and it sounds like I dislike her. Sometimes I do.

But Hippie Sunshine is so well-meaning, it’s hard to dislike her. She’s horrifically insensitive at times, but it’s the kind of insensitivity that reminds me of our fat white cat, who can’t swish his tail without inadvertantly knocking over glasses of water.

And what does she do for a living, this acquaintance friend friendquaintance Hippie Sunshine? Why she teaches multi-cultural education, of course, this labrys wimmin wuving wimmin she.

She is so eager for us to have a child. She thinks we will make great parents. She asks us every time she’s sees us how it’s going. She tells other people without even asking us that we are trying because they are trying too and we should know each other. And she tells us (without asking them) that by the way the friendly mullety lesbians on the other blanket at her picnic are going to start trying to have a baby too.

What do you call someone like that? A faquaintance? I ask Pili.

Oh GOD NO! That sounds too much like fuck buddy, and eww, ewww no no none of that. Says Pili.

So we send her an invitation to our pride bbq and ask if she will kindly pass the invitation along to those other nice mullety lesbians who were at her picnic. She responds: “The other friends you mentioned are X and Y. They are fine * My partner went to the baby shower on Saturday (I was out of town) *- the baby is due in three weeks.”

The BABY IS DUE IN THREE WEEKS. THE BABY, of the no-spring-chicken-mullety-lesbians, who were just starting to try last labor day weekend. The if-you-thought-for-a-minute-
maybe-you-would-realize-this-is-a-bit-of-a-sore-spot-for-us BABY is due in three weeks. Crappity crap crap crap on a hot crap roof. And she sticks this in a email without even the slightest caution, as if we of course knew that her random mullety lesbian friends were pregnant. So I say to Pili that I think Hippie Sunshine really needs to go to a sensitivity class. Which is hilarious, because of course, Hippie Sunshine? Teaches sensitivity classes.

In Other News:

Pili has to order her birth certificate from the town of her birth, because it is locked up in a safe deposit box and her mother has lost the key, and god only knows how long it will take the gentle hippies in the town of her birth to wave sage over the birth records until the stars are aligned correctly. And do I get any credit folks, for having both my birth certificate and my passport safely stored in my Important Documents file? I’m not kidding, it’s filed under I, for Important Documents.

We are having a bbq on Saturday. Pili gets to show off her mad grilling skillz with her new gas grill. Going to pride in the City That Always Sleeps gives me new perspective on the six frickin hour long pride parade in Very Flat Cosmopolitan City, where we bitched about the beer sponsorships and the endless cars full of politicians slowing down the good stuff, i.e. Dykes on Bikes.

In retrospect, those cars full of politicians seem kind of nice. It feels good to know that you're enough of a voting bloc that politicians feel like they have to show up and sit in the hot sun for six hours in your parade even if they are running for assistant commisioner of public lavatories and couldn't care less about the gay vote. On second thought, the assistant commisioner of public lavatories... never mind.

So yeah, anyway, not many politicians in the pride parade here. And last year we showed up half an hour late and almost missed the whole thing.

We met with the Social Worker, Mrs. Vaseline Teeth, today. She urged us to be circumspect, because if we went down to Guatemala and were publically affectionate Guatemala could go the way of China. Thanks, Mrs. Vaseline Teeth, for pointing out the obvious. Now if Pili and I were smooching passionately in her office, or even holding hands, I could understand this, but we are sitting with a good three feet of space between us and in fact I am worried that we are too far apart and look like we don't really love each other. Mrs. Vaseline Teeth annoys the living daylights out of me, but she is reported to Get Things Done, and I don't know anyone else around here who has an alternative to recommend.

Wait a minute. We met with the social worker. We filled out forms. We're gonna have a baby! Hooray!

The fun, it never ends (not for the squeamish)

We went to the RE's this morning so Pili could have a follow-up wanding with Nurse Tall and Brusque (TAB), who incidentally, I am really beginning to dislike. (Is it too much to ask that you give us the information we need to come to our conclusions and make our own decisions? What are you seeing in there, anyway?) For a minute I saw something that I imagined (heart leaping into chest, stomach turning over with emotion) was a fetus on the u/s screen, but apparently it was the uterine lining. I think sonographers really missed their calling as critics of modern art.

Nurse TAB, after much prodding on her point (oops! sorry! just trying to find your right ovary) and much prodding on my point, conceeded that there were still some clots in there, but that the sac had been passed. This was good, but Pili should come back next week again so that we can see if we need to take further steps. D'you mean a D&C, Pili asked. Um, yeah, further steps. Let me just go talk to Dr. SBS for a minute. And she ducked out the door.

This state of affairs jibes with Pili's experience, which is that first there was blood, lots of it. And then not so much. And then more. And then not so much. For basically the past two weeks. And of a somewhat unusual color and consistency.

So we are to come back next week for further scanning and poking. How utterly anti-climatic this feels. We're waiting for there to be nothing.

Last night, Pili suggested that we donate the four remaining embryos to stem cell research. She's sick and tired of being poked and prodded. She feels sick to her stomach when she sees the tasteful furniture of the RE's office and the tasteful smiles of the receptionists. I am... torn.

On the one hand, I want to see this through to the end. I want to know that we did everything we could, and it didn't work. I have no compunctions about saying that adoption is a Plan B for us. When we have our child we will love him or her with one hundred percent Plan A love, but it's not the scenario we had originally imagined. I still love the idea of Pili carrying our child, my egg & mystery man's sperm.

On the other hand, I respect Pili and her right to control what happens to her body. If she's worn out by this process and what it's doing to her, how can I compel her to keep going?

Either way, we're agreed, the adoption goes forward. Because the other piece of it is that neither one of us has a whole lot of confidence that we will a) get pregnant again, or b) stay pregnant again.

Blech.

Fearless leader

"Marriage is the most fundamental institution of civilization, and it should not be redefined by activist judges."

It takes a lot to do this to me, but I am simply beyond snark.

What I like about you (Photo Friday)

I do a lot of whinging here about where we live, otherwise known as "The City That Always Sleeps (But you can buy a really nice house for under 150K)."

But there are some things I really like here.

One is the new friends with whom (aren't I formal!) we had dinner tonight. We talked about our Guatemala plans, their adorable daughter, and about the difficulty of being the Trailing Spouse. Talking over our agency choices with them, Pili and I realized that we knew what mattered to us. That we've made our decision. And our first social worker meeting is next week!

This is the second thing:



These donuts are sold at the Saturday regional market, which is quite easily the Best Thing about living here. And the donuts are the Best Thing about the regional market. A husband and wife team have this stall. They're there every Saturday, selling fresh hot fried cake donuts for fifty cents apiece, your choice of plain or sugared. If you order sugared, they roll the donut in cinnamon sugar for you on the spot. It is impossible to describe in words the goodness of these donuts. I will try to convince you with photos.



The line continues outside the building.



The donut machine.



Pili would like me to stop taking pictures and let her eat her donut.

But the regional market is not all hot sugar and flour.



Mennonite folks sell delicious cold sugar and flour.







Farmers sell fresh local produce, free-range meat, and plants.



Lots of plants.

I love the regional market. There are farmers' markets in many places, but they do not have four huge covered pavillions of fresh produce and annuals and perennials for me to drool over. And, most importantly, they do not have the donut stall.

Blogging for a Reason

Today is blogging for LGBT families day.

Being behind the ball as I usually am, I didn't realize this until late in the day. If I had, I wouldn't have posted quite so many random conversations and lobster pictures. Because this is the post I want you to read.

I suspect that for some of the folks who read this blog, lesbian and gay families are not your first priority, or even close to it. Maybe you have gay friends or relatives, and you think they should be treated fairly, but it's not your number one voting issue. Maybe you wonder why we're making such a big stink about marriage.

As a person with diabetes, I'm already vulnerable to the vagaries of health insurance coverage. But as a person with diabetes and a lesbian, in a committed relationship, I'm doubly more vulnerable than I would be if I were married to a man. For the purposes of illustration, imagine (sorry, hon) that Pili is a man and we are (as indeed we are) married.

• If her employer offers spousal benefits, I get them, no questions asked. She doesn't get a line on her w2 listing them as additional income earned, as is the case with domestic partner benefits.
  
• I wind up in the hospital. She can make medical decisions for me and visit me, no questions asked, no documents needed to be signed.
• I have a child. Or we adopt a child. Her name goes on the birth certificate, no questions asked, no second-parent adoption necessary. We don't have to worry about whether or not we can travel through states that don't recognize our second-parent adoption.
  
• I'm a stay at home mom, raising our family. Something horrible happens to her. I get her social security benefits to allow me to continue to support our family.
  

None of these apply to us as a married lesbian couple. The fact is that marriage in this country grants substantial fiscal rights and advantages to those who are allowed to partake in it.

Please help me protect our family. Speak up. And tell others why it's important.

Conversation with McClinic

After realizaing that I had an endo appt scheduled for 8:45 on the day when pump training starts at 9:

Me: Do you think I should reschedule?
McClinic: Well, my next available is in November.
Me: Yikes.
McClinic: Just tell them when you get here that you have pump class at 9 and hopefully they'll push you in a little sooner.
Me: Really?
McClinic: Well, I did say hopefully.

Because it's lunchtime

lobster and corn
Originally uploaded by art-sweet.

For Julia and Katie. Drool on.