Pump It Up?

This summer marks my 15 year anniversary with diabetes. We met when I was so young. I don't know where the time has gone! In fact, I can barely remember a life without it. Diabetes has been like a spouse and constant companion. Unfortunately, it's one I never liked much and can't divorce.

For years, I pretended like I wasn't that diabetic. I was reluctant to tell people I was diabetic at all. After all, I was managed with minimal meds and in pretty good control. But, as I age and my metabolism slowly abandons me, my diabetes becomes more demanding of my attention.

Now I am grappling with the question of whether or not to use an insulin pump. The friends I have who use the pump generally love it. I know it would help me achieve super tight control, which would be beneficial to my long-term health.

The downside would be its omnipresence. I would have something attached to me most of the time. Injection sites can get gross or irritated. But my biggest hesitation stems from what having the pump means. It feels like admitting defeat. It's admitting that I am that diabetic, and it isn't going to get better. In fact, it will just continue to get worse as my barely functioning pancreas ceases to function at all.

It's a scary thought and hard to confront. Despite living with diabetes for almost half my life, I have never truly accepted my life sentence. I know I can't live in denial forever. I know I need to be proactive about my health. I just wish that I could keep pretending a little longer.

I can't, and the pump is an admission to myself that this is real; this is permanent.

I should say that I am rather pessimistic about a cure. I think it's too profitable to treat. Call me a cynic, but that's a topic for another post.

Happy anniversary, diabetes. I hope I grow old, even if it is with you. But I want you to understand that I hate you and always will.

Adrift In Adult Friendships

In my adulthood, I find myself feeling as though I am karmically paying for my teenage bullshit. See, when I was in junior high or high school, I would get sick of certain friends. They were nice people, and they did nothing to deserve my abandonment or occasional scorn. But, I was just over them for one reason or another. I grew out of giving people the heave ho and have come to cherish the people in my life. But karma is a bitch.

Since college, I have had several friends "break up" with me. One was super direct - she sent me a hand-written letter and everything! At the time, I was really upset. Now, I have come to see the humor in that particular ending. Others have been more subtle and just stop accepting my invitations to do stuff or even responding to my emails all together. Sure, as life progresses, people drift apart. Sometimes it's about geographic distance. Other times it is about being in a different place in life. But sometimes it seems there is no reason. It's like my friend just got sick of me and decided to drift away, and I feel like I am frantically paddling to keep up with them - to keep them in my life. I even sometimes ask if I did something - if I unknowingly caused a rift. I have yet to have anyone respond in the affirmative to that question. Which means if it is my fault, they have no interest in letting me repair it. They are just done.

The loss feels like a death - and it is; it is the death of a relationship. I go through the five phases of grief:

Denial - they are just busy. They aren't blowing me off. We are still close. I just need to be understanding of everything that is going on with their life right now. They'll get in touch when things are less hectic.

Anger - Why the hell aren't they getting in touch? Screw them! If you don't want to be my friend, it's your loss. Good luck finding someone to put up with all your bullshit and neuroses!

Bargaining - Okay, if they email today, all will be forgiven. I should reach out to let them know the door is still open (despite leaving the ball in their court multiple times). If I show them I still care, maybe I can get them to care about me.

Depression - No one likes me. What is wrong with me? Why don't I have any friends? The only reason anyone hangs out with me is because they like my husband. God, what if he leaves me? Then I will have no one. It's only a matter of time before I have more cats than friends and think sweat pants are acceptable clothes for work and running errands.

Acceptance - This person may have decided they don't need my friendship, but I still have lots of amazing and supportive people in my life.

If I am being honest though, acceptance rarely comes. While I recognize the friendships I have and feel fortunate to have great people in my life (and I really do), the loss is always there. It haunts me. Running into a friend that cut me loose is painful. We make awkward small talk, and I still hope they will throw me the bone of "we should get together and catch up." But that never happens.

I can't change what I did when I was younger. I don't know if my abandonment still bugs any of my former friends. I can only try to do better as an adult.

San Francisco: Cosmopolitan City or Toilet for the Homeless?

I spent 7 years living in the Bay Area. There were things I loved, and there were things I hated. For all the amazing food, culture, and shopping, the city has an out of control homeless problem. Many of these poor people are clearly mentally ill. During my time at Berkeley, I cannot even tell you how many times I heard people blame Ronald Reagan for closing all the mental institutions during his tenure as governor of the state. Whether or not it's a problem he created, I still don't understand why no one since him has done anything at all to fix it.

I get amnesia about how bad the problem is between visits to the Bay Area. But, sure enough I am promptly reminded almost immediately upon arrival in downtown San Francisco. There are pan handlers, there are people muttering to themselves in a vaguely threatening matter, and today I saw the foulest thing I have EVER seen in my entire life. As I was walking up O'Farrell back to my hotel, I noticed a homeless man scrambling after some papers. When I got closer, I saw that his pants were down. I realized what was happening, but it was too late to look away. He was defecating on the side of a building - and let's just say his stomach seemed to be upset.

How can a city with such a storied history, such scenic views, and such high property values allow this sort of thing to happen? I know for every yuppie, there is some former hippie espousing a 'live and let live' philosophy, but come on! Market Street smells like urine all the time. And while I have seen poop on the sidewalk before and been convinced it is probably not from a dog, I have never actually witnessed someone in the act.

Tourists will always flock to the city, and businesses will always operate in San Francisco. But don't the tourists, businesses, and residents deserve better? And frankly don't these poor homeless people? I don't profess to have the answer here. I know this is a complicated problem without an easy solution. I just think it's a shameful and shitty (literally) situation that takes away from the allure of a truly world-class city.

The Diminishing Joy of Cooking

I love to cook. When I was little, I always wanted to help mom in the kitchen. While her rules of baking and cooking were somewhat repetitive and totally unhelpful as a teaching tool (all rules were to “listen", which taught me nothing about reading recipes) I loved the proud feeling I got from proclaiming “I made that!" It felt magical to take simple thing like flour and sugar and turn them into cookies or whatever was being created.

As I've become a self sufficient adult, my love of cooking and my ability to create something edible from raw components has grown exponentially. I love to have people over for dinner. I love finding new recipes. I still feel proud knowing when the finished product is on the table that I made that. Which is why it's so sad that lately cooking is more a chore than a joy.

Budget austerity means meals out are a thing of the past. And in an effort to lower the grocery bill, menu planning has become a necessity. But cooking every day and twice daily on weekends has stripped the fun out of it for me. I feel like I spend my life in the kitchen. Moreover, I feel like my life revolves around the kitchen.

Part of my problem is stubbornness. I could make simpler dishes or let my husband take the wheel. But, if I am forced to eat in, I want to enjoy what I am eating. So my kitchen prison is of my own design.

In order to make this self-imposed kitchen exile more fun, I am going to start sharing recipes and tips on this blog. I hope that sharing my kitchen wisdom will inspire others to cook more and perhaps reinvigorate my joy of cooking. Stay tuned for more from this high heeled contessa :) And unlike my mother, my first and only rule in the kitchen is to make what you love. Because if you don't enjoy the fruits of your labor, then cooking is truly joyless.

Eye Cream with A Free Gift of Self Loathing

Long gone are the days where cosmetics counter girls (or the occasional guy) fawned over my skin. While prone to a blemish here or there, I had a relatively lucky adolescence skin wise. While I didn't appreciate my porcelain skin at the time, it was a thing of beauty to the women who spent hours and hundreds of dollars trying to achieve a dewy and fair complexion.

Now when I go to a cosmetics counter, I am bombarded by hard sells for cleanser, toner, and more creams than I have time to apply. I remember when I toyed with the idea of not using foundation for my wedding, and the woman at the Bobbi Brown counter looked at me as though I were plotting murder. There was this horrified expression all over her face.

I see these women - none of whom have great skin - convincing other women that they need a cream to get rid of oil, one to replace the oil, one at night, one for daytime, and much more. Meanwhile, my dermatologist has flawless skin and just instructs me to use sunscreen.

I used to love buying make up. It was fun. Now it's just depressing. I try to always remind myself of the summer I worked as a stock girl in the Saks cosmetics department. I learned some very important lessons there. 1) toner is a waste of money. It dries out your skin so you use more moisturizer, and the circle continues. 2) for years Bobbi Brown only sold essentials meaning very few skin care products. Then it was acquired by Estee Lauder... 3) most of these women who gleefully point out your flaws while ringing up cream after cream or serum after serum lead sort of sad lives. Most peaked in high school when they were still beautiful without a lengthy beauty routine. 4) most importantly, they work on commission.

Sure, I am starting to have a few small lines (with the occasional blemish, which I think is unfair and utter bull), but I am still young. I still have pretty good skin. And I know that creams and serums won't turn back time. I will never look 17 again, and I refuse to spend hundreds of dollars trying.

Goodbye Sky Harbor

I think that no matter where I travel in life, Sky Harbor will be the airport with which I have the most positive associations.

As a kid, a trip to Sky Harbor International Airport either meant a vacation to some exotic locale (like Minnesota where you could actually wear pants in the summer) or a special visitor coming to town. Sure goodbyes were hard, but they didn't compare to the joy of an arrival or my own departure.

As an adult, Sky Harbor is my entry point to return home. It's more familiar than most of Phoenix since the big changes took place before I left. Though the end of the trip is usually bittersweet, Sky Harbor means returning to my own home and bed after a reminder of why I left Phoenix in the first place.

Going home reminds me of a time before I found where I fit. I was a nerd and so painfully insecure that I constantly tried to prove how interesting my life was. I was a humble bragger who lacked subtlety. When I encounter people like teenage me as an adult, I understand why I was picked on and excluded. I was annoying.

As my plane ascends and I grip the armrest for dear life, I leave all that pain and awkwardness behind. I am reminded of the formative experiences that shaped who I am today. And I am as grateful to go as I am to come. No other airport has that sort of association, and I doubt another ever will.

But, I still don't understand the 16 minute Jimmy Eat World song that I borrowed the title of for this post - or why it's 16 minutes.

Breaking Up Is Hard to Do

As you may have read in an earlier post, I am buying a home. As I mentioned, that has meant a new, austere spending regime. I am getting used to eating at home and denying myself lunches or coffee during the work day. And in general, I am not so sad to not shop. But, this weekend is different. This weekend I am going to Phoenix. Tucked away in Scottsdale is my personal mecca - my shopping Jerusalem: Scottsdale Fashion Square.

There is no other place on earth that contains all of my favorite stores, yummy chain restaurants, and literally tons of air conditioning and parking under one roof. The mall is massive. It has high end department stores, Banana Republic, J. Crew, kate spade, and more. It's busy but never as maddeningly packed at Tyson's Corner (the best mall in the DC area, which is technically two malls separated by a very busy street). It's like all the best parts of the Tyson's I and the Galleria without the drawbacks of either. Shopping in a town like Phoenix is what shopping should be. You walk into Neiman's in flip flops, a tank top, and shorts? No big deal - you still get treated like a person and a customer! The east coast and big city attitude doesn't penetrate the Valley of the Sun. Maybe the extreme heat keeps it at bay. But whatever the reason, the result means that trips to Phoenix always require a spiritual pilgrimage to Fashion Square.

But this trip is different. I have to break with tradition and break up with Fashion Square. It pains me to do the responsible, grown up thing and not give in to my shopping addiction. Also, sales tax in Scottsdale is nearly twice that of VA - a fact is of little solace at best. But that fact means it is especially important that I stay strong.

So Fashion Square, I am sorry, but you and I are done (for now). I can't let you know the touch of my American Express or Banana Republic credit cards any longer. I can't wander through your ample stores or up and down your escalators. It kills me to say goodbye, but I must. Please know, that there is no mall that can ever replace you. Until I have equity in my house, my beloved shopping center. Until then...