hump that toad

This is the postcard that my sister sent me. Yes, two toads humping. The top toad looks very happy, insofar as toads can ever be said to look happy. I think that might be a smile on the top toad's face, but you shouldn't go by anything I say on the subject since I'm certainly not an expert. On the other hand, I'd be willing to bet that that look on the bottom toad's face is indicative of some mental train that involves the laundry and possibly the level of gas in the car . . . and what's going on up there? Is it suddenly raining men?

Psychoanalysis on an amphibian. Lo, how far we have fallen.

You will be pleased to know that my sister has not been murdered, kidnapped, thrown in prison, or deported. The lack of emails in recent days, matched by alarming reports on serial rape/torture/murder cases in Guatemala -– some 700 women since 2001 -- has given me a qualm or two. However, I managed to get in touch with her this Saturday, so all is well, relatively speaking.

Mom called a few hours later, and after enraging me on the subject of my wedding, started speculating on what was going on in my sister’s mind. I was still frothing over her earlier remarks on the wedding-related front, but prudence kicked in right before I snapped, “Nothing, but then, she takes after your side of the family.” I cut the conversation short and hung up, instead. Talking to my Mom on the telephone is growing increasingly difficult. It’s like being nibbled to death by the tiny Ducks of Reproach. Eventually, even an insane person will snap.

I was informed the other day that the CDC's guess on this year's flu strain was wrong -- or, if not "wrong," at least "incorrect," which I'm told is not quite the same thing as wrong. I dunno. I suppose government health organizations work off a different thesaurus than us normal folks.

Or do I mean "dictionary?" I should look for mine.

At any rate, all this means is that I'll be less susceptible to the flu going around, or at the very least suffer it one day less than I otherwise might have. Good for me and my latex-wearing, chicken-and-the-egg flu shot nurse. Especially since the Guy is sick, and I am flaunting my wellness before him like an empty Honeypot at a state fair.

It's unusual for me to be well, just as it's unusual for him to be sick. Nature appears to have taken a sharp left and hurtled the wrong way down a one-way road. On the upside, this is symptomatic of my relatively recent triumph over diabetes. In my last lab test, my HbA1C -- also known as an A1C -- came out at a solid 7.0. An A1C is a blood test that measures your level of diabetes control over the last 90 to 120 days. A person without diabetes should be between 4.2 and 6.0.

---no you don't. Get back here. Sit down. You should know this. Everybody should know this shit. Stop whining. This is educational.

As I was saying, a normal person -- that is to say, one of you freaks without diabetes -- will range between a 4.2 and a 6.0. A diabetic who is out of control will be above a 7.0. When I was first diagnosed, I was around the 8.7 mark. The A1C test is something that diabetics should probably be having every quarter, if they are newly diagnosed and don't yet have their blood sugars under control. Once the diabetes is under control, you can drop to twice a year. Of course, a lot of this is up to your personal physician and your HMO's health maintenance guidelines.

That wasn't so bad, was it? And anyway, the point of this was to tell you that my diabetes is under control. Having a high blood sugar makes a body susceptible to infections and stray illnesses. My blood sugar is fairly level now, so I don't get sick quite as often. The Guy is squished by the right hand of plague, and I'm not. In our household, this is like turning on the TV one day to hear Dubya making sense. It simply doesn't happen.

The flu has been a delight for news stations, who have been sorely tried lately by a dearth of fear-inducing bylines: "Tonight! Terrorists are coming for you, your children, and your little dog too! What you can do to stop them before they hunt you down." Tonight, Tivo picked up a preview for the evening's news broadcast. "Tonight: the neighborhoods where the epidemic is worst. Find out if you live in a high danger zone." Yes. Find out. Hide your children.

Unfortunately, this year for a change I actually want to have the flu. By all means, make me sick. Let me stay home. While it has avoided me like the . . . like I was my teflon-coated mother, the flu has done a number on the little purple monkeys. One by one they've tumbled off the Island of the Purple Monkeys into the deep blue ocean, where they paddle about on little purple foam kickboards of disease. In fact, of all the people in the office, it's possible that I'm the only one left who isn't in the process of, experiencing, or recovering from this vicious spray of sputum.

Screw that. I'd rather be making friends with Mr. Toilet, because this week the Island of the Purple Monkeys has been truly ingenious with its application of tortures; new Purple Monkey Princes have been adopted into the royal Purple Monkey household, and have come to the Island for a state visit.

I must make clear that I do not care for Purple Monkey Princes. Still less do I care for the reminder that they are out there, physiologically capable of breeding baby purple monkeys. I've noticed that lately I've had some rather significant rage issues. Quite a few rage issues. Unrepressed rage issues, to be exact. In meetings and hurridly snatched lunch minutes at my desk, I engage in fantasies of murdering certain people at work.

Okay, yes, I have fantasies of bludgeoning purple monkeys to death with giant foam bananas. It relaxes me. Might be time for a mental health day.

If you've been here before, you've probably noticed that I've gone and redesigned my web page a little bit. This was, yeah, one of those tasks that was hanging out near the very bottom of my To Do list. I’ve only been thinking about for the last four months or so. Procrastination, thou art my bitch.

It's best viewed in 1024x768, and I only say that because my screens are all 1024x768 and I can't seem to get them to change to any other setting. Not convincingly, anyway. I mean, I know how. I can get into the computer display settings and reset them to 800x600, or 1280x1024 or, if I feel really wild and crazy, 1600x1200. Unfortunately, my computer appears to have a rather conservative attitude towards screen displays, and tends to do all in its power to dissuade me from perilous moral precipice of resizing. The screen pixelates. The windows shrink. The desktop expands and requires scrolling to see in its entirety. The computer appears to fear for my emotional stamina. Screen displays today might be the immoral gateway to penis enlargers tomorrow. Where will it end?

Let's find out. Someone hand me a banana.