August 31, 2006

24 boxes

If you had to put your worldly goods into 24 boxes, what would make the cut? (Not counting pets. Or litter boxes. Or cat carriers.) Here are mine, fresh from moving to a new studio apartment this week and not in any order of importance, as will quickly become obvious:

1. clothes (big huge wardrobe box)
2. clothes, shoes, purses (ditto above)
3. things Mrs. Violet, my mother, calls “linens” (and I call towels & sheets)
4. 4 big plates, 4 small plates, 4 tea mugs, some Tupperware, utensils, a few wine glasses
5. a cookie sheet, a casserole dish, a stock pot, a skillet, canned food
6. books to keep nearby at all times
7. more of same
8. books to store up in the loft
9. more of same
10. more of same
11. diabetes supplies & sundry medicine cabinet junk
12. CDs & DVDs
13. stuff that belonged to my dad before he died
14. letters & photos
15. precious objects (commonly referred to by the highly inadequate term “knickknacks,” humph. Include little animal figurines kept since childhood, candle holders, incense-burning equipment, & my house fairy from cherished friend & blog reader V.)
16. more precious objects
17. dolls & stuffed animals kept since childhood
18. journals written sporadically since 5th grade, which Mrs. Violet is charged with burning (NOT READING) in the event of my death
19. more journals
20. more journals
21. computer & associated gizmos
22. cat supplies + misc stuff such as extension cords
23. pictures, the hang on the wall kind
24. misc stuff (my one screwdriver, cleaning supplies, jewelry box, batteries, flashlight, all the stuff I now have nowhere to put)

Things that didn’t make the cut:

1. About a third of my clothes, maybe half
2. Half of my books
3. Most of my kitchen stuff and all of Mr. Brooklyn’s, since he didn’t take his when he moved out
4. Some CDs & movies
5. The wedding china & crystal & flatware I have dragged around the country since getting divorced (that would be the ex before Mr. Brooklyn)—not because I wanted them but out of mom-related guilt, as Mrs. Violet loves them & never had her own. (She’s taking the crystal.)
6. Certain precious objects that weren’t really all that precious and/or made me cry to look at them (reference #3 & 5 above)
7. A LOT of misc stuff that I really just didn’t need, such as the flute I hadn’t played for 15 years, board games that never got played at all, snow boots from my Minnesotan days

Finally, things I learned:

1. I need less than I thought. I hope.
2. It’s more fun than tragic to have a moving sale. My moving sale suggestions: Price things very low for good karma. If you live in a melting pot area, count the number of languages and accents you hear at the sale. Observe that it feels better to see your things go to people who will use them (or resell them for a profit, ahem) than to hoard them. Invite your most heart-tugging customer to come back at the end and take unsold things for free.
3. A moving sale can be cathartic. You can free yourself of baggage of various sorts by removing objects from your life.
4. Even so, there is a real and sometimes deep sadness to divesting oneself of things that hold or once held significance. This should be named and honored along with the other aspects of the process.

August 17, 2006

Psychopharmacological-istic-whatever, Part II

Thank you all for the supportive comments below. It’s very heartening to reconnect with the OC.

The kind Dr. Two-Fifty, after much nodding and compassionate murmuring, is switching me to Zoloft. It’s light blue, so I’m immediately biased in its favor vs. the pea green hue of Cymbalta. (Yeah, I do realize the inherent absurdity of ranking antidepressants by color. It’s just something I have to do.)

The next four weeks will be wacky, as they include tapering down Cymbalta + ramping up Zoloft at the same time. Dr. Two-Fifty instructs me to expect to feel a little weird and not to give up hope. Okey-dokey.

I’ll be distracted during the interim by the process of moving, as my oversized cats and I are heading for Manhattan. We have rented 150 cozy square feet of studio apartment in a charming, eclectic neighborhood. The rent is a mere (ahem) $350 more per month than I paid in 2005 for 600 square feet in Minneapolis. For New York, this is considered a steal. Mrs. Violet (my mom) is coming to help, and I can’t wait to see her.

My numbers are a little weird, trending to the low side. Is it really possible for an adult to need less than .20 units per hour for overnight basals? I guess it is. I forget, too, that I’ve been doing a lot of walking for the apartment search. That’s probably a huge factor. I’m grateful not to be running high, but I did test at 67 at 3 AM the other night. That hasn’t happened since I lived alone, pre-Mr. Brooklyn, so I’m a little anxious. I had a good snack last night and woke up at 83. It would be nice, wouldn’t it, to not have to worry about this stuff during big stressful life changes?

August 13, 2006

Trials and errors

This has been a fairly rough [insert block of time of your choice: week, month, season, year, century] so far, and I find myself—no surprise here—struggling with small and large tasks relating to the physical world. This is a longstanding Violetine trait; it simply gets a little worse when I’m stressed. Today, for example, not long after burning myself over the eye (literally: on the eyelid & surrounding territory) with the curling iron, I took a peek at Nellie’s status screen. I found, much to my chagrin, that I had gone six days without changing my set. Six! Hmm. I had no idea. I need to set up a reminder system on my calendar (ha) or take some other constructive action (heh). Otherwise I’ll wind up with some kind of hideous infection.

I went off the pill recently. Not trying to have baby; just not in need of the pill. Enough said? Yes. As noted here, the use of BC pills has a significant effect on my insulin needs. Basals & carb ratios have gone down for 2/3 of each day. I’m now using a remarkable 25% less insulin over the course of a typical 24 hours, and I still woke up at 78 this morning. (NB: I am NOT complaining. I am delighted.) I have yet to figure out how unusual/usual this phenomenon is among PWDs, but my first appointment at Naomi Berrie is coming up soon, so I’ll throw this question at them and see what they think.

Meanwhile, my adventures with Cymbalta are coming to a close. Dr. Two-Fifty and I have concluded that it isn’t helping enough with the other D. She’s going to put me on something else, but she wants to see me in person first. I’m sure she’ll be impressed with the curling iron burn, which looks like someone relatively feeble tried to give me a shiner.

Last but definitely not least, I send bouquets of flowery purple support to Lyrehca, who awaits very important news this week. Send her your good thoughts, please.