The cleaning process proceeds apace (or half-apace) in preparation for the girls' visit. Mainly, it consists of putting books on shelves and creating a clear path of floorspace. The white-glove standard shall not apply. It is merely enough that this place no longer resembles the Collier Brothers' last digs. My office (so neglected since we installed this electric time-waster in the dining room) now looks as if one MIGHT do some actual writing there--not that one WILL, of course.

"Work without Hope draws nectar in a sieve,
And Hope without an object cannot live."
--Samuel Taylor Coleridge (1772-1834)

DANGER: BITCHFEST UP AHEAD
Did I mention that diabetes really, truly SUCKS? Oh, sure--"they" say that with "proper care" one can live a "normal life." HAH! I've had this sonofabitch for 29 years, and my life has been anything BUT normal. Oh, it's normal, if you consider a TOTAL LACK OF SPONTANEITY normal. I made the mistake of assuming a dinnertime meeting tonight was going to actually include DINNER. It was basically drinks, canapes, and dessert--which had the effect of driving my sugar up around 500 without actually satisfying my need for a MEAL. I came home, took a slew of insulin, and passed out in my chair for an hour. Of course, I had forgotten to take the PILL my doctor prescribed to help me process my shots better--so I'm STILL all messed up. I do so much better when I eat my own cooking at home--I can even swill pilsener and remain somewhat in control. As a recluse, I'm fine. But cocktail parties? Forget it. Trying to navigate like a NORMAL human being is suicide.

I live a NORMAL life insofar as the contraption of a life I have come to live has become NORMAL for me. (And the Sanctimonious Monkeyhead squashed stem-cell research--He should have to live with MY diabetes for a month. That'd learn him, real good.)