A1C

I love my iPhone.

To a truly embarrassing degree. This would be true regardless of my current status as a type II diabetic, but post-diagnosis, it is no exaggeration to say that my iPhone is an essential part of my daily routine.

On Monday morning, around 7am, my phone will remind me that it is time to test my blood sugar. Later in the day, I'll log into Couch-to-5K and head out for a run.

I could do all of these things pre-phone, but having a device that reminds and records these events (with snappy UI) makes them considerably more enjoyable.

More enjoyable = more likely to occur.

Now, testing reminders could be handled by the blood glucose meter itself - the thing is basically a clock that also logs inputs of blood - but there's a very basic reason why I don't use the meter to do this.

Here's a picture of my meter:

There are three inputs:

1. The M button
2. The C button
3. The place where you put in your test strip.

If I'm to get a good sampling of what my blood sugars are doing, I"m supposed to do daily tests that vary from day to day.

Task: Set seven different alarms - that repeat on the same day, each week - using an LED screen and two buttons.

The reward for this is having your meter beep at you at the specified time in the annoyingly tinny way cheap electronics have. If you're away from it at the time, you'll just miss it - oops. Too bad.

Setting digital clocks using two buttons is sucky. Setting digital dates using two buttons is worse. And obviously doing both seven times over is worse yet.

Rather like writing a book one letter at a time by signalling to an assistant with your eyelid. Sure, it's been done, but nobody wants that kind of motivation.

But over and above the entry suckage is this: one day, having endured all that pain and plugged your schedule into your meter using Morse code, you finish breakfast and remember that you were supposed to test before you ate. What happened to your reminder? You look down and see that your meter thinks the current day is Friday. Also, it insists that the current time is 9:18pm.

Yes, another of the (many) downsides of having only two input buttons is that one of them is the power button AND the button you hold down to put the meter into setup mode. Holding down a button for a few seconds isn't easy to do by accident - unless you say, put the meter in your pocket and sit down.

Once you've put pressure on the M button for awhile, perhaps your weight shifts a few times (M, M....M.....M) and you've toggled the setup control to the day of the week. Shift again and you've hit the C button and suddenly it's not Monday anymore...(C, C.....C) morning becomes evening. Time travel realized...!

And all of your careful programming is worthless now, and while you could go back and fix it, why would you want to?

Plus, assuming I get all this sorted out and manage to not sit on my meter - by doing something like leaving my meter in my coat pocket. This decreases the likelihood that I'll be around to hear the damn thing beep at me. Missed it? Oh well.

So I'm using my phone - something I carry and look at regularly. It also allows for easy entry of complex inputs.

My current scheduler of choice is Orchestra.
I tried my calendar app, but immediately realized I don't want my testing events to blackout my calendar.

Orchestra's UI is awesome. There's a very satisfying feeling in checking things off the list, plus reminders persist on the screen, so if I happened to (the horror!) be away from my phone during the second it beeped at me - I'd return to a phone with a reminder front and center on the home screen.

Score one for good UI.

Which brings me to Couch-to-5K, the other bit of life altering software. If you'd have told me even a year ago, that I'd be running 3 miles over lunch hour - I'd have laughed in your face.

Today I did over three miles. And it felt good.

Which is the polar opposite of where I was when the Parrot guy was asking if I wanted to go running over a year ago.

And yes, its fair to say my motivation has changed dramatically since then, but Couch-to-5K allows its users to offload a lot of the unknowns:

-How long should I run for to start with?
-How often should I run?
-How did I do? (How fast? How far?)

It logs past performance in a way that is visually appealing (plotting your route on a map) and allows you to review what you've accomplished.

And you get to check things off. I love checking things off.

Week 9 run 2. Done. Whoo hoo!

-----

But all of this reminding and logging was in service to a larger goal. Getting my blood sugar under control. Because it was way the hell out of control. My last blood draw was in December. Normal glucose levels are around 70-99 milligrams per deciliter - I was at 320. Worse, I had an A1C of 12.8% (not 12.7% like I'd put in a prior post).

The A1C samples your blood cells to see how much glucose is stuck to them. Your blood cells die off and get replaced over time - and it is possible to separate these cells into groups for testing based on how old they are.

Each group of cells can then be evaluated for its glucose content, which allows you to calculate an average glucose content across each group. Meaning you can get an average over time using a single blood draw.

Slick.

A normal A1C test should run between 4% and 6%. I was more than double the high end of the range. The A1C percentage can be converted into an estimated mg/dL and that math turns my 12.8% into me averaging a glucose level of 320 mg/dL over two three months.

I'm sure that factored into my new-found motivation to get off my butt and check my blood regularly.

But again, anything that makes those tasks easier, makes it more likely that those tasks will in fact happen.

I've been testing, I've been running. The phone apps have helped a lot. But my last A1C was in December. And a scheduled testing regimen is more than capable of falling prey to human tendencies.

The simplest being: If there's a dessert in the house that I want, I don't eat it until after I test for the day. Less simple: The Sunday and Monday tests are grouped close together. If I'm good on Sunday night, I can net two good scores to my average for the week.

And so on.

But the A1C will not be fooled. If you've been good at test time and bad all the time in between, your hemoglobin will catch you out. It accumulates glucose from all the intervals of the past months - regardless of when you chose to stick your finger.

So it's more or less the report card. And I've been dreading it, because I can think of every dessert I've had since December. Every impulse snack food. Every time I wanted to "treat myself."

And I've been wondering what they all add up to.

So when I get the email that tells me my results are in - my first thought is Grades are in.

I log in like a mad man.

    HEMOGLOBIN A1C     6.3%

    ESTIMATED AVERAGE GLUCOSE  134 mg/dL

            Standard Range 4.0 - 6.0 %

I spend a good long time looking at the screen before I go back to work.

Still smiling as I type this, too.

The Walking Dead

Today I spoke with a Zombie.

They came into the office as usual, late and flustered. They cheerily said hello and set to work as they used to do while they were still alive.

But they weren’t. I know this because one who was complicit in the Zombie’s death stopped by to tell me the other day.

“Gonna have to get used to sitting alone in here for awhile,” they said – in an I-know-something kind of voice. I wasn’t even that surprised. The signs of corporate death begin long before the actual event – in the right proximity, these things are downright obvious.

And slow.

There is no good reason why a life altering decision like this should be dragged out, but CorpWorld has procedures that prolong beyond people’s capacity to keep their mouths shut. And so – we have Zombies.

In the preceding weeks, I was asked for my opinion on the Zombie by management. Twice.

I like the Zombie – and said so, they are genuinely likeable in all sorts of ways. But I also said that when confronted with interpersonal problems, they crafted personal solutions instead of professional ones. Tempting as it always is to go for the win, in CorpWorld you’re usually better off sorting out what is needed to get the task done. Forget ego, forget pride, forget even common sense. Do the job.

Grind out the work – and much will be permitted. Delay work, repeatedly, and you will be asked to explain yourself.

To any resident of CorpWorld, this is a sign.  Paperwork is wending its way towards the kill.

When things get that bad, it can be very difficult to keep your professional composure. Your value to the company is being questioned. They are asking you to do something that makes no sense. And it’s not like you’re the only problem here– how can they not see that? But while the Explain Yourself meeting is asking you a question – there is only one correct answer: “I see your point, and I will do what you ask.”

Anything less leads to corporate death.

I was out when the Zombie was asked to explain themselves. They did not keep their composure. There was a genuine scene and a good deal of yelling.

CorpWorld does not like yelling.

And so a likeable person transformed from co-worker to Zombie.

They will be told their fate in a few days, but as an increasing number of their co-workers learns the truth – and are summarily sworn to silence – mundane office interactions now occur on tenterhooks. We don’t ask for their input -  what’s the point? No one listens to their daily report-out or follows up on any questions they ask.

We wonder how much they know. We wonder if any change in behavior has made their fate blindingly obvious. We wonder what we would do in their place if we came to that realization.

What would you do?

While I’m sure there are lots of TV-inspired reactions – but the likeliest to me would be to feign ignorance and collect the paycheck for however long you had left. On the appointed day, you’d just be gone.

Behind me, the Zombie types and clicks away, occasionally making small talk and looking wearier than usual.

I go through the motions of a normal day - and they do the same.

And we’ll both do this until the appointed hour of their corporate death.

Willful Child

For some reason, I've taken a perverse amount of pride in the fact that I stopped napping when I around two years old. There’s more than a small bit of irony there – these days I’d kill for a good nap.

“A willful child,” my parents called me – when I was around to hear them. I’m sure at other times they used other words.

But when my dad would describe me sitting in my crib shaking the rungs and screaming at him – I’d find myself cheering for the former me. Yeah! Give him what for!

I supposed this was in no small measure because that little guy in the crib could carry the day in a way I never managed when I was older.

I don’t recall a lot of knockdown, drag-out arguments with dad. There was simply an understanding that once he’d weighed in on something – that was pretty much how it was going to go.

I vaguely remember dad carrying me down the hall by my belt loop when I was in first grade. I’ve always associated that memory with a spanking (itself a singular event), but thinking about it now I honestly can’t be sure the two events happened together. But I have no other memories of physical discipline from childhood.

In our house, discipline was mental.

Mom practiced a kind of parental judo that resulted in her kids unknowingly doing what she wanted all along.

Dad would usually take the direct approach – and while I should have more than a few memories of getting a full dressing down by my father – they’ve all seemed to blur together into a general sense that crossing dad was a very bad idea.

What’s interesting to me are the milestones I do remember – wearing the ratty jeans my father expressly forbid me to wear and remaining home when the family went to the beach, despite my father’s angry insistence that I go.

Two wins for my side.

Memorable for lots of reasons, but largely because of the basic fact that two is a number that can be remembered.

I couldn’t possibly remember a number for the loss column. The times I was browbeaten, shamed, or intimidated into doing what dad ordered me to do.  Uncountable moments – most of them trivial, surely – but innumerable moments of substance where my stubbornness gave way to my father’s.

Just do what he wants.

Which is not to say dad was a cruel man.  He wasn’t. But it took a long time to realize that he wasn’t just this inhuman thing meeting out justice and punishment.

One of the reasons I am sure my dad spanked me was a time mom told me dad cried after spanking me. The idea that dad would cry at all was unthinkable. That he would question his treatment of his kids doubly so.

One of the things dad always did that annoyed me was this pretend fighting he’d do. He’d get into a mock boxing stance and tag me once or twice in the shoulder, baiting me. “C’mon,” he’d say – clearly inviting me to try to land a few practice blows on him.

I never did.

Try, that is. By the time this game started, the idea of swinging at my dad was completely alien to me. You don’t cross dad. Despite this being a game – I remember wondering what would happen if I did join in. Would he hit me for real? Would he expect me to hit him for real? It made no sense to me.

My refusal to join in was always met with a disappointed look on dad’s face. I always took this to mean that dad wished I was more athletic. That I let him down, again.

For awhile dad would invite me to help him work on the cars or in his woodshop – but his insistence on correcting everything I did made it impossible to feel like I was anything other than in his way. I have vivid memories of tightening a bolt on the car as hard as I could – and then my dad re-tightening it afterwards. Dad did everything – the only thing I was allowed to do was hold the lamp while he worked.

As I got older, I tried to stay out of his way more.

Surely some of that was just being a teen ager. I wanted to do what I wanted to do, and dad and I shared very few interests. He was always out fixing something, or mowing, or building, or any number of constructive things that I regarded as nothing but a pain in the ass.

I’m sure some of my enduring hatred of yard work comes from the numerous arguments that resulted in me weeding or raking – or any of the other pointless things he’d ordered me to do.

The obvious irony is that what little handyman work I’ve done around my house is because dad dragged me along on his projects and taught me what he knew. That time we put in the bathroom in my old house taught me a ton about wiring and plumbing  - stuff that I’ve drawn on as I’ve struggled with my new house.

Mostly what I’ve drawn on was the realization that my own obstinance could be a resource to get things done. And I realized that was a good part of dad’s method as well. Once he started something, quitting became almost impossible. It’s not that he knew all the things he needed going into a job – it’s that he knew whatever came up could be dealt with. As long as you put in the work.

I remember a thawing in the cold formality dad and I had manufactured between us. Roles had changed somewhat and old patterns gained new context.

When the boy was born, I got to see a whole new side of my father. How he delighted in playing with my boy. My dad – playing. Dad wanted the boy to have everything.  Had us send him photos of these little chairs we liked so he could make them.

I’m sure it’s not chronologically accurate, but the last memory I have of seeing my dad is outside my last job. Dad was dropping me off at work for some reason and was about to head for the interstate. He made a point – a very obvious point – of telling me how proud he was of me. It was such an odd thing for him to say at the time, but I stammered out a “thanks,” and waved at him.

And then he was gone.

I’ve thought a lot about that day in the past few years. Not so much that dad said he was proud of me, but of how urgent it was to him that he say so. Almost like he’d been chastised. He seemed sincere, but almost apologetic. “I’m sorry I hadn’t said this…”

Thinking of him in his last few years, there were other moments like that I’d missed at the time – but they were lesser copies of that last moment.  Wanted you to know this, son…

This was dad in quite a new light. A dad trying to relate. Struggling, even.

This was not a word I would normally apply to him in any context. If there was a problem interacting with dad, it had to be mine.

But here he was, talking up my writing to other family members – conspicuously being supportive to an adult son too clueless to even realize what was going on.

But now I know. And I think – at long last – I get it.

I hear my dad come out of my mouth so often these days – I can practically see him in the mirror. There was a time I would say that with pride – but the parts I see and hear are the very things that made me avoid him as a kid.

Yelling at my son for ridiculous things – things he should know better – but things that certainly don’t require a screaming lecture.

Pick your battles, I’ve always heard, but win them. Well I’ve picked, fought and won. Then stood in the ashes of my victory wondering what it was all for.

Everybody talks about the time you hear yourself sound like your parent – but nobody prepared me for watching myself appear in the guise of my son.

My son is a willful child. And he is the son of a willful child.

One who was taught that you keep going until you win.

And I have won. Time and time again. I have prevailed in contests so foolish you would question my sanity. You will do this. Even if you fight it. Because battles joined - must be won.

And I’ve see my boy cringe under a pillow because he can’t face me. I’ve yelled at him for something he has no answer for – so he’ll hide. Or glower silently up at me like I did thousands of times. I will stand here and defy you. I will refuse to answer. Because otherwise you win.

And I think back on years of inadequacy. Feeling certain – absolutely certain – that I would always be less than dad wanted – and I want to swoop down on my boy and save him from his total jerk of a father.

My boy is wonderful. And I’ve managed to force him into the same nervous shell I had as a child.

Yes, he does need to sit up straight, use his napkin, and all that. But first he needs to know that he’s wonderful.

We send our kids into the wider world with the tools we give them – and I cannot rob my son of his self respect and expect him to thrive.

I have to learn to forget about winning battles. Keeping score is just a different way of losing.

Waiting until he's grown and married... that's not fair to anyone.

Stay Hungry

Bit of catching up is in order.

First off, the boy’s leg is cast-free. He’s limping around on a leg that doctors assure us is doing fine – but I’m still waiting to see him run around like the wild little boy he deserves to be. He needs to do more and being cooped up with his family isn’t doing him a lot of good. He comes from an indoor-kid family, so I suppose it’s a bit much to expect him to turn into an extreme athlete – but I want him outside and throwing things. Soon.

Following December’s developments, I’ve necessarily plunged into the habits of a person with type II diabetes. I test my blood sugar with a meter that is astoundingly easy to use (the Freestyle Freedom Lite).

As a UI snob, I can attest to the quality of its workflow:

1. Add needle
2. Insert test strip
3. Stick finger
4. Apply blood to test strip
5. Pitch needle and test strip

Everything else is done by the machine.

Notice there were no steps to turn on and turn off the machine. Someone was thinking.

Not that I think this meter is particularly special, mainly I’m just impressed at how not an issue this process is.

The quibbles I have are fairly minor. The needle tool resembles a vending machine toy in quality of manufacture. The side seams look as if they are about to separate at any moment. The depth setting changes each time I get it out of the kit – so it’s always a double check to make sure it hasn’t dialed up to 4 (maximum needle depth) when 1 or 2 is sufficient for my office worker hands.

I don’t expect they put a lot of work into the needle tool – after all, they give these things away – and the bulk of their work goes into the meter. You break the needle tool and they’ll give you another for free. Everyone knows they make their money on the test strips.

The test strips are about 1 to 2 bucks a pop (pre-insurance). As you’ll be using them multiple times a day for the rest of your life, the meter manufacturers figure they can spot you the start up gear for free - many times over.

The strips degrade in open air so you get them in a sealed container. A single, sealed container – which would be another quibble I have. You buy a month’s worth of strips at a time. If you biff it when you pop the lid open - you could dump over a hundred bucks worth of product all over the floor of whatever public bathroom you happen to be in.

They should have a better dispenser – one that spits out one at a time – or (more simply) provide them in multiple containers so you put less of them at risk at any one time.

But overall, the easiest adjustment I’ve had to make – by far.

The more dramatic changes have obviously been with food. Quality and quantity.

Quantity I view as the easier of the two. At least at first. It would be very hard to continue eating the amounts I had been eating before. Breakfast amounted to two meals. Lunch was at least a meal and a half. Dinner was two meals, plus something afterwards before bed.

Laughable, all of it - but only in hindsight. At the time it was like, I feel like eating - I'll eat. Diabetes is particularly insidious as it has a number of effects that make you hungry. Your food becomes fuel, but your body isn't delivering the fuel efficiently. So your muscles and other cells tell your body they need more fuel.

So you feel hungry. And eat more. Which makes your body store the extra fuel as fat. More body fat makes your body's insulin function less effectively - leading to poorer use of the fuel you eat.  Poor use of fuel leads to cells demanding more energy, so you feel hungry, and off we go again.

Diabetes can lead to depression and fatigue, all of which play into doing less and eating more. Which is exactly the opposite of what a person with diabetes should be doing.

Any wonder why there are over 20 million cases in the US alone? Cripes, who designed this damn disease anyway?

So, I'm cutting back on portions. They are visible and tangible. I like to think I'm doing a lot better on this.

Food quality is a bit more mercurial. I need to know what's in the food I eat. Sometimes you have no idea - somebody else made it, I can't find an equivalent breakdown online.

So you go to classes where they break down what food is made of what.  

Carbohydrates, gotta watch the carbs.

I'm given a guideline on how much of them I should have over the course of the day.

Then you have to read serving sizes and count grams. Naturally cereal has different serving sizes because they vary by weight. One cereal is 1 cup per serving, the next is 3/4 a cup, the next 1/2 cup. Apples to apples requires math and then you have to set and remember a visual benchmark about how big a cup looks in a given container.

3oz is a standard serving size they want you to track on. About the size of a pack of playing cards. Depending on density. Blah, blah, blah...

I've opted to start with the basics. Half my plate should be veg, 1/4 carbs, 1/4 protein. Easier to remember, easier to visualize.

So long as I keep myself to a single plate. I'm sure to be better off than I was. I'll refine with math once I can sustain a sane eating pattern.

Plus, I get meds. Metformin once a day. I've had to renew a pill perscription for the first time in my life. Bleah.

Over and above that is activity level. I've fallen off the running wagon, but have every intention of getting back out there. In the meantime, I spend about a half an hour each weekday legging it around the concourse like a speedwalking senior.

I'm walking in a circle so I can live longer.

But that's the honest truth. Life expectancies for the average Type II diabetic are well short of where I want to be. Being diagnosed at my age means I will have to behave myself for decades. Have to start now and keep it up - there is no other option.

I am not losing limbs to this bullsh!t.

Early results have been encouraging. But I would think they would be at my age. My blood sugar's averaging around 118 these days, and I'm down more than a few pounds. It is depressing in the extreme to think I will have to become a scale addict. "What do I weigh?" But the reality is I need to know that I'm trending in the right direction. My dietician gave me numbers to hit and I need to believe I can hit them.

Insulin is produced by beta cells in the pancreas - and they always degrade over time. What I have now is the most I will ever have - and I can't afford to burn them up like I've been doing.

Which leads to a total rewrite of how I've looked at food. I've of course known what eating healthy required - but I've never regarded food with fear before.

A coworker of mine offered me a peanut butter bar the other day and I reflexively accepted it. Then I took it home and threw it away. Pre-diagnosis, I would have eaten it before I left their desk, and perhaps asked for another.

Now, I find myself glaring at the frustrating omnipresence of baked goods at work. Chocolates and snacks, everywhere. Every business sells food these days - and none of it is on the happy list.

My sister in law told me once that you never forget the first time your body lets you down - and sometime in the future my pancreas and I are going to have some serious words. But for now I've got to baby it, every day, for the rest of my damn life.

Jen tells me plenty of people find themselves living healthier with diabetes than they ever did without it. I suppose that makes a bit of sense. The feedback on a day of pre-diagnosis overindulgence would take years. At that rate, you'd never connect the dots.

Post diagnosis, I find out within hours when I've strayed from the true faith. We had a baking contest at work and I had two small slices of pie. My blood sugar was stratospheric three hours later. What's bad for me hasn't changed - but now I get graded one or two times a day.

Feedback on that timetable can occupy a conscious thought. A thought you can draw on when you're staring at a coffin-sized display of snacks at the gas station. 

And until my body magically adjusts to the new regime, I will have to get used to wanting things I can't have- or wanting more and not getting it.

Thirsty

I don't think of myself as a hypochondriac, but lately I've begun to realize that I need more distractions in my life.

Dead idle and getting older - you start thinking about every new ache like its the beginning of something terrible.

That's new, you think as your arm starts to twang. You waste a few brain cycles coming up with the most sensational reasons why it might be acting up, then move on to worrying about your eating habits.

The other day, I ate two Italian beef sandwiches for lunch.

I mean, that's messed up. Not exactly the largest amount of food I've eaten, but a good indication that when I'm enjoying what I'm eating - I keep eating. This is totally at odds with my stated goal of being more active - so I waste a few brain cycles on worrying why I might be doing this.

One of the byproducts of sleep apnea is increased appetite. Which is downright evil, since eating more can narrow your throat opening - leading to less airflow and less sleep and (naturally) a body screaming for more calories.

Am I not sleeping enough? But I know I am - because I'm dreaming. Dreams are my benchmark for R.E.M. sleep - and I'd been dreaming plenty.

Which leads to the inevitable conclusion that I've simply grown accustomed to eating more - and need to dial it way the hell back.

Any time I'm thinking of hitting the cafe for a snack - I opt for the water bottle. I slug down a bottle or two of water and I figure I'm doing myself more good than a latte and a pack of Reeses.

Makes you feel almost virtuous. I'm just having water, thanks. But I drink like I eat - fast - and you feel pretty odd lingering over the water fountain wishing the water flow was a hell of a lot faster. I want what I want - and a lot of it.

Once, I started drinking out of work's slow fountain as a co-worker went into the restroom.  I was still drinking after they came out. We have the newer handicapped-accessible fountains, so they're very low - so drinking at them for any length of time makes the blood slosh down to your head.

You pop up from an extended drink like that an your head looks like you've been out in the sun. My co-worker glared at me for a moment and said, "You okay?"

As drinking necessarily causes you to hold your breath, I responded like a person surfacing from a long dive. Gasp "I'm fine." Gasp, gasp.

Try to do something good for yourself - end up looking like a bit of a goober.

I'd fallen off the running circuit, too. Not really helping myself - but I'd spent a lot of lunch hours running around looking for hardware to fix our destroyed bathroom. I'll get back on the horse, but y'know - not today. But you think about it - when you're on the scale - or every time you look at your running gear sitting in the trunk like a vengeful accuser.

******

"You losing weight?"

My office mate was asking and I'm like "Huh?" Not likely. Kind of them to say, but more water and no exercise is unlikely to result in weight loss.

I'd recently resumed a more technical role at work, so in addition to more typing - I get a lot more time in front of a computer screen. About few weeks after I start up, my eye goes blood red and it hurts to focus up close.

This, at least is not much fuel for anxiety - I have this recurring thing where one eye or the other will turn red and ache for about a week. No big deal, no lasting effects - no identifiable cause - but the remedy is to get 5 days worth of eye drops and it goes away.

By the time I could get a normal appointment it would go away on its own - so I do urgent care. I give them the same description, they do the same checks, and I get my eye drops.

Simple.

But as long as I was there I wanted to ask them about other stuff. I'd been getting these pains in my hands - numbness mostly - when I was going to sleep. I'd been typing a bit more than usual, so I'd briefly wondered if I was getting carpal tunnel. My dad had it - but then he did an awful lot more with his hands than I ever did.

And there was other stuff. Odd pains here and there. I started rattling off the list until I sounded like a hypochondriac. Watching your doctor shift from active listener to "I'm waiting until they stop talking" mode does not inspire confidence in your message.

I've done the freak out before. Let a number of random inputs convince me I was in dire shape - only to find out I was fine. Wired up to telemetry and it was nothing.

A collection of aches, pains, and odd sensations that seem dire in your head comes out as a rambling collection of random things. Just what happens when you save it all up.

I sounded like a dork.The result was predictable.

They asked me to do some tests - and sent me on my way.

So - I'm at work on Tuesday, tests done - clacking away at the keyboard and I get a call from the school nurse.

The boy has fallen on the playground and hurt his leg. They need me to pick him up. They hadn't been able to reach E, so they're getting me. Just as well, she has no wheels anyway. I'm thirty minutes out and tell them so. "He's okay?" They tell me he'll be in the nurse's room until I get there.

I leave a few messages with E and head in. I'm down to vapors on PTO, but this is just how it goes. Lose two weeks to an appendicitis, and this is what the end of the year looks like.

I pick up the boy and he's shivering, but totally calm. There's no swelling on his leg, no bruising, and I get him to put his sock back on, then his shoe. He can move his toes, he just doesn't want to walk on it.

Sprain.

We get him in a wheelchair and into the van. We're off to urgent care to get him looked at. Might as well be safe.

I'm about twenty minutes out from urgent care when my phone rings - luckily I have the buds in, so I click in.

It's urgent care. I'm like, How did they know we're coming?

We're going to the west clinic - this is the east clinic, the one I went to this morning.

Sir, I have the results from your blood tests this morning.

Okay, I've kinda got something I need to do here...

Sir, your blood sugar is very high.-

Ma'am, I'm taking my son in to - 

Normal range is around 70 to 100-

-get his leg looked at.

Yours is at 320.

 ...I am, uh..

The dread I'd been feeling for weeks is finally redeemed - but it doesn't help.

You need to be on mediation as soon as possible.

Those nights I woke up with numb arms and tingling in my hands...

Your doctor just updated my screen. He wants you in in the next two days. I'll give you his scheduling number... sir?

I'd lie awake and wince at the pains sparking off in my legs, my chest. Vacillating between thinking I was about to have some catastrophic event and believing myself an idiot for thinking so. I'd go downstairs, unlock the front door, and sit on the couch with the phone in my hand. I'd watch television until I calmed down. Go back to bed when it passed.

Sir...?

The boy's in the back asking about what they're going to do to his leg - he's oblivious that his dad is on the phone - I cover the mic and tell him they're going to put it in a splint (I'm wrong, of course - he's broken both bones in his leg, but I won't find that out for another half hour).

Sir...?

I know what she's going to say, but I ask her anyway.

What does this mean?

Sir your A1C is 12.7% that's an average over the last 60 days or so...That means...

I'm a diabetic.

Sir, you need to see your doctor in the next day or so...

I'm at a stop sign about 3 miles from getting my son to treatment. I'm head down at the wheel until someone honks at me.

Bin the later - it's time for the now.

My boy needs his dad - and not one who is a self-pitying mass of useless.

I wave the other car by and make the appointment.

Blinker on. We make the turn.

Too Soon?

Overheard at the sandwich shop:

Q: What do you call a woman who chases after a much younger man?

A: A cougar.

Q: What do you call a man who chases after a much younger man?

A: A Nittany Lion

Quote of the Night

 Just because it made me laugh...

I'm ashamed of what I did for a Klondike bar...

-Texts from Last Night

Eighteen Digit Number

There's an obvious irony in this - but all I can see right now is suckage.

Like the rest of the country - I seized upon the falling mortgage rates to refinance. I missed a historically low interest rate by a day - thank you very much - but I got a rate that should make a difference in our finances.

The refi guy at the bank was email only - so buried under applications that they only processed them via the web, and promised to call you within two weeks. I was happy to snag the low rate, so I did what they said.

So it's the day of the closing and I'm looking at the paperwork and I see a name that gives me the creeps.

MERS.

Yes, that MERS. The one who holds more than 60 million of the country's mortgages, yet ignores state laws on the registration and foreclosing of mortgages. The company that breaks chain of title and damages the property rights of adjacent property holders.

Those guys.

I asked the title insurance employee (who was the only one there) if MERS had any role on our loan. They were like "No, no - they're just there to save you money on filing the paperwork."

And they do this in what capacity, relative to my loan?

The title insurance employee gave an answer that established that they had no idea what role MERS played on our loan - but that they were "certain" that everything was fine.

Now, you're the consumer with a bad feeling about this - but you know that the MERS voodoo causes problems when other problems emerge. If I pay my loan, MERS, role does not matter. But then you wonder what happens when my loan gets sold and re-sold? Will I know where to send my payments? Will the servicer stay the same?

And because the alternative is to scrap your re-fi - the one with the sweet rate - you sign. Because, scrapping the deal means you lose a good chunk of your closing costs - and you honestly don't know if your chosen lender has any options that don't include MERS.

So... y'know. F$&#!

But in the back of your head, you're thinking. MERS is seriously in the news lately. Losing cases left and right. Telling its members to list MERS in an alternate role.

Maybe it won't be like that - and again - I pay my bill, things will be fine, right? 

Enter the Loan Servicer - a company called PHH. PHH?

Never heard of them.

Googling, I find:

David beats Goliath: Homeowner wins $21MILLION payout from mortgage firm in dispute over credit rating 

In which an Army NCO paid PHH by direct deposit every month - until PHH decided to ignore the fact they had his money and notified the credit agencies that he was a deadbeat.

This is the kind of thing that gets me all worked up. Not that my loan will go this route, but my state has two lawsuits this year against PHH where PHH botched the paperwork and asked the courts to let them take people's homes anyway.

I call PHH to make sure they have my first payment and they've never heard of me. Even though their name is on the paperwork, even though I give them my loan number and SSN - they have no idea who I am. Mind you, this is over a month after our loan closed.

Anybody ever had an argument with a bank where you were trying to convince them that you owed them money? Pretty freaking surreal.

PHH insist I call my previous lender, because they have no record of me.

My prior lender agrees that the paperwork is backed up, but that I should send my first payment and PHH will "hold onto it" until the loan gets set up in their system. Because, hey, what could go wrong, right?

Then I go poking around and find a search engine for MERS properties. And yes, my property is listed in it.

There's a note date, a listing of my prior lender and an long string of digits that make up my MIN: My  MERS Identification Number.

I have been assimilated.

My local customer-friendly bank has sold me to the corporate wolves.

Great.

Just great.

Father of the Year

(via The Two-Way)

"Zach Tomaselli, 23, of Lewiston, Maine, said Sunday that he told police that [Syracuse University assistant basketball coach Bernie] Fine molested him in 2002 in a Pittsburgh hotel room. The third accuser to come forward, Tomaselli said Fine touched him "multiple" times in that one incident." Tomaselli's father, however, told the AP he is certain his son never had any contact with Fine.

As in, "Gee, dad. Why don't you shut the hell up and let your grown son speak his mind, huh?"

Do You Feel Lucky?

So, it's open enrollment and (as tradition dictates) I'm in the final hours of the window reading the help files and wracking my brain to remember what we do and don't have as a household.

My employer outsources the process to a webservice which is (workflow wise) pretty impressive.

They give you a progress meter ( 1, 2, 3 steps and you're done!) and they offer you every single option imaginable. You're required to waive or accept each and every plan, twice - so there's no single misclick can sentence you to unwanted benefits.

Getting you through the process in a few minutes speaks to a process that is well formed. Having online validation makes sure you don't submit bad choices - so I'm sure it's win-win for the employee and their employer.

There are even tutorials on what the various plans do for you -  which is pretty freaking important, seeing these are year long commitments to plans that can be the difference between maintaining your current lifestyle and total catastrophe.

While some of the tutorials nicely illustrate the broad concepts of things like flex spending accounts - there are also moments like this one detailing the reasons a person might get disability insurance:

I mean - the chances are "very good" that I will become disabled? Really? This is for a plan whose benefits start on the 15th day of disability, supplemented by another plan whose benefits start on the 151st day of disability.

And this is for a business whose employees work in information technology.

Thinking back to my closest brush with disability - surgery and in hospital for five days. Still nowhere near qualifying for the short term disability coverage.

But it's not like I'm getting any younger.

Do you listen to the merchant trying to sell you stuff...?

Smartmoney says there is a good chance, so now you're comparing your own experience against the odds.

How does a person make an informed choice about getting this kind of coverage? 

Arrgh.

Penn State, You Suck

The Grand Jury document is unbelievable.

• Grad student reports sodomy of a minor to Paterno.
• Paterno brings in the Athletic Director Tim Curley and Senior VP for Finance and Business Gary Schultz.
• According to the grad student, the grad student tells Curley and Schultz that Sandusky was seen sodomizing a minor.
• According to Curley, the grad student said Sandusky had "inappropriate conduct" but specifically denied that the student mentioned "sexual conduct...of any kind"
• According to Schultz, the grad student said Sandusky had "disturbing" and "inappropriate" conduct with a young boy - but he was very unsure about what he remembered. Also, that the conduct was "not that serious" and he had "no indication that a crime had occurred."

Here's some wonderfully understated Grand Jury snark

Although Schultz oversaw the Universtiy Police as part of his position, he never reported the 2002 [shower sex with minor] incident to the University Police or other police agency, never sought or reviewed a police report on the 1998 incident [where Sandusky was alleged to have behaved in a sexually inappropriate manner with minor boys in the football showers] and never attempted to learn the identity of the child in the shower in 2002. No one from the University did so. Schultz did not ask the graduate assistant for specifics. No one ever did.

They follow up with

The Grand Jury finds that portions of the testimony of Tim Curley and Gary Schultz are not credible.

Paterno's going to retire - he should be fired, sued and prosecuted.

Likewise Curley, Schultz and the Penn State President Spanier.

Heads gotta roll.

Ya! ya! Yawm!

Dune project: done.

Tell me Muad' Dib, how you say "dorkwad" on your homeworld?

Natural 20

"Daddy, why do you have a big bald spot on the top of your head?"

"Uh...."

Amazingly, the conversation went downhill from there.  

Rollingl to confirm.... and....yes!

Find a Problem, then Crush It

These days, its very common to have a programmable thermostat.

I have a fairly advanced one. It stores separate programs for heat and cold, with each program storing four points in time to set temperatures for. It will do this separately for each day of the week.

I hate it.

And not just a little bit, either.

Consider the typical use scenario:  

I'm cold

1. Walk to thermostat
2. open lid
3. locate 2nd button from the top (from a series of four identical buttons)
4. Press 2nd button from top
5. Read dark grey text (on light grey background) to see what mode you're in
6. When the mode is "Heat," read the dark grey numbers to see what temperature you're at
7. Then hit the "^" button to change the current temperature to the desired temperature
8. The display will replace the temperature you asked for, with the temperature it actually is (making you wonder if you've changed anything)
9. After a few minutes, the fan will kick in to let you know the furnace is increasing the temperature (It worked!)

This blows. Here's what I want: I'm cold

1. Walk to thermostat
2. Read the current temperature
3. Turn the dial to the temperature I want
4. See the display showing my change ("I got it.")
5. Go back to whatever the hell I was doing before

I'd looked into wireless thermostats and programmable thermostats. I figured there had to be a thermostat that logged its settings and temperature to give the homeowner the full picture of what goes on in their house.

I mean, how many people know what the ideal settings for their house should be? TheHellIfIKnow!

(I mean, I set my thermostat to stay at 55 when I'm not home in the winter, before I realized that my house won't drop anywhere near that temp over the course of a normal work day.)

So there's a big gap in user interface. People used to build a small box and all the controls had to be buttons on that box. Wireless access removes that issue. I figured someone would make another box and then some solid web app to tweak it out. Obviously, I suffer from a lack of imagination.

Enter these guys:



This is just full-on awesome UI design. Simple up/down controls that feed software that learns what you want over time. *Standing Ovation* Wireless? Check. Controllable by your smartphone? Check. Remote internet control? Check. Plot usage and temperature over time? Check.

But I don't feel like paying somebody to swap out my thermostat. 

Oh really? Here's the how-to installation video on YouTube:



Talk about the modern customer experience in action. That's a home run illustration of how to remove the fear factor and let the customer's want take over.

Want! Want! Want!

To Be a God

This made me laugh...

Dangerously Deep

(Via The Big Picture)

The Dune Project

Not quite sure how the whole thing started, but awhile ago I got the idea in my head to make a version of the out-of-print boardgame Dune.

Contributing factors would be:

• Secondhand versions of Dune cost north of $100 
• I loved the book. -I liked the later work of these game designers (particularly Cosmic Encounter, which shares a lot of game elements) 
• I like board games with good bits 
• The internet exists 

Of the items on that list, the last one is key. Any fool could have the idle thought that Hey, I could make my own… but you’d need to know enough about the game to want to even try. You need motivation. Enter this guy:


Seem like a game worth putting in a little effort for? Incidentally, a video like this kinda gives you the idea of the online community that exists for this game.

Next, you’d need access to the rules and a list of all the components to make a complete game.

No interwebs? Good luck.

Fortunately (or unfortunately) there happened to be an online community that was willing to make PDFs of pretty much everything you might want.

The bullet list was:

• Two decks of full-size cards (1 with 33 cards, the other with 21) 
• One deck of half-size cards (30 cards) 
• 120 stackable tokens 
• A large gameboard with a map
• A rulebook 
• Game wheels (two pieces of cardstock pinned together to make something akin to a decoder wheel)

Any one of those items might make a sane person turn back.

How do you make a deck of cards? What do you make them out of? What's the best way to get them printed?

But the online community is there with all sorts of advice, how to's and examples of successfully finished projects.

I managed to cobble together PDFs of all the pieces I wanted save for the map. An Italian guy named Neri had posted a really great design, but it was riddled with mistakes (English was not his first language). So I pulled his map into Photoshop and cleaned up the map the way I wanted it.

Wasn’t entirely satisfied with my efforts (the board surrounding the Map looks like what it was – a late design add) but it was an improvement.

I bought tokens from Fantasy Flight, printed the board and cards at FedExKinkos, spent a truly ridiculous amount of time trimming cards on a paper cutter and presto – I have my own Dune game.

Took forever to finally get a chance to play it. Getting 5 like minded gamers into a room isn’t easy when half of them have small children – but a run through was done and I thought the game showed its worth.

So then I’m going through the interwebs looking for clearer answers to some of the rules questions we came up with and I see a post by this Russian guy.

He’s put together a set of files for print that are just incredible… I mean, I think anyone who started a project like this will think, one day, I’ll get some free time and put together an awesome set of components and post them online and…

Ilya? The Russian Guy? He’s done that, and I think the rest of the Dune home brew crowd feels like Wile E Coyote watching the Road Runner vanish into a vapor trail.

Just look at this stuff

He made all the artwork:

And there are people linking to sites like artscow.com that will print playing cards for you. Hell, uploading preformatted sets of images so you just have to click to buy them. Then they link to shops in Germany where you can buy wooden tokens in bulk.

Want to know how to make a folding board? How about a video of a magnetic, modular game board? The geek out never stops!!

I mean, cripes, the original game didn't look that good:

Ye Gods...

Ilya even formatted a rulebook that was written by this Brit in Manchester who has seriously cleaned up the copy and made some mechanical improvements.

It's like looking for a bit of gum and being gifted a seven-course gourmet meal.

After the first run through of the game I was thinking of searching out a clearer version of the rulebook, now I'm thinking I need to print up some new components.

Not like I need to keep up with the Joneses, but c'mon... a board gamer sees that much concentrated awesomeness and does nothing...?

I think not.

Big Pair of Brass Ones

It’s 7:20 on a weekend.

I’m coming home with the kids – about to reach the house door when I hear it:  
Bddddt! Bddddt! Bddddt! Bddddt!

I’m like WTF is that?

I’m standing in the garage, the kids are coming up behind me and the noise is pulsing, but constant. Sounds like a machine that’s straining to do something and failing.

Bddddt! Bddddt! Bddddt! Bddddt!

I open the door thinking something’s wrong with the dishwasher, ’s the beater arm stuck?

No. Dishwasher’s off. Sounds coming from the right and-

-there’s water on the hall floor, right in front of the bathroom. Water flowing out of the bathroom.

Damn.

I scramble into the bathroom door and see a geyser of water shooting out of where the faucet’s cold water shutoff used to be. It’s spraying easily 7 feet into the air and the walls have water stains on them. There’s standing water on the bathroom’s tile floor and on my hardwood floor in the hallway.

Damn. Damn. Damn.

I fling open the vanity doors under the sink and go for the shutoff valves. I’m congratulating myself on having the valves installed a year ago (for reasons beyond my understanding all three bathrooms had no local shutoffs – I could not see that as a good thing long term, so we paid a plumber to put in shutoffs when he put in our new faucets).

Two cranks on the cold side’s valve and the water stops. We go from a thundering geyser to silence punctuated by steady dripping sounds.

Dripping down.

I go down the basement stairs and see water dripping through the ceiling tiles. The basement ceiling seems to be snakebit when it comes to water.  Remembering how I’d managed to spray water over them two years ago -  I’m like: here we go again.

I walk across the sponge-like carpeting and go into the finished half of the basement. Water is dripping through the light fixture nearest me and the floor is totally soaked.

I tell the kids to stay upstairs and I begin flinging the sodden mass of stuffed animals and pillows into the uncarpeted side of the basement.

Damn.

The downstairs ceiling is not merely wet, it’s soaked. The ceiling fixture is now an inverted fountain, and our laundry pile is now a sponge. I call E and ask her to come home with a shop vac (wondering for the thousandth time why I got rid of our shop vac when we moved), we’re going to have a long weekend cleaning this mess up.

As an afterthought, I call my insurance company. Their WATS line tells me they are closed, but I can report my claim online. I do. An hour later, they call me to tell me they are sending a water remediation expert to my house – that night.

I’m like Uh, okay. An hour later I have a guy in my house evaluating what I need to have done, and his team shows up with serious gear an go to town.  The remediation guy tells me they’re going to set up fans and dehumidifiers in my house. “It’s going to be loud. For days. It will also raise the temperature in your house by about 15 degrees. For days.”

Uh, okay.

The guy is right on both counts, we have big machines blaring in our house for four days. It's 80 degrees in the house and that's with windows wide open to pull in 60 degree air from the outside.

Bleah.

But enough of the what, let's cut to the why. The cold water shut off on my bathroom tap shot failed.

See it here in the picture?

Yeah, that handle is supposed to be attached. As in here:

Inside the cold water handle, still held in by its screw, are the valve and the valve nut. So the handle shot off because the valve somehow allowed water to get past it and propel it up and off the supply pipe.

I'm thinking I have two more faucets just like this. Was this just one bum faucet? or a failed design?

My faucet is the American Standard Cadet Centerset Faucet. 8125 Series or 8124 Series (no way to tell at this point and the documentation is identical for both). I bought three of these at Home Depot about a year ago.

I get my paperwork and head over to a local plumber. He's set up a storefront so you can walk in and get expert advice and good parts.

I plunk down my documentation and the part and ask him what the heck?

The plumber says "Well, if you buy a Ford anywhere - its a Ford. But if you buy American Standard, it matters where you get it from. These box stores lean on their suppliers to lower their prices - and the suppliers like American Standard are shipping a lower cost version that isn't as good as their regular stuff."

I checked the American Standard website, looks like my faucet (American Standard Cadet Centerset Faucet. 8125 Series or 8124 Series) is only available through Home Depot. According to the plumber, they are total garbage.

He's like, "I'm betting there are going to be an awful lot of lawsuits when these things start failing all over the place. You should save your parts and give them to your insurer. They might be able to get your money back through subrogation."

I'm half listening, half thinking about the two ticking time bombs I left sitting in my upstairs bathrooms.

The plumber digs into his parts cabinet and pulls out a valve with a brass valve nut. "That's the part you need. The valve is basic, but the valve nut is the key piece. Brass isn't always brass. You'll see this bright yellow stuff they call brass but it's just a piece of crap that's waiting to fail on you."

I blow $78 on four valves and four valve nuts, about what I paid for two of my three (useless) American Standard faucets from Home Depot. Swapping them out turns out to be easy enough, but (oh hilarity!) one of the old valve nuts cracks in half while I'm taking it out. Could have had a second flood in my house.

Nice.

So here's the offending object:

On the left is the valve and valve nut in the American Standard Cadet Centerset Faucet (available from Home Depot). As you can see, the valve nut it is coated with calcium carbonate, which means the nut's been getting wet a lot. When the water evaporates, the calcium carbonate remains and crusts things up.

More important than that is the large crack you see in the middle of the valve nut.

For comparison, here's the valve and valve nut I bought to replace it:

New valve nut = good. Old valve nut = total piece of crap.

I don't have a engineering degree or industrial forensic tools, but my kitchen scale gave me a big indicator of how useless the original valve nut was.

Here's the original nut American Standard / Home Depot supplied:

It weighs 1 eighth of an ounce.

The new one I got from the plumber?

It weighs three times as much.

I'm insured, and we'll be re-doing the bathroom, but I'm out my $500 deductible and the major hassle of losing a bathroom for a few weeks while this all gets sorted.

Now, I know I was buying a faucet based on price, but I went with a known brand at a big store.

Which just goes to show you how utterly meaningless those pieces of information are when it comes to quality. Consumer reports doesn't do faucets (there are just too many models) and even if they did, the model numbers would turn over and rapidly make them obsolete.

I have to say I look at Home Depot merchandise very differently now. All the other parts on those faucets were none too solid - and when I see a boxed up toilet that says "Contains everything you need, no tools needed!" right below a giant "Sale!" sign - I'm thinking and what did you turkeys cheap out on to make this price, eh?

Like dad always said: Sometimes the cheapest is the most expensive.

The Standard That Works Best For Us

(via illusory tenant)

In July of 2008, a convicted sex offender named Dinkins was due to be released from prison. State law required him to register his future address with the state's sex offender registry ten days before his release. He did not do this and was charged with a class H felony as a result.

His argument at trial was that he did not know where he would be living. No relative agreed to take him in and he had no solid prospects. He had no address to register.

Nonsense, cried the state:

...Dinkins, like everyone, knows that he must sleep somewhere, and Wis. Stat. § 301.45(2)(a)5. and (e)4. merely requires incarcerated sex offenders to identify and report the address or nearest address of the place where they plan to sleep at least ten days prior to their release—even if the place is a park bench or similar on-the-street location. The State asserts that such a location is an “address” within the meaning of § 301.45(2)(a)5., citing several dictionary definitions of “address.”

That's the WI Appeals Court summarizing the Wisconsin Dept. of Justice's position in their published opinion.

So, according to the Wisconsin DOJ, a convicted sex offender can fulfil their address registration requirement by stating they live under a park bench.

Understand they are saying this because they want Dinkins to go to jail - but consider:

Dinkins fulfills this requirement by scrawling "I think I'll sleep under a bench on the 100 block of East Main St. Not sure which one, but there are quite a few on that block" on his form and he's good to go.

Let's set aside the fact that makes the sex offender registry a whole lot less effective and zero in on the point illusory tenant makes so well.

According to the state of Wisconsin, registering as a sex offender requires filling out the address form as best you can. There is no requirement that you show a utility bill for that address, a rental agreement for that address. There isn't even a requirement that it actually BE an address. Quoting the WI Chief Justice, "...park bench okay?" State says, "You betcha!"

But if any Wisconsin resident tries to vote in an election, they will be asked for a photo ID with an address that will be checked against valid addresses for their polling place.

Priorities, people.

It's all about priorities.

Chill You To the Bone

Just spent some time listening and watching the NYT's amazing audio site dovetailing the 9/11 recordings with transcripts and the plotted positions of the hijacked planes.

Incredible.