So today I finally set up my shiny new Salter food scale (it's thisaone) after the constant nagging of my darling husband finally broke my "ehh I don't really NEED that" spirit. It was a gift to commemorate our matrimony so I guess maybe he was personally offended that I wasn't busting into it yet.
The truth is that I'm kind of drag-assy about learning new ways to deal with my diabetes. If it's not baroque, don't fix it, amirite? Actually, am just lazy.
So I opened it, and . . . IT IS SO FREAKING COOL, YOU GUYS. Okay, assuming that it actually *works* (because I haven't yet bolused according to its wisdom). But still.
I put an apple on the scale - something I would guesstimate at 30g, give or take. The scale says "25.1g" next to the carbohydrates section. NEAT!
I put a banana on the scale - something I would guesstimate at 40g, give or take. The scale says 37.7g. NEAT! Oh, and "LO" on the glycemic index as well.
I put an entire honeybear on the scale and made Will do the math. "Ummm, I think about 270g." Scale says 300.1g. NEAT! (Oh, and "HI" on the GI. Dur.)
So anyways there's my food scale, and I guess I'll be using it when I'm at home. I haven't figured out how to do more complicated foods such as, say, a taco . . . but even for fruit and unpackaged evils of that nature it's a nifty little machine.
Other stuff...uhhhhmmmmmm. I'm having some sort of existential crisis over here. I don't know, I'm not gonna whine about it because then I just solidify my patheticness for all of the internet to read about and LAWD KNOWS the internet has enough emo to go around. I suppose I still am just unhappy at work and I should really do something about that BUT guess what is more interesting than that will ever, ever, ever be?
BABIES BABIES BABIEESSS. I promise not to become a "mommy blog" or whatever (even though I secretly love mommy blogs), and at any rate I'm not even a mommy yet so I can't. But we are y'know, doing that thing that everyone in high school warned me about. The funny part is I'm not instantly 9 months pregnant and lurching to my Algebra I class. Nope. Turns out that in real life it's a little more complicated. I'll keep you posted, internet. In the meantime, keep practicing putting the condom on the banana.
Also, looking at real estate in the area. Why, Northern VA? Why? Why must you do dis to me, Dimmeh? Do I really want to buy a crapped up piece of crap for 500,000+ and call that a steal, and then subject ourselves to thousands of dollars in renovations? Or should we shell out megabux for a brand new (relatively) townhouse, subjecting ourselves to years of guilt every time we let the dog and the kid out to wander the wild outdoors (a 2x2 piece of "yard")?
Opinions? Hints? Stock options?