Ch-Ch-Ch-Ch-Changes

Gah!  She’s changing things!  Run!  Run for the hills!

Here’s the deal:

I’ve fallen ridiculously behind on updating my blog roll.*  The thing is, I love reading blogs, and since installing the widget that shows when each blog on my blog roll is updated, the blog roll was as much for me as it was for you.  I just relied on my blog roll to notify me when my favorite blogs were updated.

However, this method of blog-reading has become ineffective.  First of all, the widget doesn’t always work properly, and I’d miss when one of your blogs is updated. 

Also, since becoming more involved on Twitter I’ve found the list of blogs I read grew slightly out of hand.  Basically, if you tweet and have something humorous and/or intelligent to say, that usually means you have a blog that is worth reading. And while it was difficult to update my blog roll accordingly, it was even more difficult to look at my blog roll and determine what I already read, and what I hadn’t. 

So, I am now using Google Reader to keep track of all the blogs I read. I know, welcome to 2007, Angela.

The crappy part of this is that, unless I actually click on the blog link in the feeder, it might not count as a hit on someone’s page.  This, if you’re as addicted to blog stats as I am, is tragic.  But, by having a more concise way to read 24,390 blogs, I am able to comment on more blogs, which means I am clicking on the link anyways.

The other crappy part is that you will no longer be able to see on my site when other blogs are updated.  To make up for this, I’m trying to install Comment Luv, which means that when you leave a comment it will automatically include a link to your most recent blog post.  That is, it will do so until it breaks and I will be at the mercy of the internet gods to figure out how the hell I’m supposed to fix it.  But I probably won’t have to worry about Comment Luv breaking, because so far I have been unsuccessful in installing the program in the first place.

So, I’ve removed the blog roll from the right column of my home page, and it will be replaced with a link at the top of my page that, when clicked on, will provide you with a list of the 24,390 blogs I read on a regular basis.  My hope is that you will take the time to look at the list and find at least one new blog to add to your repertoire.

Turn and face the strange.

* Every time I say blog roll, I replace it with “cinnamon roll” in my head.  It’s more delicious that way.

Secret (noun): Something That Is Kept Or Meant To Be Kept Unknown Or Unseen By Others.

I can keep a secret. 

And then again, I can’t. 

                          Secret (adjective)
                                  “not meant to be known or seen by others”
                                                         - New Oxford American Dictionary
 
I have been told things by others, who specifically asked that I keep this information to myself, and ONLY to myself.  I abide by that wholeheartedly.  Those kind of secrets are important.  Sacred, even.

                         Secret (adjective)
                                  “fond of or good at keeping things about oneself unknown”
                                                         - New Oxford American Dictionary

But I don’t really keep secrets about myself anymore.  

While I only blog about .01% of my life, that is only because no one wants to read a manifesto on what I ate for breakfast and exactly what I thought of Oprah’s last show, which I didn’t watch since I was too busy grocery shopping in the rain.

Otherwise?  I’m an open book.  Because for me, secret-keeping was totally destructive. 

At a recent therapy appointment, we discussed whether and when I need to alert others to the fact that I’m bipolar.  I was expressing some concern about being judged or even shunned by others, should they know when I’m cycling between a manic and depressive stage. 

“You know,” my therapist said, “You are not obligated to tell any one about this.  This is your personal medical information and it doesn’t need to be any one else’s business.”

I understand what she was getting at.  But I think she missed an important point.  I have a very hard time admitting to feeling anything but SUPER-DUPER-GREAT!!!!!!! So I keep what’s bothering me secret.  Ashamed of being sad?  Keep it secret.  Ashamed of being angry?  Keep it secret.  Ashamed of being afraid?  Keep it secret. 

And suffer alone.

So keep your secrets?  Absolutely.  For most people, I suspect, you need a part of your life that is yours and yours alone. 

After all, our life is ours to share or not share with whomever we want.  It is necessary to protect the concept of None-Of-Your-Damn-Business-That’s-Why.  And I totally understand why there are certain things you don’t want certain people to know.  Certain things certain people shouldn’t know. Certain things certain people have no right to know.

Even I maintain some personal, inviolable, secrets about myself.

But I use my blog as a means to being honest about myself instead of hoarding my secrets inside where they fester and rot.

Because sometimes sharing secrets is, at least for me, the right thing to do. 

P.S. I know this post makes it seem like I have some giant secret just waiting to be revealed.  Sorry, but there isn’t.  My life is just as mundane as ever.  It’s only that the idea of secrets has been on my mind ever since that therapy appointment, and I wanted to explore it further. 

P.P.S Fine, I’ll expose a secret about myself.  All this talk about secret-keeping reminds me of the concept of the secret-keeper in the Harry Potter books.  Yes, I’ve read the Harry Potter books.  In fact, I’ve read them all more than once.  Maybe even twice.  I might have even participated in a Yahoo Group for adults wishing to discuss, analyze, and fawn over the Harry Potter books.  When I obsess, I OBSESS.

*Title courtesy of the New Oxford American Dictionary. 

I Just KNOW I Have Mad Squirrel Disease

The zombies are after me. I have empirical evidence based on a recent search performed that led at least one zombie to my site:

What happens when eat brains?

My answer? Probably this:

You will contract Mad Squirrel Disease. I am not kidding.*

However, I’m not too worried about zombies eating my brain. Because legitimate mental illness aside, my brain is so defunct that, if eaten, the zombies will probably succumb to Mad Something-Or-Other Disease and they will die. Again.

My reasoning is two-fold:

First, I think too much. Sometimes this over-thinking is to my benefit. For example, the other day I saw toad in my garden. I then spent half an hour on Wikipedia reading about toads.

Henceforth, if I see another toad, I’ll know its taxonomy and gland functions. This is important if I am to continue planting things in my garden and then watching them slowly die at my hand. See? Benefit.

Second, I think too much. Sometimes this over-thinking is to my detriment. For example, if left to my own conclusions, I’d be diagnosed with every horrible disease in the book. I have a headache? Brain tumor! Mosquito bite? Yellow fever! Nothing in particular is wrong? Rubella!

The only thing stopping me from wearing out the revolving door at my local emergency room is a thorough search on WebMD. By the time I’ve confirmed my ridiculous ailment, the symptoms causing such panic have disappeared. This would be reassuring, but since I’ve already curled up on my couch and started planning my funeral, I am utterly beyond any semblance of reassurance. See? Detriment.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to toss out that squirrel brain stew I have in my slow cooker. Not that it matters, because I’m pretty sure I felt my heart beating, which can only mean I have bubonic plague. Hmmm.... I better read up on squirrels. And plague.

Goodbye forever.

*Thanks to Burleson Consulting for alerting the world to the dangers of Mad Squirrel Disease. At least one state, North Carolina, has heeded your advice. Next step: pay me to lobby Congress on your behalf. It’s the logical thing to do.

Me? Stylish? Do These People KNOW Me?

Despite having sported a spiral-perm and those 80’s claw-bangs way into the 90’s, the lovely Northwest Mommy bestowed upon me the Stylish Blogger Award.

Me circa 1991.  Just keepin’ it real. 

 

Thanks, Northwest Mommy!

Not surprisingly, I must complete certain tasks to accept the award.

First, I have to tell you seven random things about me.

Second, I have to give the award to five new bloggers.

So without further ado...

1) I performed (i.e. danced, not competed) at the 1996 Summer Olympics in Atlanta, Georgia.  I wore shiny red spandex jazz-pants.  We were the HEIGHT of sophistication.

 2) I can’t drive stick-shift to save my life.

3) My elbows hyper-extend.  This means that whenever I fall, and catch myself with my hands, I  get stress fractures in my elbows and cannot bend them for several days.  AWESOME.

4) Dragonflies scare the crap out of me.

5) I’ve never been camping, not ever. 

6) I once ate wild boar.
 
7) I love it when ducks live in the middle of a big downtown.

Now, go forth and check out the work of these equally stylish bloggers:

Marianna Annadanna @ Snappy Surprise

Betty Fokker @ The Stay-At-Home Feminist Mom

Handflapper

Carm @ A Life Less Ordinary

Brandy Rose @ Consequently Slapdash

Jenn @ Fox In The City

Lindsay @ It’s A Developing Obsession

Anybody in my blog roll to the right who wasn’t mentioned (I’m serious about this - you ALL deserve this.)

What can I say, I’m an overachiever.

UPDATE: This Is Why Doing Things Is Not In My Best Interest. PART TWO.

.... So Angela, just HOW did you break your toe?  Here it goes.

We arrived home from that disastrous trip to the zoo.  Preschooler was placated by the promise of eating popsicles outside and playing in the front yard of our condo (remember mistake #3)?  Again, I shouldn’t have promised anything.  I shouldn’t rely on my ability to DO THINGS.

We walk inside our house only to find ... maintenance workers cleaning our gutters.  Not cleaning the neighbor’s gutters.  Not a note that they will cleaning our gutters tomorrow.  No.  Their ladder is parked outside my kitchen window, all our things are moved off of the patio and onto the lawn, and they are using my patio table to store their tools.

We can’t play outside.

After bombarding Preschooler with more popsicles and lollipops AND finger-paint, I convey the whole story to my sister, who wisely says:

"Please stay home and do nothing but watch tv with your babies... ok?"

But do I listen to her? No. Because I am committed to DOING THINGS, and figure that if I’m stuck inside I might as well clean my filthy house.

This shall be known as mistake number four.

So, I wash my dishes.  I clean my kitchen.  I dust my living room.  I stub my toe on a chair.  My toe turns purple and swells up.

"GAH! That hurt! Oh crap! Jesus Christ!"

One hour later... "Damnit! It hurts even more! What the hell?"

Another hour later.... "Ok, I am in serious pain.  This involves tears.  The last time I was in pain that caused tears, I was giving birth.  Crap!  I'm going to urgent care."

Honest to God, on a scale of one to ten, where one equals "I feel happy!" and ten equals "OMG I'm in labor GET ME AN EPIDURAL RIGHT NOW. WHAT DO YOU MEAN I'M TOO FAR ALONG FOR AN EPIDURAL? GAAAAAAAAAH!" this pain was about a seven.  Please consult this expert pain chart (created by Allie Brosh at Hyperbole and a Half) for a more detailed explanation.


So I head off to urgent care only to find out I broke my toe. But I didn’t just break my toe.  I chipped it.  Now their is a piece of bone fragment floating around in the middle toe on my right foot.

Again, I must ask:

Middle toe on my right foot means I have to hobble around on my heel, and now my heel hurts.

Middle toe on my right foot means I can’t drive, because I can’t put pressure on that foot.

Middle toe on my right foot means I need to be baby-sat, because the vicodin I take for the pain makes me loopy and exhausted, and oh yeah, I can’t walk.

Lesson learned:  NEVER TRY TO DO THINGS AGAIN.

Update:  Seeing as I broke my toe on Tuesday, and it is now Friday, I was tired of going stir-crazy and decided to go for a walk with my girls.  Don't judge - I was barely limping at all.  Actually, judge.  Because naturally Toddler bolted for the street, and I had to run after her.  Now I'm in serious pain again.  Apparently not only am I bad at DOING THINGS, I'm also bad at NOT DOING THINGS.

This Is Why Doing Things Is Not In My Best Interest. PART ONE.

Monday morning dawned a little on the chilly side, but sunny and bright. 

“I know!” I thought.  “I should DO THINGS.”

This shall be known as mistake number one.

I decided the best use of my morning would be to take the kids to the zoo, and have a picnic lunch at the playground afterwards.  I have taken this type of outing before, and it’s totally doable.  The zoo in Madison is quite small (and quite free.)   So if we get there when the zoo opens, by 11:00 or so we’ve seen everything there is to see.  That leaves plenty of time to eat lunch, play at the playground, and get home just in time for afternoon nap.

So, off we trek to the zoo.

Now, the zoo has a normal parking lot.  But farther away, closer to the playground, the parking goes like this:

I decide to park in this parking lot, because I want to make a quick exit when we’re all done.

This shall be known as mistake number two.

The morning progressed quite uneventfully.  We saw animals.  We ate lunch.  We played at the playground.  Tra-la-la-la.

Soon, it was time to leave.  I return to my minivan, only to find...

I’m stuck.

Now, this is not a situation of, “OMG this minivan is so big, I can’t get out even though there is actually a ton of room, I can’t judge distance, please help me not suck at driving.” No. I can negotiate through rush-hour traffic in Chicago with this van.  I can drive to and from work on while snow falls on icy roads with this van. I can parallel-park this van.*

No.  Behind me, on a street that is maybe one-and-a-half cars wide, is a giant school bus.  This would not have been a big deal if I had some wiggle-room on my right.  Unfortunately, parked on my right was one of those big white utility vans.  There was no wiggle-room. I’m parked in.

“No problem,” I thought.  “I’ll just ask the bus driver to move the bus. Usually these bus drivers just sort of wait around the bus until the field trip is over.”  And this is what the bus driver looked like:

Oh, right. There’s nothing there.  Because the bus driver was NOWHERE TO BE FOUND.

“Ok,” I thought. “He’s probably in the bathroom or eating lunch or something. I’ll just kill some time until he returns.”  So back to the zoo we go.  I bribe the kids with some ice cream, and a half-hour later we head back to the van.

Still stuck.  No bus driver.

Now I’m getting kind of pissed.  “Fine,” I think.  “I’ve seen kids running around in these school t-shirts all day.  I’ll just find the leader, and ask that the bus be moved.”

So, I ask around.  The parents were sympathetic, but no one knew where the leader or the bus driver was.  They tried to describe them to me, but it’s hard to pick some one out of the crowd when they’re all wearing the same t-shirt.

“Why Angela,” you say. “The zoo must have a loudspeaker or something.  Why didn’t you just have them call for the bus driver?”  I DON’T KNOW, THAT’S WHY. 

By now the kids are breaking down, so I head back to the van.  Fortunately, we still had the portable DVD player in the van from when we took a road trip a couple weeks ago.  So the kids watch tv, and soon Toddler is fast asleep. 

“Hmmm... I’ll just let Toddler sleep, and by the time she wakes up, surely either the bus or the utility van will be gone.”

One-and-a-half hours later, Toddler wakes up.  The bus is still there.  The utility van is still there.  The drivers of these vehicles are still NOT there.

Resigning to the fact that my day is totally boned, I figure we’ll just play at the playground until some one moves.  I unload the kids, explain we’re going to play, and we head to the playground.  We get not ten steps away from the van, when suddenly the driver of the utility van shows up.  HE can leave, because the bus isn’t parked behind HIM. 

I tried to explain to Preschooler how we have to go back home right now, but she’s not buying it.  I tried to make going home seem like a better alternative than the promised playground, but I still have to drag Preschooler kicking and screaming back to the minivan. “It’s ok!” I say.  “I’m sorry! We’ll go home and have a popsicle AND a lollipop AND we’ll all play outside together in the front yard!”   

This shall be known as mistake number three.

I loaded every one back into the van, and buckled my seat belt, ready to finally leave the god-damned zoo.  But just as I shifted the van into reverse, the utility van left, and another car parked in its space.  OF COURSE IT DID.

Then I did this:

However, this time the car was a station wagon.  And even though the station wagon was one of those older ones with the wood paneling so it was still kind of big, it wasn’t as big as a utility van.

At last, I was able to work my way out of that parking space and we were on our way home.

“Wait a minute,” you say.  “Just HOW did you break your toe?”  Well let me tell you....





*Now before I get too cocky, I will admit that I can’t change a flat tire on this van, and I can’t drive up steep icy hills with this van, and I can’t drive for more than two hours in this van without needing a serious break involving food and a bathroom and maybe a quick rendezvous to a living-history museum.  BUT STILL.

In Which I Reveal Myself To Be A Horrible Fiction Writer And Also A Dirty Whore.

I caught an STD from the internet.  But not the kind that results in a disturbing burning sensation.  A Sexy And Talented Diploma!

Do these people really know me?

Thanks, Handflapper!

Anyhow, as usual there are a few hoops to jump through before I can accept.

1. Make up ONE totally ridiculous story about yourself that is a complete rip-off from a movie. It can be as long or short as you want; clean or crass as you want.

2. Pass it on to whomever you feel is deserving of this STD – or accept it and keep it for yourself; it’s your blog – it’s your choice. I’M PRO CHOICE!

3. If you choose to accept this STD, please link your acceptance post back to the blog of the one who created this esteemed award, Lady Estrogen!  She will be sporadically choosing random winners to get some of her world famous mediocre Estro-goodies.  You know you want some.

First things first, I'd like to pass this on to... any of my followers who think it would be fun to insert themselves into a movie of their choice.  I'm all about sharing STDS.

Now, I’m no fiction writer.  But I want to be popular.  So, per the award’s directions, I went ahead and wrote myself into a story that is a complete rip-off of a movie.  Go ahead, guess which one....

.... I was spending the night at my friend Tina’s house, and after sneaking a couple of her mom’s Bartles & Jaymes, she passed out.  Girlfriend can’t hold her liquor.  Not one hour later, she bolts awake babbling about some dream.  She dreamed some dude with a gnarly face, wearing one glove sporting razor-sharp knives on each finger, was chasing her. RIGHT.

The next day at school, Tina is still rambling about her dream starring that Michael Jackson wannabe with bad fashion sense, this time stating that come morning, her nightgown was slashed through.  Nancy gets caught up in her story, claiming she had the exact same dream.  But then realizing how ridiculous this sounds, she determines it’s no big deal.

However, I decide that, along with Nancy and her boyfriend (who in the right light resembles an oddly sexy pirate), we should have another sleep-over at Tina’s house to make her feel better.  It doesn’t hurt that Tina’s parents are  out for the night and are rather lax at minding the contents of their liquor cabinets.  Naturally, Tina’s dumbass boyfriend Rod crashes the party.  At some point, Tina and Rod head into her parents’ room NOT to fornicate, I’M SURE, and Tina falls asleep.  A few hours pass, when we are startled awake by Tina and Rod screaming, and not the fun kind of screaming we thought they were engaged in.  We rush to their room to find Tina shredded to ribbons, and Rod, who had nothing to do with this OR SO HE SAYS high-tailing it out the bedroom window.

Rod is caught, and though he claims it was the razor-finger man that killed his girlfriend, he is thrown in the insane asylum jail.  Nevertheless, Nancy continues dreaming about that same dude Tina dreamed about, and is freaked out enough to think Tina was actually killed by him and not by Rod, which is a totally legit thought for some one who is kind of an attention-whore.  Finally, after suffering yet another dream, Nancy, her boyfriend, and I rush to visit Rod in jail, only to find him hung by his own bedsheets.

Nancy’s mom determines Nancy just needs a good night’s sleep, and ships her off to a dream therapy clinic.  But Nancy returns from the clinic with nothing but a cut on her arm (which wasn’t self-inflicted, OF COURSE), and an ugly hat.  Displaying a remarkable amount of parental concern, Nancy’s mom is mostly disturbed by the hat.

Later, Nancy and I watch her mom get drunk, and her mom contends the owner of the hat, and the killer, was a man named Krueger,  a murderer who killed at least twenty children over a decade earlier. The children’s parents determine mob rule is the best way to handle the situation, and burn Freddy alive in a boiler room.  While it appears that he is now murdering more children from beyond the grave, Nancy’s mom insists this is probably not a big deal, and inexplicably produces the killer’s glove.

That night, Nancy’s boyfriend and I spend the night at Nancy’s.  These sleepovers are really starting to be kind of a downer. Unfortunately, Nancy’s  boyfriend is killed, presumably by his bed that just spit out his bloody, mutilated body in tiny bits all over the room.  Nancy, however, realizes the bed is probably not the real culprit, finds Krueger in her house, sets him on fire, and gets the police.  In a hunt for the killer, they find him smothering Nancy’s mom with his burning body, and she dies.  Despite summoning the police, Nancy asks them to leave, and deciding that a couple dead people are not a big deal, they agree.

Nancy then has another dream, or maybe it’s real life, because this time I actually witness the killer and her engaging in various tussles.  The police, realizing dead people probably ARE of interest to them, return.  But it turns out all Nancy had to do to end the mayhem is admit it’s just a dream and ask for her friends and mom back.  WHO KNEW?

Anyhow, now that everything’s remarkably back to normal, I’m sure nothing of this sort will ever happen again.

Right?

News From The Internet's Foremost Expert On Locusts

For your reading pleasure, I present some of the searches people performed whereby they stumbled across my blog.

It was bound to happen sooner or later.

begging the answer
Thank God!

sexy site:beggingtheanswer.blogspot.com
Who am I judge?

naked site:beggingtheanswer.blogspot.com
Errrrr... now this is getting creepy.

vampire band aids
Some one should patent these. 

what to comment on a preschooler drawings
Make sure you address their take on dimension and color composition, as well as emotions invoked.  Preschoolers appreciate constructive criticism.

i hereby officially proclaim that you are a good host and a good cook
Why thank you!

locust
I post one picture of a locust and suddenly I’m some sort of locust expert.  I can’t be everything to every one, you know.

dung beetles
See locust.

cindy lauper motherhood
Well, I have two girls and they just wanna have fun.  This is pertinent.

zebra eats face
I see you visited Satan’s Animal Conservation Center.

toddler floss teeth
Good luck with this! 

toddler shakes head while watching tv
Your kid is just trying to mess with you.  Trust me on this.

names for dead squirrels
Listen to your heart. 

my sleeping pills aren't working
Mine either.  Want to get together and play ping-pong or something?

ikea, empathy dimension
Since shopping at Ikea is like visiting a parallel universe, there probably is an empathy dimension to complement our own dick-head dimension.

where to buy pajama jeans 
Don’t.

band aid porn 
Rule 43 strikes again.

And finally...

a butter icing is like a favorite cotton dress
Only if you’re one of those ladies that jump out of cakes at bachelor parties.

This post has been lovelinked at lovelinks #7

UPDATED: It's Like Blogger WANTS Me To Be Depressed

So blogger caught some sort of internet-ebola, and yesterday's post along with most of the comments on Wednesday's post are gone with the wind.  It's like Blogger bitch-slapped me for being successful.

To every one who posted a comment on Wednesday's post, thank you.  I never had so many comments on one post before, and it made me feel really good that people actually took the time to read the post and say something.

I'd re-post yesterday's post, but unfortunately it is one of the few that I didn't prepare a draft of, but wrote off the top of my head instead.  I'll post something interesting again, but first I shall write a strongly-worded letter to my Congressman about this calamity.

Now if you'll excuse me, I need to go find some one to yell at.

Update: It looks like the post is back, but most of the comments from Wednesday's post are still gone.  I am not amused.

Assuming It Makes Beer-Thirty Come Around Sooner, I Should Probably Go Along With This.

Conversation with Preschooler at 3:30 in the afternoon:

Her: Can I put on my pajamas?

Me: Sure, why not?

Preschooler puts on her pajamas.

Her: Is it dark yet?

Me:  No, hon, putting on your pajamas won’t make nighttime come any sooner.

Her: Yes it will!

I don’t even know why I’m having this conversation.

It’s A Wonder I Survived Into Adulthood, What With My Itchy Big Toe, And All.

Looking back on my life, it has become apparent that I probably never should’ve survived to adulthood.  Observe:

I was born two months premature, and extremely low birthweight.  I could have all sorts of debilitating health problems, but I don’t.  Actually I do.  I’m allergic to everything, and my big toe itches.  Also, I think a fly just landed on me.

When I was a youth, we used to play smack-dab in the middle of the street for hours at a time, with the impression we'd just dodge any approaching cars. Fortunately, cars rarely ever came (it was a very secluded cul-de-sac.) 

When I was seven, I wanted to reach something on the top shelf of the closet in my toy room.  So I pushed the child-sized table over to the closet, and stood on top of it, but I couldn’t reach.  So I put one of the child-sized chairs on top of the table and stood on that, but I still couldn’t reach.  So I put a second child-sized chair on top of the first child-sized chair. Don’t ask me how I accomplished this.  I then stood on the second chair, fell off the whole contraption, and sprained my arm.

When I was 10 or so I had a heart-shaped “mood necklace.”  One day, I took the pendant off the chain and placed it on my tongue, so I could see what color it would change to.  I then promptly swallowed the pendant.

So as you see, through some act of divine providence I’m still alive and kicking, enabling you all to read this ridiculous blog.

You’re welcome!

Hello Mania. It's Been Too Long.

Though one of my reasons for starting this blog was to be open and honest about my bipolar depression, I haven’t touched on that subject for quite awhile.  Mostly because I’ve been doing well.

In fact, lately, I’ve been feeling great.  Super-great.  Super-super-great.

So good that I’ve been “treating” myself to the $20 this-or-that several times a week.

So good that I want to drink more (than usual), eat more (than usual), do everything more (than usual).

So good that I have about 3,249 ideas for blog posts, but I’m having a hard time focusing on just one long enough to complete it.  But, hey, the ideas keep coming!

So good that my sleeping pills aren’t really working anymore.  But it doesn’t really matter; there’s way too much going on to sleep. TWITCH.

Hello, manic phase.  It’s been too long.

This is it.  You can’t see it.  You probably don’t notice much of any change at all, unless you’re as close to me as, say, my husband.  The fancy name is "hypomania."

But it’s here.  Which means at some time in the future, it won’t be here.  And then, I’ll crash.  Physically, because my body won’t be able to keep up with the sleepless nights.  Mentally because feeling this up isn’t natural, and the pendulum will swing in the opposite direction. 

One of the scary parts of bipolar depression is that certain parts of a manic phase can feel so fucking good.  Hell, yeah who doesn’t want to feel super-productive, and super-creative, and super-awesome-and-worthy-and-capable? And really, you don’t need sleep to be a functional human being, so say hello to all-nighters and finding that 25th hour in the day!

And when you go through a manic phase like this, to go back even to normal - to your normal amount of productivity and creativity and capabilities - feels like a failure.  If I’m able to do XYZ some of the time, but I can’t do it all of the time, it must be because I’m not trying hard enough.  And feeling like a failure is enough to catapult you straight into depression, if you hadn’t plunged there already.

I know this.  I can talk about this because I am medicated enough to be self-aware, to understand what is happening to me.  And while I can’t predict when I’ll crash, I’ll be alert to a downswing.  And I’m working with my doctor to alter my medication to help me through this period.  To bring me down, while lessening the crash, if not eliminating the crash all together.

Mania is a lot of different things to a lot of different people.  I'm lucky I've caught this now, before the mania gets worse or the depression kicks in.

And I'll be ok.

My Athletic Prowess Reached Its Peak Through The Misuse Of Lawn Darts.

As I mentioned before on this blog, I was on the junior varsity tennis team in high school for two years, and never won a single match. Not one. I was the epitome of, “The important thing is that you all have fun!”

The thing was, I was in it for the fun. I did very well on drills, even the stupid ones that I suspect were created just to kill time. Come on, you can’t tell me that balancing a tennis ball on a racquet while weaving between cones is a worthwhile exercise.

But when it came to games, I really didn’t care whether I won or not. Whatever competitive spirit I had was squelched by an overwhelming instinctual drive to be nice. I didn’t want to beat my opponent, I wanted to play tennis with her.

My other downfall was my serve. When I tossed the ball properly, I had an incredibly accurate serve. Unfortunately, I only tossed the ball properly about 10% of the time. It didn’t really matter that the ability to throw is negligent in a sport where the amount of throwing = toss the ball two or three feet up in the air once in a while. Because basic gross motor activities that my cavewoman ancestors probably did every day without even trying, like running and throwing, were utterly foreign concepts to me.

No one ever taught me to run. Or throw. Or catch. I was twenty before Husband (then Boyfriend) took pity and explained that in order to catch a ball, I had to be looking at it, rather than employ my usual strategy, which was to stand there with my arms hopefully outstretched while squinting away from the object hurtling towards my face.

It wasn’t my parents’ fault. When the annual summer park-and-rec catalogues came out advertising all the different pee-wee leagues, our conversations went something like this:

Mom: Look, honey, T-Ball!! Wouldn’t you like to play t-ball this summer?

5-year-old-me: No!!! I want to take ballet!

Mom: Oooohhhh....look! Soccer! Would you like to try that?

6-year-old-me: No!!! I want to keep dancing ballet.

Mom: Well what do you know? Basketball camp! Doesn’t that sound like fun?

7-year-old-me: When does ballet start?

Finally, with the threat of remedial gym looming over my head, my parents went out and bought every piece of athletic equipment known to man, in hopes that something would stick.

I used the baseball bat, basketball, and some left-over jarts hoops to construct a makeshift mini-golf course.

So it might come as no surprise, that one thing - the tennis racquet - did eventually take hold, and the summer I was 12, I took tennis lessons. These lessons involved exactly eight weeks of drills and zero weeks of games, which was right up my alley. An alley that lead to playing JV tennis for two years, motivated entirely by the love of hitting-the-ball and the privilege of being able to wear the short tennis skirt to school on game day.

When Irregular Evacuation Has Nothing To Do With A Failed Fire Drill, And Everything To Do With Medical Quacks

Here’s the deal.  There’s a limit to what the average consumer feels comfortable buying, “As Seen On TV.”

Ginsu Knives:  Sure, why not?

Oxi-Clean: Can’t hurt.

Pajama Jeans:  Misguided, but ok.

 Smart Mop:  So long as you don’t actually use it as advertised, go for it.

 COLON FLOW:  Sounds good....wait, WHAT?

Yes, just when I thought I had nothing to blog about, this little gem appeared in the middle of my late-night tv viewing.

It’s like it was MADE for me .... to blog about.

Now, I’ll say from the outset that unhappy colons tend to run in the family, and I’m a big fan of anything labeled “Whole-Grain” or “Extra-Fiber.”  And water.  Water cures many an ailment.  And exercise.  I know, it’s crazy business.

But now?  Instead of all that healthy claptrap , I can just take a few capsules of Colon Flow!

Thanks to this, I can start chowing down on Wonder Bread dipped in milkshakes, 

with nary a thought towards my colon!

As I’ve noticed before, these “As Seen On TV” products often have more than one website.  Colon Flow is no exception.

As far as I can tell, this website http://www.colonflow.com/index.cfm, is purely informational.  As in, it will inform you that all that “fuzzy-thinking” you’ve been experiencing is probably due to irregular evacuation.

 And here I thought it was the booze....

This site also contains a handy Frequently Asked Questions page, where you can confirm that your order will show up on your credit card statement as: COLON FLOW.  You know, to avoid any confusion.  And to promote maximum shame.

You can even order a “free” 30-day trial of Colon Flow.  But, if you don’t need a 30 day trial of Colon Flow to know Colon Flow is right for you, you can go to a second site, http://www.calcompnutrition.com/colon-flow.html, to actually BUY Colon Flow.

This site also attempts to answer some FAQs about Colon Flow, and even provides you with a poorly-formatted page detailing the ingredients of Colon Flow. 

Science!

But I don’t need to read anything about the ingredients to know this:  If 3 smiling doctors and a buy 2 get 1 free offer are wrong, I don’t want to be right.

Trust us, we're models!