To be above all in levels of coolness, toughness, and swagger.

Allison has been in kind of a funk lately.  It’s her age, summer is too long, etc., etc.  I have (as is my way) been trying to fix the situation.  I get criticism from Allison that this is a “fault” of mine and sometimes she just wants to talk.  Point taken and so I usually stay silent.  Staying silent in the moment is one thing I can handle, but not trying to come up with a fix as soon as we stop having the conversation is another thing.

I have so many ideas and projects I want to do the list is ridiculously long.  I would have to hire an assistant to complete all of the fun things I want to do.  So in looking for something for Allison to pass the time, one thing I came upon was a great app called Stylebook.  It’s where you take photos of all your clothes and make your outfits for a whole week!  She was not interested.  I showed her how she can change photographs to really anything with Photoshop. Not interested.  I told her about a new Nintendo game app  where you have to find the Pokeman in real time, kind of like a treasure hunt.  Not interested.

Enter Tristan, my 20 year old son. I mentioned to him I had told Allison about the Nintendo app, but she was not interested.  I said it must have been the way I had explained it.  A few minutes later Tristan left and went into the living room where Allison was and this is what I heard:

“Hey, Allison, this game is superdope……”

I guess it is all in the delivery.


Going Underground

I have been underground again. I didn’t feel I had anything relevant to say for the last few months. I have a certain criteria* of the things I will post.

My post must be:

  1. interesting.
  2. have my unique point of view (I’ve finally put it to some good use).
  3. have an “END” or a clever phrase to wrap it up (wink).
  4. true.
  5. Anonymous. It cannot contain any details that would lead someone to figure out my real self. Literally my name, etc. I know I am either extremely egotistical or completely paranoid that anyone really cares, but nevertheless it is an issue.  I have remained incognito my entire life.  I think it is one of my “things” that no one except my immediate family knows the real me.  The crazy me.  The unbalanced me.  The totally fucking exhausted keeping up appearances me.

* There has been a flash flood of stories that meet my stringent criteria.  Tune in.


I am exasperated. Nothing earth shattering, just irritated…generally irritated.

First off, I have the most annoying of annoying co-workers that I need to punch in his throat.  The fantasy just isn’t cutting it anymore.

I want to eat carbs!  I’m going to die if I don’t have a piece of bread today!  If I have to have another fat free yogurt or a grilled chicken breast I’ll end up face down on the kitchen floor sobbing.

I finally love exercising. That scares and sickens me…

Every evening for the last four years (a coincidence, I think not) I’ve had a glass or two of wine.  It’s become a boring habit.  What other vice can I possibly replace the wine with?  Cigarettes? Tried it, doesn’t work.  Meth? Too vain.  Sex? John couldn’t handle that much of me (wink)! Exercise? Already doing it.  Whiskey?  I’ll try it, but I’m not happy about it.

Just as I was getting to the stage of venom dripping from my keyboard, my  family life crept in again in the form of my favorite son, Tristan.  He came into the room and sat down right next to me with his laptop.  I did move to the other side of the couch, but he had already cramped my style.  Then there came John  and he flipped on the tv to watch the game.  I put my headphones on and tried to crawl back into the bitchy little cave I’d constructed.  It didn’t work, couldn’t get my vibe back.

I have a feeling this mood is not over. Oh no, it is definitely is not over.

Epic Spills

During my life I have experienced many detrimental spills.

“Oh my God!” You exclaim,”What a sorry uneventful life you must have endured to remember spills!”

Well, my memories are scattered at best.  I don’t have any idea why I can remember the smell of a certain event and my thought pattern during it, but cannot recall going to a party two weeks ago.  It is very frustrating to say the least.  I feel dumb a lot of the time.

With my co-workers and friends I can usually get away with them believing I do remember the event I was a key player in.  I have to be careful not to say “I don’t remember” too often.  When I do have to say it, I can only allow them to give me a limited number of details. After it looks like I might have a grasp on the forgotten event, I lie and agree that I do indeed remember.  It’s a miracle that I’ve made it so far in life with my mask still in place.

Crazy never stops when you are saddled with a history of Bipolar II.  It feels like my memory capacity has been eaten away by some sort of casuistic chemical caused by this condition.

Hey, wait a minute! How did I get so side tracked from my lifetime of epic spills?

The first one I can remember when I was four in England.  Back then they let small children go down to the shops and buy loaves of bread.  I took a loaf from the shelf, grabbing the wrong end.  All of the bread fell out onto the floor.  The shop people were very nice about it but, that was it for me.  I didn’t shop again until I was six!

On Saturday mornings when I was a little older my sister and I would go to the local department store to hang around and get items for my mom.  Hair color was on the list on this particular Saturday.  In a strange coincidence the bottom of that box also gave out and the dark brown hair dye bottle hit the ground and shattered!  Mortified is the best way to explain my eight year old feelings.

26 years ago Emily spilled red artificial colored juice on the carpet that cost me my deposit on an apartment.

While visiting home one summer my husband fell asleep with a very dark beer on a futon. We had to shamefully explain what happened to my dad.  I don’t remember replacing it.  Did we?  No memory of that…means nothing.

Tristan kicked my glass of red wine on our new $1300 pillow top mattress.  Of course, it was my side.  To this day I still sleep on a brown stained corner.

Last year my phone was plugged into the truck and as I reached to answer it I caught a very full Starbucks with the cord and spilled an entire Grande vanilla late on me, the seat and the floor of John’s new truck. Yes, the same one as in the aforementioned parking garage.

This morning Allison was rolling around on the floor doing something flexible with her legs in the air and my terminator like vision zoomed in on a half-filled glass of wine across the room on a side table.

“Watch that glass!” I yelled and finally avoided another epic spill.

Actually, I’m not a big woman…

Last summer my “sleep” doctor said to me, “You are not a big woman, but you could stand to lose 5 to 10 lbs.”

But weight (Freudian slip) …a triumph!  I have lost 13 pounds since August.  Why is this significant?

Well, other than I may be looking a little bit “hot”*, it gives me some comfort that maybe my new life on medication is finally working and maybe I will be alright after all. An awful lot of maybes in that last sentence.

What am I doing you ask?  I know it’s unconventional…diet and exercise.  It’s a new feeling for me to be in control of anything.  I don’t think I’ve ever experienced control before anywhere or in any way. Yeah for drugs!

* Parentheses and an asterisk must be used by me for the word “hot” because I am 47 and still haven’t quite adjusted to this word that has been substituted for the more appropriately descriptive “good looking”.

Romance is Not Dead: It’s Just Hacking up a Lung

The other night John was supposed to be home early(ish) so we could go out for a drink.

He called around 8 to say he wouldn’t be home until 9 and then called at 9 to say he wouldn’t be home until around 10. That was alright, I said I would be here anyway, but it was too late to go out. I put Allison to bed and Tristan went downstairs to watch a movie or something.

John came home shortly after 10 and I was all ready for bed sitting there watching Survivor and drinking a Mike’s Hard Lemonade. I love them, it is more like a dessert than a drink so since I am watching my calories, it is better to drink than to eat. Even though they say you shouldn’t drink your calories, I don’t care, I just love a Mikes’ Hard Lemonade at the end of the day. As you can see why I am still needing to lose that 10 lbs., my body is carrying around 10 lbs. of rationalized fat!

John seemed to be in a better mood than the situation warranted. He came into the room with a grin on his face and a black plastic bag. For some reason I thought it was maybe a stuffed raccoon at first, I don’t know why. Well, yes, I guess I do know why. He’s done this before, but with pheasant tails, an old stole made out of ferrets (and their faces), a long horn’s skull and just a bunch of various pieces of fur. They weren’t for me personally and I wasn’t sure this was either until he said with a grin, “I’ve got something for you”.

He began the story, when a story begins “I was in a bar in Cheyenne” the rest can’t be good. There is always a story, it can’t be “I picked something nice up for you”.

John says, “I was in a bar and these ladies were having a lingerie sale”.

“In the bar?” I say. He is very sensitive so I have to choose my words and tone carefully.

He laughs pulling out a black and purple corset thing with big bows on the hips.

I’m having a really hard time hiding my dismay, because I can smell it from where I am sitting, and, of course, I can see it. It has been in a bar for god knows how many hours and obviously the bar didn’t have a “no smoking ban”!

“I love it!” he says.

“Then why don’t YOU wear it?” I think.

“I’m going to have to wash it before I can wear it you know.”

“No you don’t, I don’t mind”, I think at this point his mind is seriously on that old one way track, and I have to put my foot down.

“No, I really have to wash it”

“How are you going to wash it?,” he asks.

“I suppose on the delicate cycle on cold.”

“No, I mean so the kids won’t see it.”

He thinks that Tristan is more involved in our laundry than he really is and Allison is pretty much oblivious to almost anything that is not hers. Needless to say I will not be setting the alarm for 2 am to do a clandestine delicate laundry run.

Forehead Forward

My father told us once that the reason people are photogenic is because they have faces with sharp angles and high cheek bones.  Well, thanks for your round-faced nonexistent cheek boned DNA, Dad! And thanks for the observation, was it even solicited advice?  No, it wasn’t.

After that I have taken it upon myself not to have my photo taken with anyone, anywhere at any time.  The only time I was “caught” was my wedding photos and some obligatory ones over the years to prove that my children had a mother and my husband did indeed have a wife.  I have luckily not passed down my round-faced nonexistent cheek bone DNA to my children; they have their father’s who is sickenly photogenic.

My oldest daughter is a photographer and just recently showed me a way to make my face look not so round, etc. in photographs.  As you are smiling, slightly move your forehead forward.  It works! No kidding!  So, look out I’m going to be hamming it up whenever there’s a camera around from now on.

So, last month I went to the DMV with a new confidence.  My last license had expired after 10 years.  Back then I had lied about my weight and subtracted 3 lbs. That’s how delusional (and vain) I was back then. My weight still matters to me, so this time I’ve decided to subtract 20 lbs! Don’t think I’ll get away with it?

After getting there at 8am and waiting two hours it was finally my turn.  I knew I looked good.  Full makeup, hair straightened and a flattering top.

“My picture will look great with my new protruding forehead move,” I thought to myself.

The DMV lady said, “Stand in front of the blue screen and look directly at the red light. Push your bangs away from your eyes and put your hair behind your back.”

Well, okay, I did as I was told, thinking, “This isn’t going to do much for my photo.”  Undaunted, I moved my bangs, my hair, put my forehead forward and gave a pleasant smile.  She snapped the photo and I felt confident.

“You closed your eyes, let’s take another one” This happened two more times.

At the last retake I was so strung out trying to keep my hair out of my eyes, hair behind my back, eyes open and forehead forward I didn’t care what happened anymore.

Well, that devil may care attitude got me what I deserved.  The license came in the mail two weeks later and the only one to see it has been my husband, Allison and the guy at the liquor store (I did apologize to him).

When Allison saw it she said sadly, “Oh, were you hot? It looks like you were sweating.”

In the end it was the same round-cheeked, boneless faced, deer caught in headlights look that I have come to love.