WanderingAmylessly 2.0

I've lost interest. In knitting. In talking with friends. In walking the dog. In writing...this blog or pretty much anything at all. A grocery list on a post-it note would be pushing it. I've lost interest in watching tv. Or reading a trashy novel. Or watching the changing leaves fall from the trees. Do you know how much it hurts to be disinterested in just about everything in your life? To be disengaged. To be nearly numb. To wonder how long it will be before the fog lifts and the feeling returns. If any feeling will return. Ever. The one thing I haven't lost interest in -- sleep. I close my eyes, nestle deep into the covers and disappear. I'm just not interested in waking up.

Because I am in a "low" phase of my illness right now I find it difficult to get out of bed in the morning, string coherent thoughts together through the day, or lovingly care for my family. I wish I could escape. Find a way out. Disappear. Two meds have been added to my daily cocktail, in an attempt to regulate whatever brain and body chemicals may be responsible for this latest shift. So I'm getting lithium for mood stabilization, combined with buspirone and Klonapin for anti anxiety, followed by a bedtime treat of trazodone to act as an antidepressant and sleep agent. As I was filling a prescription last night, the student pharmacist at CVS asks me "So, do you know what you're taking this for?" I wasn't sure whether to be offended that she thought I was so mentally unstable I didn't know what I was doing or to be frightened that she thinks there are large groups of people out there taking drugs and don't know why they're taking them. I was

I can't breathe. My chest aches. My head hurts. I feel stupid. And ugly. And worthless. The one freelance assignment I have to work on right now is a mess. I can't put two sentences together. I struggle to find the words. I watch my child throw a tantrum and think, "Is that my fault? Did he get that from me?" I look at my husband and think, "He deserves a better wife than me. One who can stick with a job and be happy and normal." What do I want? What would make me happy? What would make it easier for me to get through an entire day without doubt or hate or tears? I don't know. I'm beginning to think there is no answer. For any of it.

To whomever came in the middle of the night and took my sweet, charming child and replaced him with the devil's spawn...I'd like Henry back, please. Within a 24-hour period, my 35-month-old, cherubic son went from happy, easy-going and delightful to mean, nasty, whiny and pretty much insufferable. And it lasted all freaking weekend. We tell him to do something. He does the exact opposite. We talk to him, he sasses back. We ask him if he wants to eat, he whines "NOOOOOOOOOO" so we take the food away, and he breaks down into a wailing, kicking, screaming fit, saying "I wannnnnnaaaaaa eat." We ask him if he needs to go potty. He says no. One minute later he says, "I'm wet." In the midst of all this, he stomps around the house like elephants on parade, yelling and throwing toys and hitting people -- mostly me -- and trying to kick the dog. Despite the fact that he makes a big production of sighing and saying, "I'm tired," he won'

Being a dog person, in particular, and an animal lover in general, I'm always horrified to hear about what some pet food companies get away with putting in their products. I've heard all sorts of nasty stories about horse entrails and chicken eyeballs and insect waste and so on being included in the making of various chows. Sort of gives a whole new meaning to kibbles 'n' bits, I'd say. Bits of what? This came to my mind today as I baked a cake for Maggie's birthday. Of course, because her companions at the birthday table were all of the human variety, I baked a human cake. Betty Crocker. Carrot. With Cream Cheese frosting. Looked scrumptious. Then I took a closer look at the box. I read one particular passage about six times. Just to make sure I wasn't missing something. It said: "With carrot flavored pieces" Carrot flavored pieces. Carrot flavored pieces. CARROT FLAVORED PIECES OF WHAT????? I'm really afraid to ask.

We're celebrating a birthday in our family today. No, Henry's 3rd is in November. My next birthday is in December. Tim's isn't until next summer. Today, Friday the 13th, is the 1st birthday of our dear Maggie, aka The Killer. (A little ominous, eh?) Is it normal to celebrate a dog's birthday? I wonder how many people out there sing Happy Birthday to their pooch? Or bake a cake and decorate it? Or wrap presents and sit around cackling while she tries to rip apart the paper and ribbon? Whether it's normal or not, we're doing it tonight. Does she deserve presents and cake and such, after attacking my backside a few weeks ago? Probably not, but she's still technically a baby dog and didn't know better. Jury's still out on whether Santa Claus will be as understanding and forgiving. We'll see in a couple months.

If you've flung open that closet door and stepped forth with gusto, then congratulations on your honesty and bravery. If you're still hiding behind a row of hanging clothes and hoping no one peeks in, there's still time. We're smack dab in the middle of National Coming Out Week. Even those of us who are happily heterosexual can take part in the week by learning more about the lives of GLBT people and how we can support them. The Human Rights Campaign Foundation has on its Web site a wealth of resources related to Coming Out. There's a "Straight Person's" guide to GLBT Americans and a video in honor of Coming Out Day with insights from such notables as President Bill Clinton, Comedienne Ellen Degeneres, Singer Janet Jackson and Actor Jake Gyllenhaal. The site also touches upon issues of religion, offers a Coming Out resource guide and features a link to download a Human Rights Campaign screen saver. You also can find out more on how to participate in t

I didn't know her well. When I first met her, she was a college intern in the Ogden, Utah, newsroom where I worked as a feature writer. I thought she was as green as a Granny Smith. I also thought she dressed too suggestively. It probably was not my imagination. Her tight sweaters and her short skirts caught eyes and turned heads from the city desk to the sports department. More than once I wanted to tell the tech on the photo desk to pick his tongue up off the floor and wipe away the drool. She was young, barely out of her teens, and easy on the eyes. That was my conclusion way back when. I didn't give her enough credit. In the last seven years, she went from intern to full-timer to being the copy desk editor in charge of the front page, referred to by managing editor Andy Howell as "a very good grammarian, the go-to person to resolve all punctuation and grammar issues...really witty (with) a great sense of humor." In the past seven years, she grew up and became a ne

I miss the good old days. The beret, the blue dress, the Cuban cigars. If you miss Monica like Dean Friedman and I do, watch this . Even after all this time, Linda Tripp is still scary. Very scary.

My name is Mark, and I'm an alcoholic. And a pedophile. And a homosexual. And a molestation victim. And a sleazy politician. And a person of extremely poor judgement. And a favorite topic of bloggers everywhere. I could blog about Congressman Mark Foley's unfolding scandal involving explicit text messaging and cybersex with pages at the Legislature. But just about everyone with a blog has beaten me to it. So I'll let you enjoy theirs .

Be careful what you name your kids. And watch out what you let them read. A name is a powerful weapon, to be used for good or evil. Or for literary effect. We chose Henry because it’s a classic, very traditional without a hint of fad. Same with his middle name, Theodore. A kid named Henry Theodore could grow up to be a president. Or a renowned physicist. Or a miracle-working neurosurgeon. Once we had him and named him, we found out that several children’s book and show characters share his name. A big strong coal-powered engine named Henry makes frequent appearances with Thomas the Tank Engine. A bear named Henry has a series of books about his life in the area in and around Walden Pond, all based on the life of literary great Henry David Thoreau. Another cuddly bear named Theodore tells tales of his life with a little girl named Lucy in one of our favorite bedtime books. We’re quite pleased with the representations. It could be so very much worse, as we realized on Saturday when we we