WanderingAmylessly 2.0

I don't always agree with People magazine. Which is probably a good thing, since the rag's hardly a bastion of journalistic excellence. But they got one thing right this year. George Clooney is the 2006 Sexiest Man Alive. Without a doubt. Hands down. Bravo. Yeah, baby. And it's the second time he's earned this title. And I do mean EARNED. Whether it's the way his eyes crinkle at the corners when he smiles, or the strong set of his jaw, or the "run-your-fingers-through-it" beckoning of his salt-and-pepper hair... George is just plain yummy. Too bad he's probably a womanizing, two-timing, unable-to-commit, substance-abusing pig. Can't have it all, I guess.

Yesterday evening, Monday, Nov. 13, 2006, in the Infants/Toddlers section of K-mart, searching for a booster seat, we heard the most horrible, shocking, earsplitting sound. Christmas music. Jingle-freaking-bells. It's not even Thanksgiving. Last night, after kid was in bed, watching TV...every other commercial involved the Santa holiday. Ho-freaking-ho. Even worse. The ACE Hardware next door to our daycare put up Christmas trees in the window before Halloween. Wrong. Just wrong wrong wrong. (Don't get me wrong though...my Christmas wish list is well under way and easily accessible by typing in my name at Amazon.com. In case anyone's interested...)

I'm so disappointed. Every time the doctors switch my meds, I think they surely have found the magic combination that will suddenly make me feel normal. Like a normal person who laughs and jokes and wants to get up every morning and has energy and interest in making a difference in the world. Doesn't look like it's going to happen this time either. I'm less depressed. But that is replaced by a building anxiety. I feel anxious, nervous, jittery, unsettled. And I have this overwhelming hopeless feeling, a sort of "well, is this it? is this how I'm going to feel for the rest of my life?" Because if it is, I'm not sure how to deal with it.

Henry won't have toy soldiers. I won't allow them. Or guns, either. Not even water shooters. But one of his little friends gave him a game for his birthday that, I'm embarassed to say, I not only approve of -- I love playing myself. It involves a large mallet, a small furry creature and brute force. Not exactly a kinder, gentler preschool toy. But oh so fun! The game? Whac-a-Mole! The object of the game is to score the most points by quickly, correctly smacking a mole on the head when his little hard hat lights up (see, we're not completely sadistic...the critters are allowed some sort of protection). Each mole also makes a specific noise (that changes from game to game), such as "duhhhhh." Got a rodent yelling "duh" at you...it deserves to be hit. This game is the kiddo version of an old arcade classic invented in 1971 by a guy who went on to create the entertainment pizza chain Showbiz Pizza Place. The grown-up version is much faster paced and toug...

My baby isn't a baby anymore. He's not even a toddler. He's a preschooler. He still needs to figure out the toilet training on a consistent basis and maybe learn to put his coat on by himself, but overall, he's got the big boy stuff down pat. He turned 3 yesterday. However, lo and behold, big boy ended up in our bed in the middle of the night and I woke up cuddling him against me. I'm going to cherish that while I can. Enjoy him before he hates me. I've heard that comes sooner than you think.

You know that stuff in my brain, that "whatever it is" that causes my bipolar condition? Maybe if I blow hard enough, it'll come out. God knows everything else in there is. I have the honest-to-Pete worst sinus infection in the history of humankind. You remember those Road Runner cartoons where the Coyote falls off a cliff and then his head gets pounded into the ground by an anvil? Welcome to my head. Specifically, my face. More specifically, my cheekbones. Like someone took a sledgehammer to them. And you thought I was depressed before...