WanderingAmylessly 2.0

Three words for you: ICE STORM WARNING First, I've never, ever heard of that particular warning being issued by the National Weather Service. Second, it's issued for tomorrow. Which is my birthday. My 36th birthday, actually. On the downhill slide to 40, which seems like hell. So perhaps the "freezing over" part is setting in. So much for my birthday dinner plans, a night out with my husband. Of course, it's 24 hours away. Plenty of time for the weather people to screw up the forecast.

I just got a phone call. It was from someone saying, "I'm Joe, calling from the campaign of Tom Tancredo for president." I live in Iowa. Our caucus, the first in the nation, is only 37 days away. We've been bombarded with presidential campaign mailings and phone calls for months and months. But my only response, when he said, "I'm Joe, calling from the campaign of Tom Tancredo for president" was: WHO? *** EDITED to note: He's a republican candidate and he's polling in dead last place. I feel just slightly less clueless. And slightly more justified in saying he's running one very pathetic campaign.

Have you ever dropped by the local coffee shop and ended up chatting about college football with a fellow customer? Has that customer ever just happened to be a FORMER PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES??! That's what happened to my husband this morning. Tim heard a rumor from his coworker that Bill Clinton was at a coffee shop across the pedestrian mall from his office, grabbed a print of a photo he'd taken of Clinton at an appearance a few months back, and strolled over to see if Mr. President (of the good ol' happy, prosperous, Iraq-war-less days) was indeed there. In the shop he found a couple of Hillary's campaign workers, what appeared to be a few Secret-Service'ish fellows, and the Man from Hope himself. Tim walked up to him, said he needed to take the opportunity to shake Clinton's hand, and within minutes, they were sitting there yakking about the Missouri Tigers' and Arkansas Razorbacks' wins last weekend. I'm actually glad it wasn't me who

Good red wine Chocolate My family Dogs that behave (Maggie...are you listening??) High Speed Internet (good lord Mom, get it please...) Therapy Organic stuff Bouquets of roses iPods Erasers Gym membership Slipper Socks and footie pajamas A stolen free moment here and there and You. Happy Thanksgiving!

I just spent four bucks so that every time my cell phone rings, the whole world hears THIS . Is this something Dwight Schrute would do? If so...kill me now...

Why is it that every year, about this time, when we pull out the camera and lighting kit and festive attire and reindeer antlers or other such accessories for our annual Christmas card picture, we end up stomping, yelling, growling, threatening to tell Santa about bad attitudes, popping antacids and longing for a couple eggnogs with rum -- hold the eggnog? Tis the season, my butt. Perhaps next year we'll hire "extras" to pose for our greeting card photo. That way, when they squirm and whine and beg for candy and make sour faces and refuse to do a single thing asked of them, we can hate them and not feel guilty about it. Plus, while we're creating this sugarplum fantasy, I'll be in charge of casting. I'd like you to meet the new me...Kate Winslet.

While at the doctor today, after getting a flu vaccination and lab work done, my son suffered what his medical team called a "vasovagal attack." He stopped talking and slumped over. All color drained from his face. He began moaning and shaking and breathing funny. His reaction has been described as a "reflex of the involuntary nervous system that causes the heart to slow down (bradycardia) and that, at the same time, affects the nerves to the blood vessels in the legs permitting those vessels to dilate (widen). As a result the heart puts out less blood, the blood pressure drops, and what blood is circulating tends to go into the legs rather than to the head; the brain is deprived of oxygen." So what's the cure for this attack, you ask? Hugs. Time. Elmo stickers. A red popsicle. Vasovagal reaction is a fancy way of saying my kid fainted.

I am cancer. I am heart attack. I am diabetes. I am prosthetic leg. You'd never say anything like that. So why would I say, "I am bipolar." It is part of me, but it does not define me. It is not who I am. I am a wife, a mother, a daughter, a sister, a writer, an artisan, a friend, a dog person, a poet, a movie buff, a voracious reader, a music lover, and on occasion, a witty observer. And I happen to have bipolar disorder.

Thorns may hurt you, men desert you, sunlight turn to fog; but you're never friendless ever, if you have a dog. -- Douglas Mallock

Yesterday, H had all his little friends over for a Penguin Party to celebrate his big 4th birthday -- complete with two themed cakes created by moi. Not to brag, but my cake designs kicked a little penguin tail. Check out that big blue lake! And how about the sugar cube igloo?! We're still coming down from the insulin high. But I had a blast making the cakes and decorating and all, and a great time was had by all. We played pin the bow tie on the penguin, and H got lots of great loot, including bathtub tablets that turn the water green. They're way cool, but I will refrain from posting the pics to avoid attracting the pedophile pervs (and embarrassing him to no end).

Combine birthday party day excitement with chocolate chip pancakes and syrup for breakfast and the general chaos of being a 4-year-old, mix thoroughly, and you get a recipe for disaster. Or at least a big shiner on your noggin when you run with wild abandon, get your feet caught up in the draperies, and slam skull-first into the table leg.

"While we try to teach our children all about life, our children teach us what life is all about." -- Author unknown

WanderingAmylessly is about to celebrate its third anniversary. I invite you to peruse the archives. Consider it my version of re-runs. I'm not a TV writer. And I'm not on strike. But I'm feeling lazy, so I thought I'd hop on the Hollywood bandwagon. Stay tuned. I'm sure I'll be back before my California comrades.

Four-year-olds get something in their heads, and they turn all OCD on you. Obsession. Compulsion. Repetition. Over and again and so on. Henry saw one glimpse of the Grinch on a display at K-Mart, and we were all goners. "I don't like the Grinch. The Grinch is kinda creepy. Why is the Grinch creepy? What did he do? He's not nice, is he. I don't like the Grinch. Do you like the Grinch? What if we see the Grinch? What do we do if we see the Grinch? I don't want to see the Grinch. What is the Grinch?" Finally, Daddy couldn't bear it anymore. He began retelling the story of How the Grinch Stole Christmas...as only he could retell it...when he really couldn't much remember how it went in the first place... By the time he got to the part where the little girl saved the day and turned the Grinch all gushy, I was cackling at his recollection of the girl's name. "Honey," I informed him. "It was Cindy Lou-Who!" "Well then," he as

Tim and his college buddy Dwak (you don't have time enough for the story behind that) took their kids out for a game of America's favorite pastime -- from back in 1956. Check out the boy's form. Ooh and aah at his composure, his concentration, his spectacular raw talent. And is it any wonder? Mommy's alma mater, Wichita State University, is a powerhouse; The Shocker Bowlers are 15-time National Champions. Plus, the Grandparents Schoon live in St. Louis, which is home to the International Bowling Museum and Hall of Fame. Dare I ask...will Henry have his name embroidered on a shirt and sport his very own pair of non-rental yet still ugly-as-cuss shoes anytime soon? Birthday and Christmas are coming up!

Here's what our little guy dressed up as for Trick-or-Treating Penguin suit courtesy of Grandma S! Thanks!!

The latest cycling news capturing headlines has nothing to do with doping. Maybe a little something to do with a dope. It seems that Lance Armstrong, 36, was seen getting cozy with a former child actor in a New York Bar. She was seen perched on his lap, giggling like a school girl. Gosh, she's not far away from being a school girl. The actress is 21-year-old Ashley Olson, the non-anorexic one of the Olson Twins who got their start in the crib on the TV show Full House. Wow Lance, you trying to prove something? You leave your wife and kids for an older woman -- 40-something musician Sheryl Crow. Then dump that woman to shag a bunch more, including a girl who was born a mere six years before you started competing in professional cycling events with your first team, Motorola. Man has one ball. But he's apparently putting it to good use.

As instructed on the sticker affixed to my new Discover card, I just called the toll-free number to activate the card. As I was trying -- rather unsuccessfully -- to converse with the customer service representative, I had a thought. It might be, oh, I don't know, a pretty good idea if, when your job requires you to talk on the phone every day and be a spokesperson for your company, you could perhaps be able to TALK. TIP: If you work in a call center and have laryngitis, GO HOME.

On our way into preschool this morning, Henry started humming. Then he added words and boosted his volume. What was coming out of his mouth was a sound that filled me with horror -- way scarier than anything I saw yesterday. "Bells on bobtail ring...making spirits bright..." Freaking Jingle Bells. On November 1. We're in for a long winter.