WanderingAmylessly 2.0

I'm happy. Only someone with bipolar disorder would say that and then frown, questioning, "Is it normal happy? Or should I be worried?" Because happy to someone with BiPD can quickly give way to euphoria and sail right on over to delusional. Just a couple weeks ago, I found myself at the other end of that emotional continuum, bottoming out. I stopped getting up early to go to the gym. I crawled in bed early at night. The knitting and the novel sat untouched on the coffee table. The loud giggly behavior of a 4-year-old scratched against my brain like fork tines scraping a ceramic plate. Talking took effort. Even breathing deep seemed a hassle. Even though I wanted to sink under the covers and sleep to escape, I took five minutes to email my psychiatrist and ask for help. I'm so glad I did. Within 24 hours, he had called in a new script and suggested I take a fish-oil supplement (studies have shown people in countries where a lot of fish is consumed have lower rates of

Homeland Security's so concerned about the possible threat of our pocket knives, lighters, hair spray, hand cream, baby formula, and so on, on airlines. I think there might be another way to keep the skies safe. We could start with giving Captain Smiley a stress test . LONDON, England (AP) -- A British airline said Monday that one of its flights was forced to divert to Turkey after the co-pilot died in mid-flight.

Career week -- at preschool. Who'd've thunk. I went to Henry's class today to speak about my career, as a writer. I'm not sure how 4-year-olds can relate to my work, since they don't read or write. And they don't understand the difference between fiction and non-fiction, so my telling them that I don't make up the stories in my head but interview people and tell their stories prompted lots of blank stares. I showed the kids examples of newspapers and magazines I've written for, and I pointed out my name in the byline. I talked about my favorite assignments -- interviewing people who were sick or hurt but getting better, riding in a helicopter, profiling a modern-day pirate. What I tried to do was emphasize the importance of learning their letters, learning to read and write, because EVERYONE has to write during their lives. Which then made my career seem even less interesting. When I started taking questions from the kids, most of them wanted to tell me

My husband's obsession for subzero weather and hanging out in snow caves is contagious. He and Henry built a quinzee, or less technically, an igloo, in our backyard with our abundance of the white junk. I hope it's structurally safe, because they're doing a lot of hanging out in it. (And may I remind you, the high yesterday was 3 degrees.) Last night, as they were waiting for the lunar eclipse, they layered themselves in snow pants and parkas and hoodies and such, and trudged through the snow to the big mound, where they sat, drinking hot cider from an insulated mug and reading books about the arctic recently checked out from the library. I'm including a few pics, but you can also check out Tim's blog for more. What was I doing while all this frigid merriment was happening outside? I was under three layers of covers in bed, reading a vampire romance. They might have been having more fun. But I could feel my toes.

I know what I said before, about never watching Dancing with the Stars again -- after my favorite dancer (and we all know the most talented of the motley bunch) Sabrina Bryan got booted right off her chacha in an early round. You knew I was bluffing. Last night, the show announced contestants for its upcoming season, which begins March 17 on ABC. And oh, what an intriguing lineup. Among them are an NFL great, an Olympic gold metalist, a grunting tennis has-been, a deaf woman, a couple actors, some Latin heartthrob, one half of a Vegas comedy act, a hiphop artist, a Tony-award winner, and a smart-talking radio personality. Oh. And. The. Wife. Of. THE. KING. Like I could stay away from that. Here are the contestants and the order in which I predict they will get voted off the dance floor: Monica Seles -- She's bitchy. She's grunty. She's washed up and needed quick cash. I can't see this going anywhere good. Penn Jillette -- Unless Teller's his surprise partner, he

I'm going to skip the gritching about the weather (despite the fact that I'm sitting here watching what feels like this winter's 6,000th inch of snow falling outside). Instead, I'm going to share another recipe that's perfect for a day like today. Or any day, really. Rachael Ray calls it "making any night Cinco de Mayo." I know, I heard how some of you have highly sensitive gag reflexes when it comes to Rachael. Forget I mentioned her and don't let your feelings interfere with the chance to savor a little bit of heaven. Or as our friends south of the border (whom the pesky republicans are all fired up to keep on their own side of a very large fence) might say, "un poco cielo." Shrimp Fajita-Tortilla Soup (you can use chicken instead...but why?) 2 tbsp. Extra Virgin Olive Oil (EVOO) 1 1/2 lbs. peeled, deveined shrimp, tails removed 1 tbsp. ground coriander 2 tbsp. fresh thyme leaves, chopped (or dried thyme to taste) Salt and black pepper 1 l

When I heard about the latest shooting rampage on a university campus, I cringed. Then I thought, "Oh no, not again." Then I ate dinner and checked my email. I didn't cry or rage or wring my hands or speculate as to why a young man would barge into a Midwestern lecture hall, guns blazing, and shoot more than 20 people, killing six and then himself. The fact I didn't react makes me want to cry. The idea that I am somehow becoming "used to" school shootings, that it has become another common happening reported like the latest suicide bomb blast in the Middle East, is simply horrid. I don't know how I'm supposed to behave. At some point, you have to distance yourself from this violence in order to cope, in order to function day-to-day. If I didn't adopt a rather blazé attitude, I'm not sure I could let myself walk out the door every day. I'm not certain I could trust someone to watch my child for eight or nine hours in preschool, for fear th

How polarized we've become in this nation. Liberal. Conservative. Pro War. Anti War. Give the illegals amnesty. Or give them the boot. You're either with us or with the terrorists. And then there's Valentine's Day. You either love it or you hate it. You love it if you have some sappy sucker who sends you flowers or chocolates or a big book of frisky-tickets. You hate it if you 1) have no one to share the holiday with or 2) either have no money or have no idea what makes a romantic V-Day gift. And of course you hate it if your significant other is the one who 1) has no money or 2) hasn't a clue that a new set of car mats and a package of Funyons from the vending machine at work do not constitute the perfect display of undying affection. Even Amazon.com acknowledges this great divide. I saw this on the site today: Valentine's Day: No matter how you feel about the holiday, you can save up to 57% on the movies that mean Valentine's to you. In the spirit of this

Even though Miss Iowa Diana Reed was robbed and was eliminated from the Miss America competition before she could perform her talent -- dance twirling -- on live TV, she rocked the house during the preliminary talent portion earlier in the week. Take a peek. It's only 2 minutes. The only thing that could've made it better is if she'd been twirling the flaming batons she's been known to twirl during Hawkeye halftime performances.

My kid and I went to church on Sunday, a woefully rare occurrence. Some people might wonder whether I went to seek shelter in the arms of a loving religious community as I awaited any news of the fate of my husband-sicle. In truth, I just needed a bit of a break from my child. I figured I could ditch him (lovingly, of course) in the preschool and have some quiet time to commune with my thoughts, zoning out in the serenity (and completely ignoring the sermon). Which might have been easy to do had I gone to a conventional church. But I made the "mistake" of hanging out with those hippie Unitarians, who just so happened to be celebrating a holiday: Evolution Sunday! What better way to counteract the groan-fest of the day before, when 60 percent of Kansas republicans voting in the primary chose as their fearless leader Mike Huckabee, the man who disses Darwin (and most rational thought) by insisting that creationism or "intelligent design" be taught in the classroom. Ag

HE LIVES! Miracles do happen.

Here are some snow pics. One shows how tall the snow piles are compared to us and our mailbox. The other is H playing in the snow fort he and Daddy built. The photos don't truly illustrate what a complete pain in the ass the snow has been. And now that the snow is melting some, it's a nightmare in the parking lots -- ankle-deep puddles by day, skating rink by night. But these were taken right after the snow stopped and the sun came out, creating a glistening, pristine canvas for our creative play. Before we made sled tracks and snow angels. Before the brown slush splashed up from the road. Before the dogs marked their territory. About this time tomorrow night, some of us are going to be remembering with fondness the 30-degree day on which this was taken. You know, when it's 6 below with a -30 wind chill, sitting in a tent in the snow, reading with a headlamp, communing with nature and a dozen complete strangers.

Here is the weather forecast for Saturday: High: 32 Low: -3 30% chance of precip Wind: 20-30mph gusting to 40mph Wind chill: -30 That's obnoxious, any way you look at it. Add in the fact that Tim is going CAMPING. Yes, as in pitch the tent. In the snowdrift. He's doing it for work, shooting pictures of students in the great outdoors for a class called Winter Camping. Which leads us all to ask whether he'll get worker's comp if his limbs freeze and rot off. Losing your hands makes holding a camera quite a challenge. He bought long underwear. He's using a sleeping bag that is good to at least 10 below zero. He's planning to invest in some of those chemical hand and foot warmers. He thinks he's good to go. I just hope I don't get a call at 3 a.m. asking me to come identify the body.

Most dangerous city in America. There's a title that tourism bureaus aren't exactly fighting over. I am guessing the folks in St. Louis won't be too hot to smack that baby on their convention and visitors brochure or make big buttons to pin to your lapel. But the truth's the truth. City Crime Rankings , an annual reference book of crime statistics and rankings puts St. Louis, Mo., at the tippy-top of its Most Dangerous Cities collection -- depending on the year, it swaps spots with Detroit, Mich. Lest you think all the crime happens in the city of St. Louis, while all those suburbanites out in St. Louis County are frolicking happily along the sidewalks of their strip malls, I'd say THINK AGAIN. I'd say, pick up a paper and read the headlines. Kirkwood, Mo., a town my brother-in-law described as "one of the nice suburbs," has been in the news in the past year for a laundry list of particularly icky crimes. Among them: -- A judge sentenced Kevin Joh

My whining continues today. But you might not be able to hear me. I'm buried in a drift. I also predict that I will visit the chiropractor tomorrow, as I have just finished my third round of snow shoveling (including a path in the grass for my poor, height-challenged dog). And it's still dumping buckets. It looks like a bad winter set on a daytime drama. But those ain't potato flakes flying, baby. See that little plus sign with the 12.2 in the middle of the graphic above? That'd be a foot of snow, right on top of us. I'd bet we'll have even more than that by tonight. The University canceled classes. It's a state university, 29,000 or so students. They NEVER cancel class. Since the '70s or so, they've only canceled classes, like, twice. Both have been this winter. My kiddo's coming home early from preschool at noon. The state dept. of transportation has declared that travel is not advised on I-80. Visibility is near zero. The freaking MALL is clos

I've been avoiding what seems to have become the weekly weather rant because 1) I've been too busy digging out of the snow drifts and 2) Whining about the weather seems so petty considering the seriousness of my recent posts. Nevertheless, the bitch-and-moan fest is about to begin. Brace yourselves. On Sunday, I went to a play at the university. Walked in on clear, dry sidewalks. Came out of the theatre for intermission, 1.5 hours later, to find a blizzard. And three fresh inches of snow. When I left the theatre at the end of the play, I cleared about 4 inches off my car and slid my way to the other side of town for a Super Bowl party. By halftime, when the snow had finally let up, we drove home with our breaths held and fingers crossed, on virtually unplowed streets. Eight inches, people. Eight inches...seven of which were not predicted. We grumbled. We shook our heads in disbelief. We scoured the Web, trying to find any trace of a prediction for the storm that had smacked us

The same rotten justice system that paroled early the burglar who raped and stole away the life of a talented newswoman and beautiful person may have finally done something right. It has denied him bail. I also wonder where the scum, Brian M. Walters, got the black eye he was sporting as he appeared this morning in St. Louis County Circuit Court. The angry, vengeful woman in me secretly hopes Nancy gets credit for giving him a mere fraction of what he deserves. The rest of me doesn't want to go there, to her last moments, to wonder whether she had an opportunity to fight back and took it. I don't want to think of how she died, I just want to celebrate the happy life she led and shared with others. For more insight into Nancy's life and legacy, please read the words of Post-Dispatch columnist Bill McClellan . Also, Web site visitors were invited to share their thoughts about Nancy . Some were former coworkers, others -- like me -- looked to her as a mentor, yet others knew h

The words unfair, barbaric and infuriating were some that came to mind this afternoon. But they don't begin to describe... From the Post-Dispatch, earlier this afternoon: A recently paroled burglar was charged today with first-degree murder in the rape and slaying of former Post-Dispatch writer and editor Nancy Miller in her home in Chesterfield. Brian Michael Walters was staying with his parents in the 15000 block of Claymoor Court, near where Miller lived, and stabbed her to death, officials said. Walters, 27, also was charged with armed criminal action, first-degree burglary and rape in warrants filed today. He was held without bond in the county Justice Center in Clayton. Officials said the suspect had been released from a Missouri prison about 10 days ago. Officials said Walters was sentenced in 2003 to serve seven years in a case from Maryland Heights. The charges say Walters admitted that he entered Miller's home without consent for the purpose of stealing, confronted a

I hadn't talked to her in over 10 years. I wouldn't have even known how to get in touch with her if I'd wanted to. But I always wished I'd thanked her one more time for being a kind, warm, supportive, funny, talented individual -- someone who made my work better and my life a little easier in the summer of 1995. I won't get that chance now. She was murdered. Nancy Miller, a 59-year-old resident of Chesterfield, Mo., spent nearly 30 years at the St. Louis Post-Dispatch as a copy editor, St. Charles bureau chief, suburban editor, assistant metro editor and Lifestyle editor, before retiring last June. When her friends and family couldn't reach her on Friday, they became worried. She was found slain, the headlines read, but police aren't saying how she died. They did take a suspect into custody late today and expect warrants to be issued soon. I'm sure we'll learn more in the days and weeks to come about who took her life and why. Whatever the details, I

The writers strike has us all lamenting the lack of new episodes of our favorite shows. I never thought I'd say I miss Dwight Schrute, but sadly... Here's something to help kill some time ('cause what else do you have to do, watch American Gladiators? please.) and remind you why you love Scranton, PA. How I ended up being the gay Hispanic guy, I'm not quite sure. Which Character From The Office Are You? Created by BuddyTV