WanderingAmylessly 2.0

Dog's going to the pooch b&b first thing tomorrow morning, then we hit the road in our quazi-fuel-efficient Civic for a long weekend in the big city. My kind of town, Chicago...at this point, anywhere that's not home is my kind of town. I need a getaway. We're staying on Michigan Avenue and, if we have any sort of luck at all, we could have a room overlooking the lakeshore. We plan to hit the aquarium and Navy Pier, and Henry insists we MUST go to Legoland (he WILL not talk us into a $300 lego set of the Death Star; putting my foot down *stomp*). Millenium Park's on the must-see-again list, too. Henry was barely walking the last time we spent time in Chi-town. So it's really like he'll be seeing it for the first time. He's somewhat bummed the Cubs aren't playing at home this weekend. The others of us, who are still reeling from the fact that his preschool teachers have BRAINWASHED him from a sports team perspective, aren't so sad at all. Besides,

I don't deal well with change. There must be some sort of twisted irony in that fact, given I have bipolar disorder -- an illness marked by radically fluctuating moods. Up and down. Change. I should be a pro at handling it after 37 years or so, don’t you think? The latest changes I’m facing aren’t actually mine, in the most direct sense. My child is the one going off to kindergarten. One of my closest work friends is moving several states away to start law school. Law school, for pete’s sake. Why would I be the one wigging. But these happenings must be at the heart of my latest brain-biology freakout. I’ve felt the downward spiral for several weeks, probably more like several months because a while back I talked the doc into upping my meds. I don’t think they’re helping much. I started sleeping more. I stopped knitting. I stuffed my face when I wasn’t hungry. I yell too much. I cry at least once a day. My doc had the audacity to go on vacation, so I haven’t had a follow up. But one

You may recall my post about Libby Lu a while back. From her Petfinder profile, it looks like she's still without her forever home. The same dog rescue also has another Scottie, this one named, rhymingly, Sally Sue. Think they planned that? Think they're running out of good names? Anyway, Sally Sue has a story I can relate to. Bless her heart, she's trying to lose weight. She'd developed quite the spare tire. I guess her previous owners never played with her or walked her or anything. Now, she's on a canine version of Weight Watchers or Jenny Craig, and she's on a fitness program -- she takes walks every day with her 92-year-old foster Grandpa. And the pounds are melting away! For the details, read her profile . It's beneath the adorable pictures of her.

I'm feeling very selfish. And like I'm an awful mom. All I do is yell. I tell him to stop doing things when he's misbehaving, to do things he's supposed to but isn't, and it's just this constant nononononononoononononononononononono. And he won't play by himself. I don't want to hear anyone's crap about only-child syndrome because the last thing anyone in our house needs is another human. But he must be doing something, with someone, every single solitary second of the day. If he's not, he's whining about it. Which makes me yell. Which ends up with his butt in the time-out seat and my head just that much closer to a migraine. We can't even have normal adult conversations, Tim and I, with each other or with other people, because the kid insists on being the center of attention. He can't just sit there and color or play with his hand-held games or read (which he's doing at a 3rd grade level, his preschool teacher tells us). No, he h

Some people think dogs are just dumb animals. Others think dogs are probably smarter than humans. I think they're somewhere in between. Much like people. We have Harvard-grad brilliance in some folks, and then we have Paris Hilton. My Mags has streaks of genius, followed by bouts of stupidity (or at least ridiculous obsessiveness, such as her way of standing at our wooden fence with her nose through a hole, sniffing and snorting for hours on end in an effort to detect bunnies). She knows how to shake paw, and then put it down and shake other paw. She knows what w-a-l-k means and, therefore, we shouldn't say it aloud in her presence. She can sense when we have hot dogs in the fridge and hovers in the kitchen hoping to snarf. She knows come and sit and lie down (that last, she picked up one night thanks to our babysitter, who we believe may have missed her true calling as a dog whisperer). She must have been well-bred, because she acts just like a Westie should act when confronte

Kay Redfield Jamison, MD - from her book "An Unquiet Mind" There is a particular kind of pain, elation, loneliness, and terror involved in this kind of madness. When you're high it's tremendous. The ideas and feelings are fast and frequent like shooting stars, and you follow them until you find better and brighter ones. Shyness goes, the right words and gestures are suddenly there, the power to captivate others a felt certainty. There are interests found in uninteresting people. Sensuality is pervasive and the desire to seduce and be seduced irresistible. Feelings of ease, intensity, power, well-being, financial omnipotence, and euphoria pervade one's marrow. But, somewhere this changes. The fast ideas are too fast, and there are far too many, overwhelming confusion replaces clarity. Memory goes. Humor and absorption on friend's faces are replaced by fear and concern. Everything previously moving with the grain is now against.... you are irritable, angry, fri

This was the forecast for my town on The Weather Channel Web site this a.m. Mostly sunny. Really? You think? Because I cannot remember the last time I saw the sun. Saturday evening, maybe? And before that, oh, April 27th? I'm only slightly exaggerating. Over the weekend, the low was in the 40s. It rained all day yesterday, and not a misty smattering but pummeling downpours. I drove to work in drippy fog this morning. I sat at my desk for 45 minutes this morning with my therapy light blazing. It is (glancing at the wall calendar just to be certain) July 22. In the Midwest. I am wearing a sweater today. A sweater and a black skirt that reaches my ankles. July 22, folks. This is 17 kinds of twisted.

Or I tend to find crap I can't afford, yet long to own! For example: This set of Dooney & Bourke handbags , under the "Grafica" line "SCOTTIE." Too cute. Even with the $200+ price tag. The killer detail: plaid lining inside.

Or not. I spent the last two-plus weeks biting my tongue, creating elaborate little white lies, and silently shooting daggers at various friends and neighbors and relatives in an attempt to keep quiet the details of my husband's 40th surprise birthday party. In the end, he figured it out. Or, at least, his sh-- detector went off. Someone who was invited but couldn't come had seen Tim earlier in the week and made some off-hand comment that clued Tim in. I think he still had fun, though. His college roommate showed up from St. Louis to join in the festivities, as did a heap of friends and coworkers and their families. Good, kind, generous friends who live on an acreage, with a party barn and bonfire pit and a love for fireworks, hosted the shindig. A friend's wife baked an incredible Tour de France themed chocolate-chip cake -- white fondant, covered with big red polka dots (in honor of the polka dot jersey the best climber wears at the TDF) and Happy Birthday Tim in the TDF

I don't know whether it's because the weather outside is too gorgeous to waste, or I'm burned out on work, or my crazy-pill cocktail isn't quite what it needs to be to keep me from going loosey-goosey...but I am just in a funk. I get to work every morning thinking, "I would rather be anywhere than here." It's not the work itself. I rather enjoy checking for off-kilter grammar and misplaced punctuation. I'm sick and twisted that way. It's just that I feel like the world is waiting, and I'm just sitting in an artificially climate-controlled and lighted cubicle, missing out on fun. I stayed up until 1 a.m. last night (this morning??), baking Tim a German chocolate cake and cleaning some clutter that found its way into my sewing room/office after a friend bought our baby dresser that had been doubling as my freelance business's storage. Until about 12:30 a.m., you couldn't actually see the top of the guest bed. It was covered with piles of

I've been neglecting my blogreaders. I apologize. Honest! We've just been all over the place, literally and figuratively. I'll do my best to be more dedicated to those dedicated to my ramblings. Back at it, I'll go with a post on dogs. It's guaranteed to make most of you go "awwww." More importantly, it's about dogs who don't have homes. We bought our beloved canine Maggie from a breeder, which will probably get a tsk-tsk from some and a "at least you didn't buy at a pet store" from others. We love her. I wouldn't trade her for anything. But as I contemplate the pros and cons, and the idea of a second dog someday, I am leaning heavily toward adoption. A friend of mine has fostered and adopted several dogs, including a sweet girl who'd been with him since the late '90s and recently passed away. She was his best buddy and I can only imagine the empty spot her passing has left in his heart. Another friend recently adopted her

In the middle of munching on corn-on-the-cob, hot dogs, and mixed fruit, Henry pondered. Henry: Mommy, what's barf mean? Me: It means throw up. Why? Henry: I don't know. Me: Who said it? Henry: No one. A couple minutes of silence passed. Then... Henry: Mommy, are these corn guts? Me: What??? Henry: These! Are these corn guts??! (He points to the half-chewed kernels still clinging to the cob.) Me: Ummm. Yeah. No. I don't know. Why? Henry: Yummmy guts. This is the kind of stuff we, as parents of the H-Man, deal with on a daily basis. Life's just a series of questions. We, as parents, are his own personal Google. You think we're kidding? Just ask our friends Ted and Anne who served as our hosts during a 4th of July weekend in Indiana. The stuff H comes up with...no one could make it up. In fact, Anne started writing things down. I'm sure it'll be some of what we torture him with when he's older.