swingin for the fences


there is no such thing as an original thought     –author unknown



   Fully-functional people are a marvel can    kiss my ass.

In another 4 am stroke of genius, into my brain popped one of those “original” ideas or words I make up and smile myself back to sleep with. Only to arise at normal people time already suspicious, confirming with a quick ((0.19 seconds)) Googlstroke that my idea has been “invented” ((About 10,200,000)) times already.


No matter. Others may have coined the term, but they are just other silly, grasping kooks who don’t own it, either.  I am a blogger who wants to blog. I am a creative, semi-intelligent 48 year old human, who also has been living as a biP for years. Without meds. But also without much sustained success as a teen or adult.

So blog I will. About all thoughts, “bipolar”  as they may sometimes be. Bipolar Express. Because this is twisted and funny. Here at the Almost-50 juncture of my life, I have become rather laugh or die about things.

In the days of Jimi Hendrix it was called manic depression, remember?  Jimi Hendrix was a way cool dude.jimi

While secretly proud of just being alive, among a few other accomplishments,  I still want “success,” that is, getting comfortable enough in my own skin to just be who I am and run with it, till I’m done and I die.

This did not happen with regular  jobs I’ve held, such as waitress or  local news reporter, or, god bless us, teacher. These jobs, along with thousands of others, are for well-adjusted folks. Marvelous folks, putting it out there with a happy face on it, day-in, day-out.

Consistently positive, shiny people make me want to throw up in my mouth a little  get on with it and find a way to contribute, too.

I  get the strategy. Good vibes. Don’t worry, be happy.  Fake it till ya make it.  And yes, I do the whole diet-exercise-enlightenment thing till I am…well, blue.


It has taken me waaay too long to accept this deal about myself.  I’ve become  a whiz at The Two Year Marathon. I can hold my breath under water a long time. But inevitably, I have to run screaming, and crawl back under my rock for a spell. Back out, I am a great liar. At the local grocery store, out at the Farmer’s Market,  I weave tales of  adventure, learning, and suspense. Once I even employed crutches as a –crutch. Nasty accidents–especially the kind attached to chunks of settlement $$,  are super-handy for changes in course. Buy some time  and no one dares to ask questions.

And, No One ever really knows what the hell I’m up to. Important to the me, the Secret Weirdo.

However, I think this game has now played itself out. At home, and away.  “Away” isn’t far in a small hipster town. I am keenly aware of those hipsters, too! The ones who have their shit goin’ on while I peek at Netflix from under a blanket on the couch on any given night of the week(end).  The home team?  They’re ready to pitch me the meds.

So now what?

Be Real?  Where will that get me?


the vanity and the agony of february


feBRRuary. Uncanny the way we celebrate Valentine’s Day in the dead of winter. At least for those of us residing in the more Northern seasonal zones……But truly, what would the sad-and-pasty among us do without it?      It is about LOVE you know, that unconditional guarantee of not-aloneness…right?

by Feb. 14th I know I need a dose..minus the chocolates. Not that I don’t want those too.

We all know some of those well-adjusted folks out there who have mastered the art of staying lean, mean and bronze year round. They dutifully climb inside tanning beds, or into some sort of body shop for re-painting humans. They run on treadmills, work weights, ski regularly…they are doing it right now, while I write this…and sometime in March (or before) they redeem air miles for the tropics, where they soak up real sun, listen to Jimmy Cliff,  and sip Green Ouzo Margaritas, recharging their sexy to forge on until June’s warm rays once again claim us all in the northern hemisphere.


This blog writer is  not one of those kind of folks.

I hang in there ’til well past Thanksgiving. The summer tan hangs on, and I continue my healthy outdoorsy pace of hiking and biking despite frosty cold. Snow, even. Top of my game, momentum is way up.  I find myself jumping into chatter about such things as age, eating habits, and similar tedium with more  enthusiasm than is called for from any mature thinking adult person.

The snow gets deep(er). Around here, we get blasted with arctic air for weeks at a time. Christmas holidays happen. Holiday cookie gifts happen. Eggnog. Other drinking. Sun does not happen. More drinking. Less motivation. Many more naps. Soon after, a fateful line is crossed where, torn between a nap or strapping on the snowshoes, Nap wins (I curse you, wretched Nap! But, I love you so..)

And so, the Cycle of Winter Weight Gain..and humility..begins, again.

Found myself standing on a medical scale in a hotel fitness room this past weekend, staring depressedly at the final resting place of the sliding weights in front of me. The ugly truth:  Up four pounds. On a little person. Jeezus. hey, the statuesque among you can just SHUT UP right now with your sarcasm if you don’t get it.  I wasn’t shocked, but the denial of just how much I’d gained was over. Next, a quick assessment in the well-lit hotel mirror re-confirmed that my toasty bronze shield had, most decidedly, been replaced by the pale greenish-yellow color some call “olive” but which I call “swamp thing.” Swamp thing with chicken pox, more accurately, as wierd spots reemerge like beach jetsam at low tide. Super-attractive.


Low tide, lol.  That’s one way to describe my now-corresponding (lack of) libido.

  lol, get it?

How do so many do it? I mean DO it? Stats show that over 10.5 thousand U.S. babies are born EACH DAY in October, November and December of every year, so counting nine months back means that the months of January through March are, by this measure, full of thousands of  nakedly conjoined bodies. Are these all wealthy, tanned resort people, or just regular, mediocre folks, like me, with no vanity, unlike me? I know there are, like, a bajillion other mediocre people (or should I say, WOMEN, since we all know that exactly none of this humility stuff applies to men) out there…so how can the seasonal change into lesser-attractiveness not matter to such a great number of them? Less daylight to battle with maybe?  Shorter days do mean longer nights. Hmm. Longer nights. Lots more dark. Add a couple rum toddies–or, I mean, whatever mediocre people are drinking these days– and some  firelight(-esque) enhancement…and

Viola!..ze  playing field  es now  levile?

Shag City for the masses, apparently.

now what’s my excuse?? 


Sleeepy. Definitely time for a nap. Maybe a chocolate will help! Maybe it’ll be a caramel nougat!  Man am I glad someone loves me right now, in yet another February of my pathetic existence

Incidentally, stats show that THE MOST babies are born in:

1) Sept         2) August          3) July

which means that THE MOST POPULAR  months for sex (at least the babymaking kind?) are:

1) Dec          2) Nov                3) Oct

This makes sense to me! October and November have always been my favorite months for everything. Something in the air, for sure.  ..and still feeling summer-issue..  That nip, those turtlenecks and dark wool overcoats…add the Autumnal cognac or cabernet…more ellipses…

Yes, good! Breathless with anticipation! But for now, I’m going to slip into something more comfortable, oh! like a little nap! See you in June.

take off your pilgrim hat and snap to it

I wrote that “pilgrim hat ” line once in a newspaper column called Doubletake I birthed during college…the piece was about all the demonic stuff everyone would soon be lining up to buy for Christmas. The Haves vs. The Have Nots. The wise little Whos down in Whoville.  “Only 21 Shopping Days Left..” the title quipped, smug in its college journalist omniscience about Life 101.  How wise I had become at 20 years of age!

Long time since then.   too long… I have a daughter ready to launch into academia in  10–9–8–7…


What this actually means is that I now know very little whereas she knows A LOT. I’m still scratching my head, wondering where and when I traded it, the

omniscience  (dictionary-geeked this. Go ahead,  click . I damn-near wrote omnipotence,  see  almighty  authoritywhich I have yet to achieve  ..or lose)

for total confusion, about most things.

This {Monday} morning she stumbled out of here at 7:15, juggling a pile of books, laptop and trailing cord, half-loaded backpack (unzipped, half slung on), no breakfast (or lunch) naturally, to start anew after an entire luxuriant “Thanksgiving Holiday” week off  from both academics and her dance schedule. A whole week off. Better than most high school kids get. You’d think she might have managed ONE DAY with a well-prepared launch. launch~lunch . a launch, with lunch.

This is my little “overachiever” in her usual modus operandi.  I spellchecked that, as I rarely have cause to write  it out.  Now, as a Mother, I do, as I find myself discussing her behavior, aka m.o.,  with my partner Mike about every fifteen seconds. It is baffling. Be honest–exasperating. Memories of myself as a teenager  are only small consolation.  was only like that because Mom was a psycho and I was acting out.  NO!  I am  NOT HER, I am the clued-in one who was going to break the mold on Motherhood. I would impart my Love, and Gentle Wisdom upon my precious, precious offspring who would heed, and flourish.

Fast-forward to  November  26, 2012.   Chaos.   Offspring knows how the job is done.  Could be stepping squarely into a steaming pile of dog poo. On a vibrating train track.  But  PLease don’t tell her AGAIN. *roll eyes*  PLeeeeeZe.

The holiday dance performance of “Cinderella” woozy with anticipation~what awaits us is now looming. Tech Week#1 is now in progress. At home this means a re-heated dinner plate at 9 pm , followed by a “rigorous” i.e., ass-load  roster of  high school homework. Bedtime? Hahahaha–don’t ask if you are a mere mortal.  She will do this every day for the rest of the week. And again next week, before the shows start. But, We Shalt Not Whine, for this is the life of a Junior Repertory Company member/ Community School student. Not a child prodigy. Just another kid with a dream to be good at something, get noticed, maybe grab a scholarship to a decent college. easy-peasy.

Chaos.  Was my high school experience this insane?  Or has the game just gotten insanely competitive?  Can I blame my daughter for flying by the seat of her pants through this? What do I really know about the pressure she is under?

As I was saying, it’s time to take off those pilgrim hats and get busy, kiddos.  Three weeks ’till  Semester One of Junior Year is over!!  Grades will be forever etched onto the Stone Tablets of Your Lives!!  Admissions Officers across the land will come forth to drink from The Fountain of Data, making marks upon their mighty scrolls! The moment draws near!

Me, maybe I’ll go buy my little college-bound, Who’s Who achiever  a heap of  her favorite demonic stuff  for X-mas. New clothes, of course. Right now, so she can revel in them before the dread of finals. Instant gratification + materialism =  Survival Strategy 101 . As any good capitalist knows.

All due respect to those you-know-Whos in the tiny hamlet of Whoville..which I believe is still socialist.