as good as it gets


Do you have any control over how creepy you allow yourself to get?   –waitress carol

Yes I do, as a matter of fact. And to prove it, I have not gotten personal, and you have.

–melvin udall


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?

behold! The Queen!


~~had I mentioned that Ms. R played The Queen in her dance company’s big winter production of Cinderella (adaptation: “If the Shoe Fits”) last month? You do remember the story, and how Queen fits in? To refresh, Queen’s singular mission in life is to marry off her beloved son, The Prince, so that he may get on with his parent-prescribed singular mission of producing a worthy heir to the throne.

Ruby as Queen, Upset

That’s it. End of discussion. Queen is tired of waiting for her starry-eyed son to bust a move on this, so she plans a grand party, The Ball, to expedite. Prince will obey and choose on that night.

Hahahahaha!  The poetic metaphor of it all. Mom wants  to navigate kid’s life, kid says no way hose-A. Or, something inappropriate to that effect.

Kid has much better ideas. Nearly always. Where the metaphor ends in Real Life is how Mama must handle these kinks in The Plan. Bursting into tears of despair is great for an easy-to-follow story line and laughs on stage, but hardly effective for Real Moms and Pops as they attempt the delicate task of guiding their own heirs through the teenage quagmire of destiny-shaping life choices.

Invisibly guiding, I might add, as overt tactics are quickly detected and dismissed with a royal wave of the hand. Wield the guidance over a teen a bit too stiffly, or too loudly, and we are expediently relegated, along with our overstuffed attache of infinite wisdom, to the position of court jester, within the walls of our own palaces. Their own plans may play out with more drama than we want to sign up for, but honoring their instincts does seem the way to go, in the end.

Think how Cinderella turns out.

I’ll leave it at that. I daresay we are now overstuffed on witty metaphor for the moment.  Shall we digest and reconvene after High Tea?

No? Bugger off, then!  Cheerio!


default fashionista

the shoes

On the other hand (-er–foot)…

having a teenage daughter in the house does have its advantages. Take my wardrobe, for example. Please.

At least take my old one.  Because you see, I have entered the exciting era of In-House-Discards-Shopping.

Let me explain. She, at the shiny age of 15 , has become obsessed with clothing and fashion. With the dough she makes at her sweet hostess job, which she can walk to, yo, as in, no need for car and contingent car expenses in her forseeable future, whoohoo!  she treats herself to some great threads, which she meticulously shops for online from her favorite stores. She has gotten really good at it.

Unlike ME, who is NOT  good at it anymore, mostly because I have been broke for about 15 years now and am, therefore, pathetically out of practice.

MY “wardrobe”, and you have to understand the northern ski-town aspect of where I live to understand this possibility,  is made up of :  

1.) Jeans

And then some other stuff, most of it pushing–surprise!–15 yrs old, all dutifully “spiced up” with a smattering of local Browse N Buy “finds” which are also, obviously, old, but not to me. The few newer “pieces,”  like the essential warmth-giving kind, or the equally-useful don’t-make-you-sweat kind, are hastily bought, or gifted, or passed along and graciously accepted by fashion-unconscious moi.  M-O goes something like, “this fits and doesn’t make me look fat–I’m in, thanks!”

And though this sounds like I am a bag lady, or must look like one,  my “look” really isn’t that bad. I don’t think.

Truth be told, some of my trove dates back even further than pre-Mother days (which, when analyzed, makes no sense and maybe will make your head explode).   “vintage!” “shabby-chic!”  I KNOW the words!  For instance, my leather dingo boots I bought when I was, I think, 17. Even I know these things totally rock. Fashionistas  sometimes ask where I got them, and I looove answering (read: lying about) that question…because I still remember buying them on store-closin’ dirt cheap clearance–$29.99 or something absurd even for boots that nobody wore in the 1980’s–and now when I see similar grade boots in those indigo-and-turquoise-worshippin’, horses-on-our-Montana-ranch sort of fashion catalogs, they list at more like $400.

“Sundance, mail order. Fall ’11 issue, maybe…hmm, I for-ge-e-t.”


Ha ha!  I win. But I digress.  My *vogue-a-licious teenage daughter wouldn’t be caught dead in something from last year, never mind  the last decade. She has no perspective on that kind of thing, bless her teen-age heart. She gets tired of her stuff on a more “seasonal” basis. I used to be irritated by this. But that was before she had an income. Now I just smile, because I know that soon, very soon, this sort of fashion behavior will become impractical.  I told her this a few times, and  I think she gets it in theory, the whole scrap-your-way-thru-college thing…”poppin’ tags, $20 in my pocket, sure, that’s cool and am-us-ing, Mom”  Meantime, she buys, she wears, she moves on.

Enter the Mom. I am sort of small, and boyishly shaped…which is a nice way of saying that even as a 40-something I have no boobs or hips.  Which in this particular scenario is a great advantage. HER piles of discards become MY upscale Scrap N Shop from Home, and the staples of my new N groovier wardrobe.

Okaay, maybe NOT the roadkill-inspired superskinny jeans

and avoiding  the more upsetting teenage t-shirt designs

But that still leaves  jackets, shirts, shoes, boots, sneakers, scarfs .. yo Macklemore! this ain’ no Goodwill neither!  .. hats, purses, tote bags–breath–miscellaneous accessories and  jewelry.

Voila!   Scrapper-Turns-Fashionista, all for the modest price of…

oh……………15 years of selfless mothering.



* vogue-a-licious is a word I invented today, until I thought again and Googled it, finding this:

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