Anti-Depressants

I saw Dr. Tween again yesterday. Now we are going to add Zoloft to my cocktail of medications. I think I have to take half a pill in the morning and half a pill in the afternoon or something like that. I am turning into a little old lady with all the medicines I have to take! I even carry one of those daily pill box thingies in my purse and set alarms on my cell phone to remind me when to take what! I'd better get my cholesterol lowered before they put me on a statin, because if my regimen grows any larger, my pill case is going to be larger than my purse!!! I'll have to just put a handle on it and carry it instead of a purse. I wonder if I could make one and market it one of those companies, will put it on of those late night infomercials, put it in those "AS SEEN ON TV!" websites and stores, and make my millions. Hmmmm. Don't you people in the blogosphere take my idea. I'm copywriting this blog. Where's that circle C button?

Seriously though, this is a bit disturbing. I work out and everything, I quit smoking about 7 months ago, (although since the stress of my illness and recent revelations about my infidelities drove my husband back to smoking after 3 years) I have been slowly finding my way back to that filthy habit. My blood pressure went up after quitting smoking (WTF?) which was supposedly caused by the reduction in my outlet for stress. My diet suffered when I got sick and my cholesterol level went through the roof. My tummy tuck also prevented me from working out for 6 weeks and I'm just getting back into the swing of things. So all this shit is conspiring against me. I really have to watch my health in order to keep my brain chemistry in balance as much as possible, so I'd better take this shit seriously or I really will be dragging about in a messenger bag of drugs rather than a purse. And messenger bags went out of fashion about 7 years ago. I'm not cute enough, young enough or famous enough to revive the trend and keep it going. Everyone will know I'm a beeper! Maybe I'll just push a rolling suitcase everywhere and take an extra change of clothes for good measure. The alternative is a shopping cart but that speaks to a future as bag lady, and that is just to chilling. A very likely possibly should I sufficiently fuck up personal life further due to my illness. Always a possibility that looms large due to the nastiness of this illness. Staying healthy physically and mentally is paramount to keeping my bipolarity in check. I hate being a fucking loon.

I've been considering my limitations now that I've come to accept that I fall into the category of mentally ill. Stress is the enemy. I have always worked in a pressure cooker environment, in jobs that have brought no satisfaction even on the best of days. I'm conflicted between a strong work ethic--my inner voice telling me to buck up and get back in the trenches and work, work, work without regard to what it does to me mentally. Who gives a shit about that. Making money is what matters, and I made just shy of six figures. The other side of my brain tells me that that is only going to make me sick again. I have reached the end of my abilities to survive in that sort of environment, to work 10-12 hours a day, doing everything to get the job done no matter the cost to my health or my personal life. (e.g. personal responsibility to my family). I do believe that I must leave that environment but still must work. I just am not qualified to do anything and have to learn something new. I don't know what, and I'm not going to pull in anything near what I earned before, but I need to be productive. I will continue to freelance with my writing in the meantime, not that I've sold anything yet! It just helps my self esteem to say that I am.

So, what to do, what to do. Mr. PolarBabe thinks trophy wife is the perfect occupation. Hmmm. Sounds promising, but I think that's an all benefits job. Receptionist somewhere sounds stressless, but that's not going to take care of the huge childcare bills that we will have. I guess I will have to think of this off and on. I'm taking suggestions, so if you can think of anything for a mentally ill goofball, I'm all eyeballs.

PolarBabe

I Loves This Man O' Mine

I have been independent for the entirety of my adult life. It has been my badge of honor, and don't think I haven't stuck it in everyone's face every chance I got. I've been very proud of it, because I have accomplished a lot despite my disadvantaged youth. Now, after my psychotic break, I have dropped all the responsibilities I have proudly carried for so many years (I moved out on my own at 18 and have made my own way without any help since). I have allowed myself to be completely dependent upon my husband. In some ways, it feels so good. I feel so incredibly light for the first time in my life. The tension and fear of not being able to carry that load someday is gone. Of course, now it's replaced with a small amount of not actually being able to carry that load at all, but at least that's lighter than the load itself.

I am unbelievably blessed to have a man that loves me completely, and as close to unconditionally as a partner can. The only true form of unconditional love is the love a parent has for his/her child--this I believe whole-heartedly. The love between partners can die. The love from a parent, when the parent doesn't have mental issues preventing love, that is (another matter altogether and one for a psychologist to discuss) does not. My husband is amazing. One of my greatest manic symptoms is hypersexuality. Some of my larger manic episodes occurred during some very stressful periods between the two of us. I'd felt our marriage was done. I made stupid decisions (for which I take full responsibility, illness or no) that I recently admitted to him. I wounded him deeply and yet, he is still here for me. Still deeply committed to me and still in love with me. What I did to deserve this, how I did not obliterate the bond we have, mystifies me. It is not lost on me how very, very, very blessed I am to have this man in my life, let alone his love.

He has put up with every mood from me as patiently as possible, even before I was diagnosed. He has never asked me to change, never criticized me once. I can get pretty nasty during a mood swing, and as my illness has progressed over the years, I've said a lot of shitty things to him. I've swung so quick, it probably seemed like my head spun around. I bet he expected me to spit pea soup on those occasions. From time to time I wonder where his pod is hidden.

Don't get me wrong, he isn't up for sainthood; he's had is fair share of issues and missteps and I have been by his side through those, too. However, I am far more difficult to live with on a regular basis. I have a strong personality and have never been afraid of speaking my mind--with...um...passion. This man is one of a kind. I am unworthy but determined to be worthy someday.

I've let him take the helm 100%. Another one of my major symptoms, manic AND depressed is shopping too much. I've asked him to put me on an allowance. I am allowing myself to be completely and totally dependent, letting him be in charge of everything. If you knew me...even as little as three months ago, just the suggestion of same would be hysterically funny. PolarBabe bows to no one. She defers to no one. She is ferocious and in charge. She is a problem solver and makes things happen. She always gets what she wants. No more. Now, PolarBabe makes no decisions. She lingers over tasks. She lets Mr. PolarBabe nag her over her to do list when it is incomplete (although he is always very gentle and chiding about it). She lets him inquire about her meds and whether she has taken them (a mortal sin in the past--something that would incur great wrath!). He's even allowed to insist that she not go certain places alone. (He is a little afraid that I might have another psychotic break while I am alone--I share this concern--but there is also a little bit of insecurity since I did cheat on him a lot. I was manic and am not now, but I get it.)

I've fallen in love with this man all over again for taking care of me, for allowing me to surrender to him completely, for surrendering his heart to me when he feels so very vulnerable too. Mostly, I love him for all the reasons I loved him to begin with. He's just the most incredible guy in the world.

Plus, he laughs at my jokes. He KNOWS I'm the funniest person in the world, even if he won't admit it.

Let Me See Your Moods Swing Part 2

I hate that I'm Bipolar. Today went well. Today sucked. I have a shitty attitude about everything. I feel down. There is no godly reason I should feel bad. But I do. I feel this void. I feel nothing. I feel despair. I feel sad. I feel hopeless. I feel no sense of pleasure. My kids behaved better than usual. Everything went better than planned. I feel awful.

WHAT THE FUCK?

Such is the life of a Bipolar person. It makes no sense. Very little does. I took my medication as prescribed. I did all the right things. Today, I just have some breakthrough, I guess. At least I'm not a screaming banshee. Today is the day it is worse to be the Bipolar that the the Bipolee.

Let Me See Your Moods Swing!

Last Friday was our nanny's last day. We'd had a nanny while I worked, and then kept her on after I got sick. I've achieved a certain amount of stability where I can take all 3 kids on by myself and we really just can't afford to bear the expense any longer. After all, blogging doesn't pay the bills.

I'll admit it, I'm scared. I am still overstimulated very easily. I have a 3 year old who never sits. I have a 5 year old who insists on pushing every limit imposed upon her. I have a really low tolerance for non-compliance at the moment, and I can go from smiling to scowling to yelling in 3.5 seconds. I hate it.

I just took my morning cocktail with a dash of Ativan. I hope this helps us get through the school routine without a meltdown--from Mom.

My children are my life--the only reason that keep me going. When I was hospitalized 2 years ago for suicidal ideation, I was asked if I had intent to hurt myself. I told them that my love for my children would always exceed any amount of pain I could ever be in and therefore I could never take or attempt to take my own life. This will always remain true. Hurting myself would mean hurting them more, and this I cannot do. Will not do. Lord knows my illness hurts the people around me enough already.

Anyone who knows me has heard me wonder whether it is harder to be the Bipolar person, or the person who loves a Bipolar person. Yes, our heads are filled with a cacophony of tiresome noise, we careen from one pole to the next without control with fearful souls. We know pain. We are so often helpless, so often hopeless. But to be the person who witnesses this...the person who is often victim to the backlash, or the subject of an angry outburst that occurs seemingly without reason (so damned often)...how does a normal human endure? How does a person live in fear that a loved one might hurt themselves...that's a mighty big spector. Or what about loving with the hypersexual manic bipolar person? How do you have a loving and trusting relationship with that looming large in the back of your mind?

I asked one of my previous therapists why on earth anyone would want to be in our lives, why anyone would love us. We are so damned much work, with no reprieve. She said that its the same reason people stay in the lives with people who have alcoholism, or cancer, or drug addiction, or other painful or difficult illnesses. Simply because they love us. Everyone has problems. I guess she has a point. I just worry that because our shit happens daily, that the only predictable thing is that you can bet we won't be consistent every single day, it will be too much to bear someday. I'd love to walk away from it if I could. Why wouldn't someone in their right mind walk away?

PolarBabe

Stigma Schmiga

There is, without a doubt, a stigma associated with any form of mental illness. I suppose I can be easily accused of perpetuating the stigma with the ease which I use the terms, crazy, fruitcake, nutjob, and all the other euphemisms I use to describe myself and other beepers. I've pondered this on occasion. Actually, I've given it deep thought.

I don't think so, and my logic follows. I think by standing and railing against the use such words, demanding people describe me only using benign, politically correct words, stamping my feet and having the equivalent of a hissy fit over it, would only underscore my bipolarity. It would give others a reason to chuckle under their breath, and to think 'Geez, lighten up', or to tell me to 'Go take a pill, PolarBabe.' Referring to myself as a nutjob takes the wind out of their sails for one...they can never use it in a derogatory fashion against me. I actually had one guy get mad at me once and yell at me: You are a crazy bitch!!! and I yelled right back: I TOLD YOU THAT! IT'S NOT A SECRET! You know what happened? He crumbled into laughter. Let me tell you, he had been furious before that, we're not talking a momentary flare of anger--he was straight furious.

No, I have not been out with my illness to everyone. I did keep it to myself at the office where I used to work. The people with whom I shared something akin to friendship know and have been mostly supportive. (There is one who refuses to believe I am Bipolar and thinks that if only we pray hard enough we will find out that what hormones we need to be put in balance...God bless her, she means well.) However, I never made it public knowledge. Office politics being what they are, it wouldn't be considered professional to share such personal information with everyone. I was in a management position which would have made it even more inappropriate. Additionally, as I admitted before, there is that stigma. I don't think it's wise to 'come out' in a large office environment unless you are hearty enough to withstand the prejudice that will follow. Put the fact that people will call you my favorite words out of your mind. That's small potatoes. The greater danger is that you will essentially rob yourself of the right to have any negative emotions. If Bob says something callous to you like 'Susan, that's the stupidest idea I have ever heard' and you get mad or upset, you really won't be able to say anything about it unless someone else heard it and you're discussing it with them. Why? If you do, they will most likely say one of the following:

a) Don't you think you're overreacting?
b) I'm sure he didn't say it quite like that
c) You're so sensitive!
d) Is this that Bipolar thingy you told me about talking?

This one is every beepers favorite one because we hear it at least once, from even the best intentioned loved ones in our lives:
E) DID YOU TAKE YOUR MEDICINE TODAY???

See, people don't want any part of what they don't understand. They don't understand crazy, and they don't want to get it--figuratively and literally. They're scared. People are taught to dismiss the mentally ill from an early age. "Mommy, why is that man walking down the street waving his arms and screaming like that?" "He's crazy, Tommy. You don't have to worry about him. Just keep looking forward and keep walking. We'll just pass right by him." That's what we've all been taught, and that's what we will keep doing to the mentally ill through the rest of our days. (Unless you have cause and desire to be educated, but that's another story). People will keep their heads down and walk right by YOU if they know you have a mental illness and they won't try to learn about it. At work, you are there to work, not hold an educational seminar on Bipolar Disorder. So, in the interest of self-preservation it's best to keep you mouth shut in the face of ignorance. I think activism is very important but your workplace just isn't the place for it. Not if you want to keep your job AND be happy there anyway.

Now back to my beloved words. If I claim crazy, nutjob, et. al., then those ignorant d-nozzles can't use them. At least not effectively. They can try, but I'll just jump in the dirt with them and throw some better ones at them and win. I've had more practice. They have NO idea the kind of gymnastics this mind can do.

PolarBabe

Other Bipolar People

It may seem as if I don't like other Bipolar people based on the statements I have made in my prior posts. I can see why that might be easily construed. Truth is there are lots of people that fall into certain groups that I don't like. Pretentious people, for example, really annoy the hell out of me.

My problem with a lot of the other Bipolar people I have met is their need for political correctness about the illness and that they constantly be treated with kid gloves. I do understand their need for sensitivity, truly I do. In many ways, I do have a soft touch (you probably just won't see it here often). I feel the pain in their hearts so acutely, as this illness messes with my head on an hourly basis, sometimes minute to minute. I would sit and cry with anyone, hold them and stroke their hair as they let it out, but I will not be so somber about my illness every minute of the day. I will not speak of it so seriously all the time. I will not say I'm not crazy or they are not crazy because it's not the 'right' thing to say. Crazy vs. Mentally Ill... Hmmmmm. You say potato, I say potahto. You feel me?

I may speak with disdain of the illness but not of the people who suffer with it. I will speak my mind to the people who criticize me for not being PC, but I still feel for them and their struggle with the illness. I'll be wracked with guilt for hurting someone else's feelings and will bash myself in the head (figuratively speaking) as a result of my illness, but I'll still go right back to being my PolarBabe self. (Unless the person was a dick, then all bets are off...but I will still obsess over it). I don't think it's wrong to be light hearted about it. I accept that I'm LaBebeLoca, (I'll conjugate any way I like, thank you) and I'm doing everything, evvvveeeerrrrryyyyythiiiiiinnnnng I can to manage my illness. It will never change the fact that I knocked on the doors of my neighbors telling them my husband was trying to kill me, or that I sat on our curb in my pajamas with my hair sticking straight up because I didn't wash it for days on end, telling my husband I just wanted 'some air'. I am the crazy lady on the block. I am not sugar coating it for myself, and I'm not sugar coating it for anyone else.

There are going to be days when I will open up and just cry and probably do nothing but feel sorry for myself here. I hope not, but probably will. I have read so many other blogs like that though, so many serial posters on the community forums for the Bipolar and Mental Illness websites that are just so self-pitying and hopeless that I want to vomit. The same people all the time and that is all they ever do. Hey, I'm just as negative as the next beeper, but I like to think I do it with style! I can hear it now "Hey PolarBabe, you stupid bitch! Haven't you heard of a depressive episode????" Well now, as a matter of fact, I have. In fact, I have been in one since November and desperately trying to work my way out of it now! Is that all you got? Gimme another one d-whistle!!!!

Look, our personalities are all different. I don't look to offend anyone, it's just my PolarBabeness. I am a sarcastic, wisecracking, you-fill-in-your-favorite-insult-here. I hope that if someone doesn't like it they can read around the words to hear the actual message--assuming I have one. I'd far prefer it if they were able to not take it seriously and find a laugh or two in my humor. The last thing I want is to cause pain to people who are hurting. So for those people who can't withstand my brand of coping, vaya con Dios, amigos. And that I say with the most sincerest sentiment.

PolarBabe

One-way Mirror

I saw a new Psychiatrist yesterday in my quest to find a new doctor. One who might actually listen to me, rather than the misogynist prick I've been seeing for the last (almost) two years. Okay, so maybe I'm being a little unfair to the guy. Maybe I have been a little intimidated by him, being that I have always had something of 'White Coat Syndrome' and clam up when I see a doctor. Maybe its, as my husband suggested, he attended "The Bombay School of How to Dismiss and Ignore the Symptoms of Women with Mental Illness." Maybe its a cultural thing, given that he really is Indian and went to school in Bombay. Not exactly a culture sympathetic to women, plight afflicted or otherwise. I did start taking my husband to my appointments to help me communicate my symptoms and whatnot in the intervening periods between appointments. He definitely was more attentive to Mr. PolarBabe. Hmmm. Dr. Bombay, as I so affectionately call him, also seems quite medicated himself. Maybe its all these things together. Nevertheless, I'm transferring care to the new doctor, who happens to be a woman. She's also younger than me, (I'm still 30 something, although not for too many more...uh...days. She is probably into Hannah Montana and the Jonas Brothers, she's almost that young I think.) Mildly unnerving, but only because it reminds me that I'm not so young anymore. More than anything, its reassuring to me. She's not old enough to be tired of her job, not old enough to be jaded by we fruitcakes. She seems very eager to help, thorough, and clearly has a passion for what she is doing. I like this. She's a lot further away from me than Dr. Bombay, but she's in a very hip town and I like this too. Reminds me that I'm not quite so old. At least not yet, because I did see a couple of Kim Kardashian types walking down the street. Preening, vapid girls who grew up too privileged, think they are fabulous, talk way too loud, (I could hear their conversation across the street over the noise of traffic) and are famous for absolutely nothing. I don't think these types will help me feel un-old. Hmmm. Well, there are the trophy wives/moms with their souped up strollers to keep me feeling a little OK with myself.

Anyway...I had a conversation with Mr. PolarBabe this morning. I was telling him how Dr. Tween and I were discussing how I always have this paranoia that my former coworkers never like me no matter where I work. That I always feel like they talk behind my back, try to make me look bad, and maybe try to get me fired from work. She asked me if, in retrospect, I see that this is simply part of the psychotic behavior that goes along with my illness since I acknowledge that its paranoia. I told Mr. PolarBabe what I told Dr. Tween: I cannot measure this. I do not have a mental yardstick for it. I still feel like no one likes me; that they talk behind my back. Especially now! During my delusional episode last month, I actually called a coworker and asked her to come pick me up. When she couldn't, I asked her to call 911 for me. That's just too salacious not to talk about! "Shhhhh...Crazy Ass Polar Babe has jumped the shark!" I didn't tell Dr. Tween that part though because that's realistic. I do think those evil motherfuckers at work are going through all my shit while I'm out, looking for my mistakes, to get me fired right now though. I'm sure there's someone who wants my job. Someone called me at home to tell me someone said they knew I had a Facebook page. I bet its her.

Mr. PolarBabe said he couldn't imagine why anyone wouldn't like me. We've been together almost 11 years and he knows me better than anyone. He's never understood this idea. He said that I am such a vivacious, funny person, that our mutual friends love me dearly and think the same of me. Well of course they are fond of me! They're my fucking friends!!! How would he know all the people who hate me??? They're gonna come to our house and tell him? Cheese and fries! Anyway...he said he could never understand why I would have such a low opinion of myself, or why I would ever think that. I told him I didn't know if it was so much low self esteem. I tried to explain why I can't see it. I can't stand living in this head of mine. There is this constant din...a clanging that won't stop. I am always told I overthink things, overanalyze things--by those very same people who love me and think so "highly" of me. Its true. It drives me crazy. I know it exhausts them. It is this wall that separates me from everything...from the world. I can't see past it, how can anyone else see me behind it? I can only see it, so it only follows that they can only see it, too. I hate it. I HATE IT. It IS me. It is not just this thing, it is ME. I hate when people say I have Bipolar. No, that is not correct. I am Bipolar, you are Bipolar. So tell yourselves what you want, you idiots who think you have Bipolar. You ARE Bipolar too. It's just like being at an AA meeting. Hi, I am [insert your name here] and I AM a Bipolar. What is all that other stuff people see, you ask? That's the stuff...well that's the stuff...

PolarBabe

Introduction, I think.

Being Bipolar came as a bit of a surprise. Well, the diagnosis anyway. I'd wrestled with depressive bouts my entire life. I didn't know anything about there being a Type 2 Bipolar Disorder, or something called hypomania. I just thought I was a moody bitch. So did everyone else, for that matter. I was that person...you know the one they say this about:

"You just have to get to know her."

At the age of 37, I was hospitalized under a 3 day hold for suicidal ideation and it was then that I was determined to be Bipolar type 2. What? What the hell is that? I thought Bipolar people got so depressed they couldn't get out of bed. My depression wasn't that bad. I just had been sad for about a year, suddenly couldn't stop crying for two days straight and had not been able to get the idea of tearing my wrists open with my teeth constantly for about two weeks, but I was able to get out of bed, for crissakes. That happens to everyone at one time or another, right? I never had a time in my life where was so "up" that I felt as if I had done meth and was wide awake for days on end feeling creative and cleaning the house until it was spotless or anything. Well, not unless I was...uh...on meth, that is.

Cut to reality: Type 2 isn't like classic Bipolar, which is Type 1. Surprisingly, Type 2 is much more common, and is often undiagnosed or misdiagnosed as unipolar depression. In both types of Bipolar I have mentioned, the depression is categorized as Major Depression (and of course, you can be functional and still have Major Depression). The opposite of depression in Type 2 is something called hypomania, and it is not the extreme high with which most people are familiar. The DBSA (Depression and Bipolar Support Alliance) website, www.dbsalliance.org, gives a great explanation of mood disorders. I would rather people visit this website for succint and accurate information, rather than anything I can provide myself. It's that important. Bipolar is a major mental illness. It's not a temporary affliction, nor a minor problem, easily resolved by a pill or two. This is probably the one thing I will be consistenly serious about. It's important to know and understand. By the way, there is a Not Otherwise Specified (NOS) and something else called Cyclothemia. I recommend you learn about them all. Someone you know might fit one of these profiles and might not be getting the help they need. IT'S IMPORTANT. It could be as important as someone leading a pain-free life filled with new hope and happiness, or averting the danger of suicide or other life-threatening disasters (as in the safety and lives of others). No joke my friends.

I've since had an upgrade to Type 1. Think Coach to First Class on the perceived Mental Illness scale. Great. I'd have settled for some frequent flyer miles and called it fair. THIS is not my idea of fair. No...Fucking...Way. You see, the difference between Type 2 and Type 1 is being a bitch and being really fucking crazy, respectively. Well, in the interest of my more sensitive Type 1 counterparts, I should qualify the really fucking crazy statement to say sometimes really fucking crazy. They probably won't like that either, but it's true. I'm speaking of the mania side of the illness, from which the term maniac was coined. So my Type 1 beepers out there, deal with it. We're batshit crazy sometimes. Get over it and stop being pussies over some words. That's all they are: WORDS. Some of us think we can fly when we're manic. Some of us think we're getting messages from God when we're manic. I recently thought my husband was going to rip my face off with a claw end of a hammer and run off with my best friend and that my family was in on the conspiracy and called 911 two days in a row, and then had to have him take me in on the third day. I had to write a note to myself during a lucid moment saying that he was not trying to kill me and that he loved me so I could see in my own handwriting that my illness was trying to trick me. I could have hurt my husband. Worse, I could have hurt my children trying to get away. They were certainly hurt seeing me taken away in the ambulance two days in a row. Being picked up from the hospital three days in a row. Being ferried back and forth to homes of friends. Having mommy locked away in the bedroom because she was "sick". So, I'm sorry, y'all. C-R-A-Z-FUCKING-Y. If this hasn't happened to you, either: a) you're lucky; b) your medication is working; c) you're in for a treat someday. You're still a nutjob, regardless. You sane people, that doesn't mean you get to disrespect us (or other people afflicted with a different mental illness). I may be irreverant and poke fun at mental illness, but you may not. It's that great double standard and I don't mind admitting it.) Remember that we whackjobs are no less human than you, and I'm fairly certain you have your own problems. So fuck off if you think you've got it better. I'm on to you.

If you're still reading this, I will have my rambling rants (or will just generally ramble) in the future. It's part of the illness. I'll do my best to contain myself, but this is a blog afterall. If I don't do it here, I'll do it in my daily life. I'm trying to appear as normal as possible, so I'm on a strict verbal rambling diet. Lucky you guys. Where was I?

Before I go on, I'll try to give you at least one Bipolar lingo translation per post. I think I just used one a little while ago: Beeper. Beeper = BP'er = A person with Bipolar Disorder.

Many of my posts will also be disjointed. Rather than apologize (I am doing my level best to fight the urge to actually do so--damn crazy BP psychosis) I will just say this will be one of the fun parts of my blog. Prepare yourself for the gymnastics of my mind, because you will surely get a mental workout. It just won't be one of those ones that Mensa recommends to increase your IQ and keep your mind sharp in your old age. For all I know it might have the opposite effect. Uh oh, paranoid flash (another lovely BP psychosis), should I have a disclaimer here? Just in case, read this blog at your own risk. These are just my rambling thoughts and are in no way designed, nor do I claim, to increase your IQ. Please consult your doctor before beginning any exercise program physical, mental or otherwise--and this is NOT an exercise program, unless you see it as an exercise in futility or an unfruitful way to kill some time. [Insert more legal mumbo-jumbo to protect myself here.]

With that, I am going to go grab an ativan and lay down for the half hour I have before I must get my son up and through his before-school routine. See you next post.

PolarBabe