Dear Random Girl in the Coffee Shop, I Don’t Like You

I’m sitting in my usual coffee shop, working on work, but the conversation taking place next to me is so intriguing that I can’t focus.  I completely stopped typing and sat here silently listening to them for a minute, but now I feel like I should type something.  Therefore, goodbye work and HELLO BLOG.

The couple didn’t even notice when I stopped typing.  I’m maybe three feet from these people, but I’m alone and with a laptop.  I’m invisible.

The girl has long dark hair that she plays with every time she laughs nervously.  She’s overdressed for a coffee shop and wearing a lot of makeup.  The guy is wearing a gray hoodie with a white t-shirt hanging out from underneath it.  I think she hopes this is a date, but I don’t think he does.

They had the “I can’t believe I haven’t seen you since graduation” conversation, so I know they’re old friends who haven’t seen each other in around a decade.

She was supposed to get married this summer – July 16 – but she broke it off.  This is when I started listening.  Why did you break off your wedding, make-up girl?  Why are you already trying to meet up with old flames?

WELL.  She didn’t break off the wedding at first.  They first postponed it to next summer, but then she called it off altogether.  Do you want to know why?  Hmmmmm?

Because he had bipolar disorder.

I kid you not, bloggosphere.  This is really what she said.  That’s the part where I went from casually eavesdropping to abandoning typing altogether.  Apparently he had an episode that landed him in psychiatric inpatient, and he was diagnosed with bipolar disorder.  She was going to go visit him, but then she didn’t.  This made me conclude that she is a bitch.

That’s probably unfair, since I know next to nothing about this girl, but I know that her fiance was in the hospital and she decided she didn’t want to go see him.  Then she subsequently dumped him.  So actually, I retract my former statement.  I do know enough about her to call her a bitch.

I know that handling a spouse with a mental illness is a challenge.  I know.  But to bolt as soon as he was diagnosed?  I mean, to not even give him a chance to figure out meds and stuff?  That hurts me on behalf of him.  She said she had to “look out for herself.”  Fine.  That’s fine.  I suppose that she hadn’t made her vows yet…she still had freedom to leave.  It just hurts.  Why is the word “bipolar” scary enough to make you leave, girl in the coffee shop?  His brain works differently than yours, but there are some awesome aspects to that too.  He can probably love you more deeply than an average human can.  He probably has other parts of his brain that work great – is he amazingly creative?  Is his memory exceptional?  He has strengths too, girl in the coffee shop.  If you couldn’t see that, then maybe you didn’t deserve him.

She’s currently lamenting the fact that he got to keep the dog.  I’m glad he did, girl in the coffee shop.  Maybe your dog will stick by him even though you wouldn’t.

Her “date” keeps saying things such as “what time do you need to get home?” or “I should probably go smoke soon…”  He’s clearly not into this coffee date, but she’s acting super into him.  I’m vindictively happy about this.  She’s a jerk, dude in the coffee shop.  Don’t give her a chance.

I have to go home now and leave this annoying girl to her coffee and her uninterested man.  I hope she one day finds the kind of love that won’t be shaken by a tiny word like “bipolar.” True love doesn’t run away, but her coffee guy is totally going to.

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The Debate Heard ‘Round the World

Since I frequently blog about insanity, it’s a wonder that the American political system hasn’t made an appearance until today.

This evening I will be watching the first presidential debate between Donald Trump and Hillary Clinton.  I will also be feeling a bit guilty, because I accidentally lied to some German students during the summer of 2105. They might still be mad about it.

I was in Germany with a group of fourteen other teachers, and we were visiting schools as part of our study of the German education system.  Trump had just announced he was running for president.  A group of students asked us, “Why is Donald Trump running for president in America?  Do you think he will win?”  EVERY teacher, from the most liberal to the most conservative, vehemently assured these tender German teenagers that America would never vote for Trump.  We didn’t even know why he was running.

Oops.

I thought about those German teenagers this morning.  I wondered if they would watch this debate, and I decided probably yes.  They were very interested in American politics.  Then I thought, how many people in how many countries will watch this thing?   Then my imagination started rolling… Here are the conversations I envision happening in various countries regarding this debate:

IRELAND

Irish dude 1: Hey chum, you wanna chill with me and me mates while we watch America continue self-imploding?

Irish dude 2: Sure!  I’ll pick up some Guinness on the way.

MEXICO

Mexican dude 1 (to no one in particular): America had better not elect Trump.  There is no way I’m building that frickin wall.  *eats a taco*

ENGLAND

British lady 1: Would you like a cup of tea?  Shall we watch the American presidential debate?

British lady 2: Of couse, dah-ling.  Who is running?

British lady 1: It’s Mrs. Clinton and that Trump fellow.

British lady 2: Oh bloody hell.

CANADA

Canadian guy 1:  Looks like America has gotten themselves in a pickle, eh?

Canadian guy 2: How’s our immigration policy?  Maybe we should build a wall…

SWITZERLAND

 

(No one in Switzerland watches it.  They’re always neutral, so their foreign policy game is a bit lacking.  For Switzerland, just imagine people enjoying a normal day.  Perhaps they hear a far off yodel).

GERMANY

German teenager 1: Stupid Americans.

German teenager 2: Yup.

(My bad, guys!  I’m just as surprised as you are!!)

clinton_trump_getty

Watching this election season is like watching a bad reality show where the winner gets a country.  Someone should suggest airing this debate on MTV, because that’s where this crazy belongs.  Does anyone else feel like politics has turned into show business but for ugly people?  Because that is what it feels like.

Ack! I just pictured Trump and Clinton as contestants on The Bachelor(ette).  Can you imagine the fantasy suite episode?  Stop!  Don’t imagine it!  The mental image buuurrrnnsss!  MAKE IT STOP!!

America’s a weird place to live right now.  I think I’d rather be drinking the Guinness and eating the taco.  But hey, maybe the contestants (oops, nominees) will surprise us and prove to be really knowledgeable, articulate, and respectful this evening.  We can always hope.  The fact that they’re there in the first place proves that in America, anything can happen.

Let’s Go Catch Stars

Last night I told my husband we should go catch stars.  Oddly, I think one of the main reasons I remember this is because he said, “You should probably go to bed now…you’re not even going to remember this in the morning.”  I generally have memory gaps when I get psychologically weird.

When he said that, I obviously thought, “Shut up, you sane person!  I WILL remember this!  Because this is my BEST IDEA EVER!”  And I willed myself to remember that moment, which I did.  So ha.  I win.

I’m not exactly sure why I thought catching stars was a great idea.  Every once in a while, I enter a psychological vortex that feels like the opposite of a panic attack.  It’s where I have a super great idea that we should go do right exactly now, but it usually ends up being something quite weird (when I remember it at all).  Last night it was catching stars.

When you think about it, catching stars really does sound fun (you know…if it was possible).  I believe I said that they’re just “hanging out up there” and “why don’t people ever go get them?”  They could keep them in jars like fireflies, and they could take one out whenever they need a wish!  I think then I said something about what I would wish for, but I don’t remember what I said (my husband didn’t challenge me to remember that).

Having a mental illness mostly sucks, but think about it – for a few minutes, I lived in a world where catching stars was possible.  Was it healthy?  Probably not.  Exciting?  Heck yeah.  It’s worth mentioning that sometimes my world is even more fun than reality, but I guess reality is a safer place to live.

Maybe I can’t literally catch stars, but I’m sure I could squeeze a “go for your dreams” metaphor out of that situation.  It practically writes itself.

Go catch your stars.  Metaphorically only.

Before I Throw My Computer Out the Window of a Fifteen Story Building, Maybe You Can Help Me

I’m ready to throw my computer out a window.  It will probably be out of a building at least fifteen stories high, because it’s much more dramatic that way.  Throwing a computer out of a one story building would be very anticlimactic.  It probably wouldn’t even break.  It would land safely in a bed of fluffy grass and look up and me like, “Na-na-na-boo-boo.”  So I’m first going to have to travel to a large city, take my computer to the top of a tall building, and THEN throw it out.  Then it will shatter everywhere into satisfying pieces, but it also might injure some passers-by.  Then I’ll have to deal with the criminal charges and/or the annoyance of knowing that my computer used its last bit of life to ruin someone else’s day in addition to mine.

OR…you could help me, and then I can avoid the technologically murderous rampage I just described.

I’m relatively new to this blogging thing (this baby blog isn’t even a year old!  We’re still on milk over here – it doesn’t even sleep through the night).  I’m trying to figure out how to work some things on WordPress, and it, erm, isn’t going well.  If you are able to answer one of the following questions for me, you could possibly save my computer.  Also, I will open my window and yell to the neighborhood, “I LOVE (your name here) BECAUSE (your name here) IS THE BEST PERSON EVER!”  I’ll really do that.  Scout’s honor.  Or I’ll yell whatever you want.  Dealer’s choice.  I just have to figure this crap out.

  • How do I add a button to my page?  I’ve recently been accepted to the Bipolar Bloggers’ Network (cheer!), and I’d love to put a button on my page for that.  Also, I’d love to trade buttons with other bloggers (I was a trading card guru back in the day – ask anyone who knew me in fifth grade.  I carried my binder around everywhere like the supernerd I was).  Trading buttons is basically like that except for grown-up and less bulky.
  • How do I make a button to represent my page?  I HAVE NOTHING TO TRADE.  This is awful.  Do I have to be a computer programmer to do that?  I didn’t do so well in my computer programming class in high school…but at least I didn’t make out with the class computer nerd in the back of his car to get him to write my programs (my best friend at the time did that, which she still claims was a good idea because she got an A in the class.  I guess people have prostituted themselves for less.  Maybe).
  • How do I make it so that followers will receive e-mails of my new posts?  A couple of my followers have asked me about this.  I know that on some other blogs when I clicked “follow,” I started automatically getting e-mail updates when they posted.  I want my followers to get this too so that I can lurk in inboxes all over the world like the creeper I aspire to be.  I know people who specifically sign up for e-mail can get them, but people who click “follow” are not getting e-mails.
  • What if people don’t want me lurking in their inboxes?  Is it annoying if I have posts e-mailed to my followers?  How do you feel about these bloggers?  I’d feel a little spammy, but at the same time it’s like, “If you don’t like me, don’t follow me.  Retreat back into your mundane, Hazel-free life.”  I won’t hate you.  Probably.  And you won’t care either way.
  • Why is your blog so much cuter than mine?  I have one of the standard blog formats, but it makes my blog feel a little amateur-y (which it is).  I want to be a cool blog, like yours where your title is all decorative and cool, you have a bunch of buttons (see question 1), and your design looks so fancy that you probably made out in the back of a computer nerd’s car to get him to make that for you.
  • How do I convince my husband that he should let us get a pug puppy?  Okay, this one isn’t directly related to WordPress, but it is still VERY IMPORTANT.  I wouldn’t have these technological rage issues if I could go play with my puppy, so therefore it is related.  Also, I could maybe train her to moderate comments for me, which would be very cool.

pug

Please help me out with these if you can…remember, I’ll scream whatever you want out my window!  I’m that desperate!  I’d even scream”VOTE FOR TRUMP!”  (Please don’t make me scream that…I don’t want to get egged.  Full disclosure: I might whisper scream that if you make me do that one.  I realize whisper screaming is cheating, but I just admitted here that I would do it, so now you can’t complain).

Thanks in advance!

Who’s That Random Guy Living With Us?

There’s a guy named James living in our spare bedroom.  He and his crazy dog Luna hang out at my house all day while Andy and I are at work, and he does mean things like eat all of the Cinnamon Toast Crunch AND all the peanut butter, which I don’t discover until the next morning when I’m stuck with a granola bar for breakfast (ew).

At least the dog’s cute….when she’s not eating my shoes.  Are shoes the textile equivalent of Cinnamon Toast Crunch and peanut butter?  Like owner like dog.

James has lived with us for about a month and a half now.  One of the most interesting things about his presence in our lives is trying to explain who he is when people see the three of us out together.  It’s always me and two guys, which doesn’t sound that weird until I find myself in all of these awkward situations.  Don’t believe me?  Check out these real life answers to the question, “Uh, who is that guy?”

QUESTION: “Uh, who is that guy?”

THE TRUTH:  He’s Andy’s friend from college.  He just graduated with a Masters degree in chemical engineering, and he’s living with us until he finds a job somewhere.  No reason to sign a lease and then get a job on the other side of the country, you know?  Okay, that’s the truth.  But who cares about that?  The truth is boring.

SITUATION 1: TALKING TO THE PASTOR:  I met the new pastor of our church, and when the two guys walked up the pastor said, “Hi, is one of these men your husband?”  I said yes and introduced him to Andy.  Then James jumped in with, “And I’m James, her other husband.”  Ack!  He said that to the pastor!   The pastor looked very confused.  I said, “No no no!  He’s just a guy who lives with us!”  Apparently this is also confusing (even though it’s true).  So then I had to explain the whole entire story, and now my pastor thinks I’m a freak.

SITUATION 2: ORDERING FOOD:  I stopped by a Mexican take-out place to get some food to bring to Andy at work.  As I was ordering the food, James went over to the salsa bar and mixed some salsas to make Andy’s specialty flavor.  As I was paying for the food, James said, “Here, I made Andy’s salsa. Throw that in there too.”   I said, “Awesome, you’re a great sister wife.”  The cashier gave us the straaaaaangest look, but I didn’t explain.  He’s a cashier, not my pastor.  I don’t owe him explanations.

SITUATION 3: MEETING NEW PEOPLE: Once, while we were at Andy’s work, one of his coworkers came up and said, “Hi, who’s this?”  James jumped in with, “Hi, I’m James.  I’m their butler.”  I liked it, so I left it.  So did Andy.  The guy looked really confused, looked at both of us, and finally said, “Wait, for real?  A butler?”  James said, “Well, I’m also their driver.”  Keep in mind, James was wearing shorts and a t-shirt with THE MOST RIDICULOUS yellow sunglasses.  He couldn’t have looked more un-butlery.  We tried to play it off, but finally we had to explain the truth (which, again, is so much more boring than the stories we make up).

SITUATION 4: THE SCHOOL PICNIC: Can you imagine if your teacher showed up to the school picnic with two men?  Well, that’s what I did.  My students all looked very confused, but what was I supposed to do?  Grab a microphone and say, “THIS IS JUST A RANDOM GUY WHO LIVES WITH US.  DON’T MIND HIM”?  It’s not like I could leave James at home…it would have been mean to eat all of the delicious school picnic food and then think of him at home with nothing.  Then again, he probably could have scrounged around for more peanut butter (*scowl*).  Instead, I just played it off like it was normal.  That worked until James came up and said, “Hey, a few of your kids asked who I was, so I said I’m your concubine.  They don’t know that word, right?”  JAMES!!!!!!  I think he was joking.  Hopefully.  We’ll find out at school tomorrow.

SITUATION 5: TO BE DETERMINED:  We decided that we’re going to buy James some dark sunglasses, and next time he goes somewhere with us he will wear all black, stand off to the side, and look menacing.  We won’t offer any explanation of who he is, but when someone asks we’ll say he’s our “security detail.”  We Hillboros are kind of a big deal.  We need a bodyguard.  We have a family reunion coming up…I think we might debut that look then.  It will look like we’ve really made it in life.

You might think, “Oh, this is Andy’s friend” would be a sufficient explanation in all of those situations, but think about it: why would I bring one of Andy’s friends to my school picnic?  Why would Andy bring him to work?  Why would we bring him to a family reunion?  It ends up seeming weird that we have this extra dude with us all the time.  Whatever.  It’s an odd situation, but it’s been a fun addition to our family.  Maybe we’re strange, but I’ve accepted that normal is far out of my reach.  That’s okay.  I’ll be happy with my husband and my butler/driver/sister wife/security detail.  Who knows what he’ll be next?

unraveling-the-mystery-of-content-marketing

Support Group a la Hazel

My therapist recently mentioned that perhaps I should attend a bipolar disorder support group in my city.  I told her that I have already attended our city’s bp support group.  Once.  It was before I had this blog to vent to y’all about how crazy ridiculous and unhelpful it was.  I told her that I’m not going back to it, but that got me thinking about what the best support group ever would be.  In my world, it looks a little something like this:

First of all, everyone who walks in is immediately handed a puppy.  You can’t be sad when you’re playing with a puppy.  It’s not possible.  If you are allergic to dogs, you can choose between a parrot that says nice things to you or a baby penguin.  I’ve never heard of anyone who is allergic to penguins, and they’re so fluffy.  Okay.  So when you have your chosen animal, you sit down in a lounge-type area that looks something like this:

lounge

There will be bowls of jelly beans on every available surface, because jelly beans are colorful and fun.  Even if you’re not eating them, just looking at them should make you happier.  I thought about providing ice cream, but that’s completely impractical because it will get all melty, and the puppies will try to lick it while you’re eating it.  (Somehow baby penguins made it to my theoretical support group, but ice cream was labeled “completely impractical.”  Huh.  Weird.).  Once everyone is settled, people have to go around and say what was awesome about their week.  Maybe it is something really fabulous: “I won fifty million dollars!” or maybe it is something mundane: “I got out of bed four out of seven days!”  No matter what, we appreciate what you share because it’s whatever you deem to be awesome, and we all love awesome.  If you have nothing at all, you can at least say, “I’m currently playing with a puppy/parrot/baby penguin.”  That’s awesome.

After that, we’re going to have our guest speaker talk.  The guest speaker is always a stand-up comedian, because laughter is medicinal.  Everyone knows that.  So we’ll all be laughing, and the puppies will be running around, and every once in a while the parrots will interrupt the proceedings by squawking things such as, “You can do this!” or “You’re beautiful!”  Then we’ll have pizza.  Because……pizza.

After that (only after all of the aforementioned activities!), then people will split off into two groups.  There will be the Struggle Bus group who will go and talk about their struggles this week, get advice on doctors and meds, and help each other out with the “me too’s” and the “this sucks” that can be helpful from a support group.  The other group will be called the Not Tonight group, and they’ll do some activity that has nothing to do with bipolar disorder.  They’ll get a distraction from all of the day-to-day drama that constitutes living with this illness.  Perhaps they’ll have a nerf gun fight (ten points if you hit a flying parrot, but minus a hundred if you hit a baby penguin.  They can’t fly away – that’s lowball).  Maybe that group will do a craft with their old pill bottles (they can reference this post for some great ideas).  Perhaps they’ll drag race muscle cars.  There are tons of possibilities here.

At the end of the evening, everyone will feel better than when they first arrived.  The Struggle Bus group will have gotten to vent, but they also will have gotten pizza, a puppy, and a comedy show – not a bad evening.  The Not Tonight group will have gotten a few hours of fun with people who understand their disorder, but sometimes it’s okay for that understanding to be unspoken.  They all knew that they needed to help each other forget life for a little while, and that was enough.

There will be a strict “No Wallowing” rule.  If you want to vent to feel better about something, fine.  If you want to ask for help, fine.  If you want to have fun and not talk about your disorder at all, fine.  But if you’re just there to whine and complain and you have no desire to feel even marginally happier by the end of the evening, then we’re not going to waste a puppy on you.  You can go straight to the Wallowing Corner, where we’ll have a giant pile of mud for you to roll around in until it’s time to go.  Don’t bug the rest of us.  It’s not that we don’t care about you, you see.  We made you a Wallowing Corner.  We just don’t want you to bring us down.  And you don’t want to feel encouraged.  So just hang out in the mud, okay?  We’ll bring you pizza if there’s extra.

Personally, I think this could be a very effective support group.  I would go every week.  I think lots of other people would too.  So if you have a crap ton of puppies, a few penguins, and a lot of money…call me up.  Let’s get this party started.

Wal-Mart Doors Can’t Tell Me What To Do

I have independence issues.  The fist full sentence I said as a toddler was “I’ll do it myself.”  Seriously.  That’s probably where it all started… *lies down on a therapy couch to discuss these issues*

Having a mental illness (or any serious illness) tends to rob people of independence. If I think a train is about to crash through my wall and I’m running away in panic…yeah, someone’s going to have to help me out with that.  If I’ve got a stubborn brain tumor that keeps growing even though it has way overstayed it’s welcome in my head…I’m going to need help with that too.  Hand over the drugs because I can’t, in fact, shrink it myself.  I’ve tried to Jiminy Cricket or Cinderella this sucker and dream with all my heart that it will go away…but DISNEY LIES.

Anyway, I think because of all of my medical crap and my loose grip on reality, I am always fighting to feel like a normal, respected human.  Maybe I’m even fighting to respect myself.  *puts arm on head dramatically as I lounge on the therapy couch*  The other day, I think I went a little too far.

I was walking out of Wal-Mart.  The sign on the door said “DO NOT EXIT THROUGH THIS DOOR.”  My honest-to-blog thought was, “Eff you, Wal-Mart.  You can’t tell me what to do.  It’s a DOOR.  I’ll go through any door I please!”  It’s not like it was a secret door to an employees only section; it was a clear automatic door leading to outside.  There is no reason why I shouldn’t have been allowed to use that door.  Wal-Mart was just trying to keep me down!  One more reason to hate Wal-Mart!

So I walked through the door.  No sirens went off, and no one stopped me.  I simply walked through, and I was outside.  Then I thought, “HA!  See, Wal-Mart?  You can’t control me!  I WILL DO WHATEVER I WANT!”  I felt jubilant.  I felt triumphant.  Then I felt like a complete weirdo and thought, “Holy wow, I AM crazy.”

Maybe life is about the little things…  I can’t avoid taking pills, I can’t avoid my tumor, but I can stick it to Wal-Mart.  I can be independent and rebellious on tiny things, and if that helps me avoid being rebellious on bigger things, then I say whatever.  Bring on the wrong door.

Bipolar Blackout

There’s a chance I cured cancer and I don’t know it.  On a darker note, I also could have robbed a bank and I don’t know it.  The chance of either is extreeeeeeemely small, but we’ll never know because I have complete memory loss about what happened from early September to the middle of October last fall.

I knew last fall was fuzzy in my memory, but who doesn’t have a hard time remembering things from a year ago?  I told my husband I am excited for this fall, because I was so mentally jacked last fall that I feel like I skipped it.  It’s the best season in Michigan.  I didn’t realize until this week, though, how complete my blackout of that month is.  Now I’m a little freaked out.

This week is professional development week at school.  Professional development week is when teachers sit around in mostly pointless meetings and discuss things about the upcoming school year.  This conversation happened yesterday:

Mr. T:  Should we do the raking leaves field trip again this year?  The one where we take the students to rake leaves for elderly people?

Me: That sounds like fun…but we didn’t do that last year.  You must be remembering a different year.

Mr. T: Ummm…we definitely did that last year.

Me: No, I would remember that.

Mrs. S: Hazel, you were a driver for the field trip.

Me: No I wasn’t!  *laughs nervously* No way.  You’re messing with me.  We didn’t do that field trip.

*everyone on staff looks at me like I’m crazy (which, you know, I am…BUT THEY DON’T KNOW THAT)*

Me: No way. *stops laughing, looks around nervously* Wait, really?  Are you serious?

All staff: YES.

Me: Huh.  I don’t remember that.

*everyone looks at me like I’m crazy again*

I cannot believe I forgot a field trip.  I tried really hard to remember, but I have literally no recollection of this.  Ask any teacher about the work that goes into a field trip, and they’ll tell you that there’s no way they could forget one, especially not one from last year.

That was a little creepy, so I decided to consult my lesson plan book and see if I at least have note of this field trip somewhere.  I keep very detailed lesson plans, so if we had a field trip, it would have been in my book.  I grabbed my lesson plan book from last year, turned to last fall, and guess what I found?

BLANK. PAGES.

I could hardly believe my eyes.  I had weeks between mid September and mid October where the entire week was blank.  I teach six classes five days a week.  That’s thirty little white squares staring at me with invisible question marks.  What did I do?  What did I teach?  Why aren’t there any plans?  Why can’t I remember anything from last fall?

The couple weeks in that period that did have things written had haphazard, half-baked lesson plan ideas written in only a few of the squares.  I have no clue what I taught.  It was so eerie…I never leave lesson plans blank.  I didn’t know I did that.  I don’t remember.

I know that last September was the deepest depression of my life, ending with a suicide attempt at the end of the month and a subsequent emergency psychiatric evaluation that resulted in a bipolar diagnosis.  I guess it’s logical that I wasn’t on my A-game at school, but I didn’t know I had done nothing.  I didn’t know I would forget field trips that I apparently chaperoned.  I tried to remember other things from this period: what was my first day of school like?  Can I remember the leaves changing?  Did I go to any football games?

I can’t remember any of it.

Isn’t that super creepy?  What if I did something awesome or awful?  I have no idea.  Has this ever happened to any of you, readers?  Do you have an explanation?  It’s like people who get drunk and can’t remember the night before, but I got crazy and can’t remember an entire month.  I suppose, in the grand scheme of life, losing a month isn’t that bad.  It’s not like a remember anything about my first thirty-six months.  I haven’t lost any sleep over that.  I hear it was a lot of bottles and diapers.

This one’s weird.  I haven’t had anything like this happen before.  I told Andy I was planning to blog about this, and he said, “Are you sure you want to write about that?”  I asked why I shouldn’t.  He said, “People who read that might think you’re…you know…a bit insane.”  They say that if the shoe fits, wear it.  Call me Cinderella to the glass slipper of madness.

If you’ve been reading this blog at all, you already know I’m a total nutter.  This one post isn’t going to make things better or worse.  Like Andy, you have the choice to stay or to leave.  He chose to stay.  I hope you do too.  Then again, if you choose to desert me…no big deal.  I might not even remember it.