Oh for Shame...

Sitting in my little purple desk last night, waiting for class to begin my professor walks past me with a black bag. On the side of the bag it says in big red letters:


My mind automatically went somewhere very pathetic and very dirty. I really should be ashamed of myself, but somehow, after seeing what these things really are I just can't be.

Behold, the Pipeline Pig:

I'm still laughing.



Russ pointed out that I look like a wannabe gangsta' in the picture I posted. This made me laugh as it is the thing I am least likely to ever strike anyone as when they meet me in person. But the beanie, big ass sunglasses, smirk and slouch just don't do a gal any favors, do they?


Who we are...

I weigh 244.4 pounds.

I like to read romance novels when I don't feel well.

I withdraw into using vicious personal attacks to protect myself when I'm angry or hurt.

I am obsessed with lotions, body or otherwise.

I collect Alice in Wonderland books.

I want to weigh 135 pounds again.

I hate thong underwear, nothing should ride up your ass crack.

I want to publish something this year, even if it's just one poem in a small literary press.

I have bad knees and an absurd sense of humour.

I have awful spelling skills for a writer.

I am an overly picky eater and I fear this will keep me from traveling.

I have recently begun forcing myself to eat new foods.

I don't wash my hair everyday.

I collect old cameras, journals and love tacky knick knacks from the fifties.

I hate to eat my vegetables and so I don't make my children eat theirs, we often eat desert first because it's more fun.

All of these things make me who I am....Who are you?


Last nights assignment for class was to bring in a couple of representations of something visual. An ad, a picture, anything really. Most people brought in magazine ads. One woman brought in a parody of a pharmaceutical ad for Zoloft. Now, I take Zoloft, have for about twelve years. It manages my depression well and while I do experience some side effects from it, they aren't nearly what I got from say...Prozac?? Anyway. She starts talking about this little cartoon and I can admit it was funny, but then she says, "I brought this in because I used to work at a hospital and a lot of the people that came in as suicides were on these kinds of drugs. They make people suicidal." I almost bit my tongue in half.

I am really proud of myself for the sequence of events that followed. I waited until she was done speaking and then I waited as two other people made comments. Then I spoke up. I mentioned that I am Bipolar and that I'm on Zoloft. Then I stated that for me, being on both my medications is vitally important as they control different parts of my illness. One controls the mood swings and the mania and one controls the depression. Without one or the other I risk spiralling out of control.

What I didn't do (and this is why I'm proud) is call her an idiot who has not idea what she's talking about. I didn't point out that since she isn't trained in the field of psychiatry specifically and has no individual knowledge of the specific circumstances leading up to each and every suicide attempt making a blanket statement about the fact that people are on anti-depressants CAUSING suicide was a HUGE generalization. I didn't point out that a large part of the stigma associated with mental illness today comes from misinformation spread by people just like her. People presenting themselves as "knowledgeable professionals". I was seething on the inside, but on the outside, I was the essence of civility. Score one for me.

Do anti-depressants have side effects? Hell yes! I wake up every morning with cotton mouth. I get tingling in my hands and feet sometimes and occasionally, just for the fun of it, my left eye twitches. I am also one of the lucky few that got the sexual side effect of INCREASED libido. Joy! There are studies that have shown that anti-depressants prescribed to young adults can lead to suicidal thoughts. This is why they have begun avoiding prescribing those medications to that age category. Do medications get over prescribed? Again...Hell yes! We have become a society of the "quick fix". Give me a magic pill that will fix it now. Make it go away so I don't have to deal with it. So doctors just start writing prescriptions. Is that entirely the medical professions fault? I don't think so, I think we, as the public need to bear some responsibility for creating an environment where we aren't proactive enough in our own care any longer.

Before we make hasty judgements and generalizations about these kinds of things, we need to remember that even if a course of treatment isn't right for us, or the people in our family, it may help someone else.


Desperatly Seeking Dream Date

I'm not sure how many people are reading this nonsense these days, but I have a little challenge for those of you who do. In the comments, create a short personal ad for this lovely lady:


Only Eight?

According to this months Redbook there are 8 kinds of sex that every couple needs to try. I have two questions:

(1) Who decided there were only eight kinds?


(2) What happens once you try them all?



Because I can't keep my big mouth shut....

I know I haven't been around in a while, but this is one of those subjects I always have to chime in on. I was surfing blogs I've been meaning to catch up on and I came across a well written post at Red Stapler. Go on over and give it a quick read.

I have more experience with real life violence than I could fit into this one little post. I was abused as a child, tormented physically and mentally by school yard bullies, got swept up into violent fights in high school and saw the aftermath of countless violent acts. When I was fifteen the little boy who lived next door to my aunt found his father's gun and shot himself in the head while playing with it. His mother and grandmother were downstairs, but because the stereo was on all they heard was a loud "bang" and thought he had fallen down. They didn't find him for two hours. I helped clean up the aftermath so the mother wouldn't have to. I know what violence in the real world looks like, feels like, smells like....believe me, it's no television show.

That being said... What your children see on televison, in movies, read in books and hear on the radio doesn't "make" them violent anymore than sex education "makes" teenagers have sex. More and more children are growing up in violent environments. These environments are stimulated by poverty, lack of education and lack of intervention. The increase in violent media is a direct reflection on the situation in our society. Also, just like overexposure to violence at an early age can desensitize a person to it, so can an overexposure to sex, even the "healthy" kind.

Some people are more violent than others. Some people aren't violent at all. Circumstances such as home environment, mental health status and support networks factor into each violent act. You also have to look at things like alcohol and drug usage, boundries set by parents, school or other appropriate interventions. To what extent did these factors influence each given person?

To blanket the entire topic with "violence is everywhere" and then lay it at the feet of popular entertainment ignores the violence children see in their homes, in their schools and even on the nightly news. We TEACH them about war and death. Every night you turn on the television and there it is, staring at you. And the difference is, no matter how you try, you can't tell your child that those people will get up, wash off the fake blood and go home.

For a lot of parents, myself included, the difference between sex and violence in movies is a simple one. Blood and guts in a movie, on televison or in a game can be explained away the same way you teach your children that just because the Roadrunner can run off a cliff, doesn't mean he or she can. It's fake. It's a costume. It's pretend.

You can't say that about sex. You can't look at your teenager and say, "Well I know it LOOKED like he had his tongue in her mouth, but really that was just a camera trick." or " I know it LOOKED like she was naked and he was rubbing her breasts, but that was just pretend."

We should be more worried about the real violence alot of these children encounter everyday than the fantasy images they see. The media saturation is a symptom, not a cause. We should also focus on the fact that although there seem to be a lot of people ranting about how violent our society is, and how the media isn't helping, precious few of us are actually willing to do the one thing that would stem the tide almost immediately. Shut off the television. Don't go to the movie. Put down the trashy magazine. Don't by the next "big thing" they publish. Call the television stations in force and tell them we want them to stop showing such blatant images of death and violence. Very few people ever go beyond the complaining stage.

We all want to be able to bitch about it, but no one wants to upset their own comfort enough to actually do anything about it. It's the new American Way. We complain and complain, but when it gets down to the brass tacks of a situation, we don't ever really do anything about it.

I've never blown a giraffe before...

This weekend was spent hating the common cold, drinking lots of Alka Seltzer and watching random crap on the television. Two winners were found amid the myriad of reruns and mindless bullshit.

The first winner was The Food Network Challenge. I love watching the Food Network. I love the challenge shows and Iron Chef America. I just generally enjoy the idea that someone found a way to take food and make it EXTREME. This weekend they ran a couple of old shows I hadn't seen before and as I'm watching I hear a sentence that will make me laugh from now on. Dicussing how he will WOW the judges should he advance to the final stage of this particular competition, on contestant said, "I've never blown a giraffe before..." I'm sure there was more to the sentence, but at that point I was laughing so hard I couldn't see. Later in the same show the announcer said, in a very serious voice, "He's going to try and blow the dolphin again..." As before, I'm quite positive there was more to that statement, but the dumb ass teenager in me took over and my mind was overflowing with obnoxious comments.

The second big winner of the weekend was:

This is officially my new favorite action movie...of all time! This movie is so fucking over the top it's unbelievable. It is so improbable as to be impossible and yet it isn't cheesy. The one liners are fantastic. But the thing that cinched it for me? Clive Owen kills a guy with a carrot in the opening sequence. Yes, you read that right...he kills a man with a carrot. How can you not love a movie where the hero stabs a guy with a carrot and then says, "Eat your vegetables." ?

How was your weekend?


When the hell did I turn into a grown up?

As some of you may recall, last year I had tried the vegetarian lifestyle briefly. It didn't go badly, but because I'm just generally don't eat enough vegetables, I decided cutting meat from my diet would be akin to starving myself.

Well dear readers, let me give you a glimpse into my diet as it exists today. I now eat read meat about once a month or less (unless I go out to eat, then I may have a burger), I have started eating oatmeal like I'm a little kid preparing for a long day of snow time on the playground, and just recently I switched from regular milk to soy milk. It's that last one that really has me in a tail-spin. I picked up a small carton at the grocer the other night, fully expecting to hate soy milk as much as I hate tofu. Tofu is, I believe, one of the most heinous food stuffs on the planet. It resembles something I have seen come out of my children from both ends at one time or another and tastes sort of like moldy cardboard. That being said...I LOVE the soy milk. Not sure how that works out in the Grand Scheme of Things, but there you have it.

All of this has led me to the inevitable conclusion that at some point in time I have turned into a grown up, or at least a reasonable facsimile there of. I'm not sure if I am pleased by this discovery as I kind of thought I was a little like Peter Pan, only with out the weird tights. I shall ponder this and perhaps eat a candy bar. If only to prove that I can.

(Please note: Stupid Blogger is being stupid and I can't spell check. This makes me angry and I'm to lazy to copy paste tonight. Forgive my horrid spelling)


Love is for suckers...

As Valentine's Day draws to a close let's reflect on the day. I was up early, which sucked big time, and I have a cold so I felt crappy all day, but no biggie, I'll get over it so enough. I'm not a big mushy gushy kind of girl. I'm pretty simple and down to earth. This year, in plain English, I expressed the desire for a simple hand written letter from the hubby to mark the day. I made this request three weeks ago. I even told him I wasn't looking for fancy poetry or long declarations of undying love, just something simple.

Guess what I got? He waited until today and then, while I was taking a nap after the cold medication kicked in, he typed up a little note. Now, this really would have been good enough for me. I would have even been pleased with it..except...

He plagiarised a poem from some random guys website and tried to pass it off as his own. And it wasn't even a good poem. He stole a crappy poem. I guess he thought I would be more likely to believe it was really something he wrote if it sucked bad enough. And there's more...not only was it a shitty poem, it was a shitty poem this guy had written trying to sell it to a greeting card company. So it was a FAILED greeting card.

Apparently I don't even rate him sitting down and trying to write four or five lines telling me that I mean something, anything, to him. I can't even bring myself to say anything to him about it. I feel a little sick inside and a lot hurt. I feel cheap.

To quote J. Geils: " Love Stinks"

Pride Goeth

Last night, after days and days of 50 degree temperatures, we got bombarded by a winter storm. It didn't just start snowing, the sky opened up and a biblical amount of snow fell on our little slice of heaven. Last night I mentioned to my dear sweet husband that perhaps he should call his friend with the big big truck and ask for a ride to work this morning. He pooh poohed me. It continued snowing and I renewed my request that he call said friend and ask for a ride to work. We've only had the car for a week and my fear was that he would slide off the road into a ditch or a telephone poll, or heaven forbid, another car. I was again pooh poohed.

Fast forward to this morning....

It is still snowing. There is now well over a foot and a half of snow on the ground and while the main roads may have been plowed, our little side street has not. As hubby shoveled the driveway, we watched one of our neighbors with a newer car with better tires get stuck in the street. It was five a.m. Still plenty of time to call friend with the big truck. More pooh poohing from hubby. I mean, what do I, the insignificant wife know. I mean, I only lived in NORTH DAKOTA for most of my friggin life, right? I couldn't possibly know anything about how a car, low to the ground, with front wheel drive and non-all season tires is going to drive on 20 some odd inches of unplowed snow... pfftt...

Fast forward again....

It is now six a.m. and husband is ready to back the car out of his carefully shovled drive. I stand in the doorway and watch. Down the drive he goes and...BAM! He hits the street and the unshovled, unplowed roadway and STUCK. Tires spinning, car not moving...stuck. I watch him for a moment, then I pick up the phone and call his boss to let him know that my idiot of a husband will be late for work. Then I put on a pair of jeans and my winter gear and out I go to help shove the car back into the driveway.

I suggest that he try to call for a ride. Nope. He picks up his shovel and, are you ready for this? He starts shoveling out into the street. I swear. He shovels a good three feet out and then gets back in the car. He goes roaring down the driveway and GETS STUCK AGAIN. Only this time he's blocking the whole street because he's at an angle. I go out again and help shove the car forward so the car coming up behind us can at least pass and then I watch as he guns himself forward inch by inch, slipping and sliding the whole way, toward work.

I don't know what pissed me off more, the fact that I had to go out, at six a.m. and push a fucking car because he wouldn't just ask for a ride, or the fact that god in all his pot smoking wisdom (because I'm a firm believer that god tokes up) allowed him to actually get to work, thus vindicating him in his eyes and making it that much harder for me to win the next argument.

(NOTE: This post was going to have pictures, but blogger is being stupid at the moment and won't let me upload. I'll have to post the pictures later, which, admittidly, is a little anti-climatic.)


And people wonder....

I was supposed to have an appointment with my therapist today but my son has had the flu all week and I've gotten ill myself. Instead of taking a contagious disease into an office full of people I called in ten minutes prior to my appointment time and explained the situation and asked that she call me. I then waited until twenty minutes after my scheduled appointment time to call back.

This is what I was told: "She's on a crisis call, would you like her voice mail?"

If I had been there in person, she would have been in session with me and would not have been given a crisis call, but apparently, because I wasn't there, I just don't count. People wonder why men and women with mental illnesses don't seek the medical help they need, I can start a list for you if you want.

It begins with feeling marginalized. Because I have Bipolar Disorder I am often told I'm "overreacting" if I get frustrated or angry in situations where "normal" people would react the same way. I have to watch how and when I chose to allow myself to become upset. People who do things that are insensitive or rude can often blow it off and blame it on me having an "episode" so somehow it isn't really them. Even professionals do this.

How do you react to this? Where do you go with that? When you get repeatedly told that you don't get to have normal reactions to frustrating or upsetting situations, where do you take those feelings? When you, as a "normal" person get to be angry at someone, what do I as a "unbalanced" person get to do? I have to worry all the time about how I'll be received.

What a load of shit.
I named my MP3 player. Whenever I get done uploading music, my computer says, "You can now disconnect SERENA."

Most days, that's exactly how I feel.

Does this meet the definition of irony?