Last night...

I was with my husband at a restaurant when I found myself needing to go to the bathroom. I excuse myself and go find the restroom. While I am in the stall doing my business, I hear another woman come into the bathroom and take the stall next to mine. As I am enjoying a nice long pee...I hear:

"This is strange music to be playing in a country themed restaurant, isn't it?"

Now, I don't answer the woman because I assume she is talking to someone else who might have come into the bathroom with her. I finish my pee, zip up and proceed to hit the sink for some handwashing. The woman comes out of her stall and says:

"Don't you think this is strange music?"

Not that it matters, but the music was Sheryl Crow of whom I am a big fan. But I digress. What disturbs me is that this woman asked me a question while I was in the adjoining stall. She presumed that I knew she was talking to me. By the sink, I simply smiled in acknowledgment of her question and got out of there ASAP.

It got me thinking...why do women feel the need to strike up conversation in the bathroom with other women? I have been asked about my shoes, where I got my purse, what sort of makeup I have on, who cut my hair, etc. It's like there is this secret society among women who pee. There is a union, a bond while we use the ladies room.

I go back to my table and ask the hotband about male bathroom etiquette.

"Do you guys chat with one another while you are in the bathroom," I ask.

"There is an unwritten rule," he replies, "aside from a polite nod of acknowledgment, you don't talk to anyone while they are peeing. Definately not while they are in the stall."

"So no one ever asks you about your hair or your outfit?"

"Absolutely not. You don't even glance over at the other person. There is no communication...except maybe at the sink, you might make a passing comment about the weather or something, but nothing personal."

I relay my story to him and tell him that this is not the first time that I have been engaged in conversation in the bathroom. I admit, somewhat sheepishly, that I am guilty of this as well...but always at the sink and never while in the stall.

"Except for Mr. Fab," my husband says, "I cannot think of anyone who chats at the urinal. I can see Fab saying 'Whoa mama! God was generous to you, huh?' because he is like that. Most men though...we don't talk in the bathroom. It's just an unspoken rule. Take a poll on your blog. You'll see. Men don't chat in the bathroom and women do. It's just the way it is."

So I ask you, ladies and gents. Who of you have engaged in unsolicited bathroom conversation? Do women have an unspoken bond in the bathroom where no question is too personal? Do men all understand the no talking rule in the mens room? What crosses the line? Is tampon talk acceptable in the ladies room while sports talk is benched in the boys room?

Today on Dr. Phil...

I watched a show about "baggy jeans" and the boys who wear them slouched down below their asses. Apparently, someone is trying to create a law to make boys pull up their sagging pants. They are writing songs about it. One gentleman went on to say that the art of "saggin" started in prison. He was also quick to point out that "saggin" spelled backwards, is "niggas". He wanted to show that the root of this issue was buried deep in the african american culture and not in a positive way. As always, Al Sharpton chimed in, making it a race issue rather than what it really is. It's a fashion statement, no different than when I wore forty foot shoulder pads on my neon jackets back in the 80's. Another pastor thinks that there should be laws to eradicate the wearing of "saggin" pants. I think that is a bit extreme for while I don't want to see someones crusted underwear ass, I also don't feel the government has a right to come into my home and dictate to me what my child can wear.

And, while we are on the subject, why aren't we making the same moves to outlaw these chicks who let their thongs stick out of the back of their pants? THAT is disgusting and to me, smacks of low class. But, if we start delegating dress codes nationwide, that would probably disallow my love for low cut blouses. I love to show the tits off. They are huge and fun and in surprisingly good shape for a forty year old woman who breastfed two children.

The point is, how far into our bedrooms are we going to allow the government to go? How deep into our lives. I would smack the crap out of my son if I caught him sagging his jeans and exposing his boxers. To me, it is disrespectful not to mention extremely tacky. I say the same for girls who expose their panties and bras through their clothing. Undoubtably, there are some people who find my low cut blouses to be obnoxious and a bit overbearing. I get that. While I respect a persons right to be disgusted by a certain fashion statement, I feel that turning something like this into law wastes taxpayers time and money. Do we not have better things to pursue?

What's your opinion on "saggin"? Does it sicken you or do you think it is just a fad that everyone will come to regret later in life...like the mullet?

As I Get Older...

I realize that I am seeing many people die. I am not talking about the Frank Sinatra's and the actors/actresses that make it well into their 80's. I suppose I am feeling a little affected by the sudden death of Heath Ledger. The man was 28 years old and had the world by the balls. It reeks heavily of the similar demise of Anna Nicole Smith and moreso of my own personal tragedy of losing my friend Derek in November. Drugs. It's always drugs.

I have my own little special cocktails that I enjoy. As a manic depressive, I have access to pain killers, anti psychotics, sleeping pills, anti anxiety drugs and the like. There are times I choose to mix and match til I find something suitable for making a person feel high for awhile. I am always careful with my mixing and matching and know where my limits are. And, then again, what exactly makes me think I am so invincible that I couldn't possibly fall prey to my own addiction. Yes, it is an addiction. I have access to weed, but I was never really big on the smoking of it. I know where I can get cocaine from, but I had a severe problem with that back in the 80's and I am not willing to bring that monster back out of the closet, even if the high is the greatest I have ever known. I've dropped acid. It's overrated.

And so, I stick to my pharmaceuticals. A nice mixture of Percocet with a Vodka and lemonade is enough to get mama going through the night. I don't do it nightly because Lord knows, the more you do, the higher your tolernace becomes. Before you know it, it takes twice as many pills to do less of the job. I have very few vices, but this is absolutely one of them. I would imagine that if your life included celebrity status, you can get the best of everything anytime you want and delivered anywhere you'd like. There's always a doctor willing to write a prescription if you seek them out...or put them on your payroll.

Then, someone dies. Someone like Derek who was only 28 years old. Someone like Heath Ledger who was only 28 years old. Both of them were actors...Heath being professional and Derek who died trying to make it to the big time. Both of them died from an overdose of drugs...mixed and matched until it became a lethal concoction. I think of myself at times like this and realize how stupid, teetering on the precipice of insane my addiction can be. And, no mistaking, it is an addiction. I panic when I see my bottles getting low. I think of the next time I can get to my psychiatrist for more pick me ups...or rather, put me downs. Before my mania was controlled, I had insane and intense sexual urges that ruled my life. I gambled with my life like a poor schmuck at a black jack table playing with his last five bucks. It changed my life, ruined me as a human being, caused two of my marriages to suffer. You don't want to know how many other marriages suffered because of me as well. I just didn't give a shit. I don't care if he is your husband, I am going to have him and ruin his life...and yours in the process. Me? I'll be great. I'll be on my merry way in the morning, ready to stalk new prey.

The drugs have made that go away. Not a moment too soon. It's my skeleton in the graveyard of bones buried deep in my closet.

It never ceases to amaze me that the very things that can destroy a life can also save a life and vice versa. So, when I see people die from this sort of cross controlled substance abuse, I cringe a little. It could be me someday. I can get a little too risky with my body and my poor little brain will just shut down. Perhaps my heart will give out. Maybe, like Derek and Heath and Anna Nicole, I will just peacefully fall asleep and never wake up. People will grieve. Others will shake their head and sigh...another life wasted, very much the same way I did when I heard that Heath Ledger died.

Looking at someone else's mortality tends to make us look a little closer at our own. I think for tonight, I will put away the bottle and skip the drink. I will take my medications as prescribed and remember that someone somewhere will suffer indefinately at the thought of losing me, let alone the actual event. I think I will honor the lives of those who died by making sure it's not me.

It's a very sobering concept for a drug addict to wrap their head around without the assistance of the little white pills that allow us to sleep a little longer than we probably should.

What's so bad about waking up anyway?

I have a confession...

I am in love with professional wrestling.

It started innocently enough. My 12 year old was caught up with it. He has posters and action figures. I got to know the names of the wrestlers and eventually, what group they are with. Now, I am addicted.

Yes, I know wrestling is all fake and gimmicky, still, I can't help but watch it. I have favorite wrestlers and I know their signature moves. It's embarassing that a well educated woman like myself actually is in love with this nonsense, yet here I am on a Monday night watching RAW. Tomorrow I will be watching ECW. Friday night, it will be Smackdown. Thursday it will be TNA Impact.

There is nothing complicated about wrestling. It's very easy on the eyes, not just because it is filled with hunky men in their underwear, but because it is mindless entertainment. There is nothing to think about. It's also a good opportunity to bond with my son.

However, tonight, my son is at his fathers house so I really have no excuse to be watching this right now. I rationalize it by saying, well, now I will have something to discuss with my son tomorrow. Lie. I truly enjoy watching it. I am trying but failing to keep this from my husband. He has begun calling me a redneck. (Of course, he just went to a monster truck show in the mud and thinks that THAT is a cool sport.)

Regardless of how fake it is, I still think these men are amazing atheletes. They still get hit and hurt even if it is a bit contrived. I appreciate their acting ability too. It's better than a lot of reality television.

Two months ago, I went with my son to a live match. I have been hooked ever since. The stadium is so loud. The pyrotechnics are amazing. The sweating, heaving bodies of these men are just...oh my. Hell, I even love watching the "divas" in their pillow fight matches.

It's a humiliating admission, but one I felt the need to get off my chest. I hope you all don't think less of me now.

I think it would be nice if you shared something embarrasing about yourselves now...why should you have the goods on me? Come on. Make it juicy.

Kill Me Now.

Tell me. I need to know. What the hell happens to children when you tell them to go to bed? Suddenly they become thirst driven, shit machines that need to get a glass of water, go to the bathroom and tell you all about their fucking day even though they have been home for seven God damn hours already. I am ready to bang my head against the wall for the sheer joy of it. I don't understand it. Nicholas is 12. I love the kid. Truly I do. But, when it comes to bedtime...

(Oh lookee! There's my son again, standing at the doorway wanting to talk to me!)

See? I would love to have finished my sentence, but my son decides that 11:42 pm is the right time to talk to mommy about why kids pick on other kids.

Shall I wax the poetic to my son as I blog? Shall we get into this huge discussion now even though I have told him to go to bed since 10:30 tonight? Should I really indulge him and start to chat? I think not. GO TO BED, FUCKER.

Of course, I don't say that, but I think it really, really loud inside of myself.

This is why married couples don't fuck. Really. It's not for lack of want or lack of love. It is for lack of privacy between the hours of 6pm and 12am. I don't care what time you put your kid to bed. Invariably they end up asking for water, to pee, another kiss goodnight (which isnt bad, but when it becomes an excuse...it is highly annoying) or various other things. When the hell is a married couple supposed to fuck? How?

I would inquire further but the following is taking place now that it is 11:50pm.

"Mommy. Mommy. Mommy. Mommy." (This is being repeated over and over from the other side of the house. Mommy is trying to blog. Child is not allowing her to complete a thought.)

"WHAT???"

"Thank you!!!"

"FOR WHAT??"

"My new toy!!!"

*sighs*

"You're welcome, baby. Goodnight."

"Oh, and Mommy?"

*SIGHS* "Yes Nick?"

"Thank you for being such a good mommy."

"Thank you Nick. I love you."

"I love you too, Mommy. Oh, and Mommy??"

"Yessssssss Niiiiiiiiicck???"

"Can I get some more water, please?"


See? The little sucker got me again. He knows I was pissed off at his repeated attempts to stay up and then, got me with the good boy routine. He is diabolical. The child is a master of manipulation. Now I feel like shit. This is probably the feel he was going for without realizing it. Hm. How can I stay up, have a conversation with my mother...and make her feel REALLY bad for yelling at me to go to bed. Hm. I know! Let me thank her for the gift she bought me five hours ago! Let me tell her what a great and wonderful Mom she is! Then, when she finally feels like dogshit, hit her up for a glass of water! Yes!!! What a great idea! Hm. Let's implement it now and see how the old hag reacts!

I don't stand a chance.

I have recovered.

After a two week break from blogging, I am feeling more energetic and willing to share my life once more.

In truth, I have been struggling with my illness. I have never made a secret of the fact that I am a diagnosed bipolar with mild schizophrenia. It is controlled very well by the medications that I take. However, once in a while, I fall into that puddle of muck called depression.

When depression takes over, it is a hinderance to my life. Everything suffers. It's not a mild depression, but one that renders me helpless, keeps me bound in my bed and not eating or sleeping for days. It is never "triggered" by an event but rather, is just part of my brain function. It drains the creativity from me and I find myself with nothing to say. The thought of blogging will make me cry, because I feel I have nothing to offer to the outside world. I stay away...or I make a quick YouTube post...anything to fill the silence on this blog.

This time, I opted to just stay away. A self-induced sabbatical until I felt whole again. I am still not quite there, but I found it necessary to explain my absence. I have been having horrible nightmares for the past two weeks, all of them involving my ex boyfriend, Tony, who I have written about on this blog numerous times. In November of 1991, Tony beat me within an inch of my life, using my cranium for baseball practice. He swung a bat at my skull and placed me in a coma for 3 months with brain swelling and multiple skull fractures. When I fall into a deep depression, I find myself obsessing over Tony. I find myself on the internet, searching for him just so I can be sure he is no where in Florida. On the other hand, I get intense urges to find him so I can kill him. I am a woman of God. I have faith in the Lord and in my Jewish heritage. I know that first and foremost, though shalt not kill...and yet, I have severe desires to kill this man. It has only intensified with time instead of dissipating. This only adds to my depression because it makes me recollect a time in my life that I would prefer to forget. My mind does not allow me to forget let alone forgive, though I know that is what I should do. I have so much venom in me that it only exacerbates the mental illness that I already suffer with.

And so, I fall into a silence. Not just here, but in my homelife as well. I stay in bed for days, panic stricken, unable to hold a job, unable to breathe at times. It seems that the beating from this man only continues to keep a hold on my life. I have been to therapy, counseling and every type of support group. I can't identify with the women in the support groups. We aren't the same breed. They seem so hollowed out and victimized. I don't exude that same emptiness when I am out and about. I sail through my days confidently and with great exhuberance for life...until the depression hits. Thankfully, they are few and far between and only render me helpless for a week or two every three months or so. That's the trade off. Instead of living dead for the rest of my life, I fall into the grave once every three months or so. My medications allow me to function and I do so much more than exist. I live. I live my life to the fullest every single day...even when I am struggling with it.

So why this? Why should this be the first post of the New Year? Old news in a new year? No, this is more of an apology to those who wrote me emails addressing their concern for my absence. I never answered any of you, not for lack of want but for lack of ability. I haven't been online very much except to read an occassional email. I haven't been a very good blogger in the past two weeks, let alone a good friend to anyone in my life...virtual or otherwise.

I have made a resolution to try to do the simple things when my depression is on the attack. Small goals, baby steps. Something as simple as dragging my body into a shower is a major accomplishment when the depression hits. I resolved to forgive myself for not having anything to say. I am learning to embrace my illness and remind myself that when mania steps in and dissolves my depression, that I am gifted, talented and shine like the sun.

I am desperately trying to find "normal" and am only now realizing that it may never be in the cards for me.

Generally, I save posts like this for my "bipolar" blog, but I feel the need to use it to let others who suffer with these cumbersome depressions to know that it is temporary. It is possible to rise from your bed, make it back over to the things you love and embrace those things. I pulled myself from bed to make this post, despite the fact that I have a laptop laying alongside my bed. It was a huge deal to rise up and head toward my computer in the living room. The whole world is going on around me and it is time to become a part of it.

When I read the post below this one, I can understand why I nestled into this hotbed of depression. I abused my body. I drank until I could no longer function. My brain is not wired for that sort of abuse any longer. It goes against all my medications and undoes all the good they should be doing for me. This one was entirely my fault.

But God, did I have fun at that party.

Still, this is the first post of the New Year, the one I will look back on when it becomes December 31st of 2008. This is the one I will re-read and see if it has made a difference in my life, or anyone else's for that matter. This is the one that I will reflect upon and hopefully, smile with the success of knowing that my resolutions have come to fruition.

This is the first day of my New Year. Welcome to it.