So Sexy...

Today, oh how can I describe today? Well for one thing it was all about me and those are the best kind of days.

Started off with a sexy Brazilian sugaring. I love it! The girl that does it is named Kate and her shop is called "Sugar Me." It's incredible. If you've never tried it, what in the heck are you waiting for? Just do it! (I threw that in for Andrea....she's pure Nike)

Then I had a 1:00 appointment that canceled on me so I came home and got a few things taken care of and then off to my local Harley dealership to get some new goodies on my bike! Now THAT'S exciting and oh so sexy!

You can't really see it in this picture but that's a crystal ring around my speedometer! I know, I'm all girl, but I can still kick your ass!

 See my "get back" whip? It's the pink and black braided whip hanging from the clutch lever. It's totally awesome! Back in the day they were usually only for 1%ers and showed club colors. They're called Get Back whips because they could be quickly released and "encourage" whatever the perceived threat was to "get back."

Then the much needed clutch lever clock. Believe me, I want to know the time when I'm out there. Not really sure why since I usually have no agenda that I need to be on time for. Call it one of my little OCD things.

And now for the new console. The other one was more bulky and really pretty ugly. I think this one is more streamline and a little more feminine, as if my bike needed anything more feminine. Oh well, I like it.

Yeah, yeah, yeah, I know I got this air cleaner last fall in Reno, but it still kicks ass!

And last, but not least, the Diva's choice of footwear for the day, biker boots and leathers. See the patch? It's a pair of broken wings. It's worn by Harley riders that have gone down while riding. You all remember the story of when the woman hit me and left me unable to walk for four months? No, no, I'm not still pissed off at all about it. 

None of this may be sexy to you, but to me...heck a Brazilian and lots of new bike parts......that's what I'm talkin' about!

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All Is Well, For Now

Wow, I got through yesterday by the skin of my teeth. Today, however, was good, great as a matter of fact.

The day started off great and only got better.

Just thought I'd let you all know since I got tons of email and there's no way I can answer it all today.

Tomorrow meeting with the psych. I'm sure we'll go over it all and I'm going to try to get her to prescribe Tanqueray Ten and Tonic into my med regimen. I have a feeling she won't go for it, but you never know unless you ask right?

I think I've really gotten off track because my workouts have gotten off track. Guess that's a reason to get my butt back to the gym.

Oh, and coffee today.......fan-freaking-tastic!

Thanks for being there everyone. Love you!

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Not The Regular Post

Let's see if I can get through this. Punctuation, spelling and grammar can kiss my ass today.

Bipolar along with an anxiety disorder majorly sucks ass. Slept like hell last night and woke up in the middle of a full fledged panic attack. So fun , so fun.

It got so bad I had to call the psych's emergency line. I hate doing that I always feel like such a wuss. I should be able to handle it right? I mean with all that I've been through what's a little panic attack?

Well if you've never had one you're not so sure what's going on. The space around you closes in, your heart beats a thousand times a minute, you're shakey, I happen to throw up during them, that's always a fun little effect. And my vision closes to where I don't have any peripheral vision.

This it taking forever to write. I took two 10 mg valium and it wouldn't let up so I had to call the psych's emergency line. Seriously you feel like you're going to die.  She called me back ASAP and walked me though taking even more medication. Geodon and two 1mg xanex. Said I can take two more xanex over the next several hours.

I know this is boring as hell, but you know this blog is called "The Bipolar Diva" for a reason. Most of the time it's tolerable, times like today suck big time. She as me locked in my room for the day and totally medicated to the hilt. Everything is a blur.

Luckily I haven't had a panic attack in several years, not to this degree anyway. I'm locked in my room, I'm safe, the kids have the razors and all my meds except what the doctor ordered. She's making me eat apples and drink milk.......uh, major yucko since I hate both.

Guess bipolar isn't all fun and games. Sometimes it gets unbearable, like today. She told me to write. ok, what in the hell am I going to write when I have all this medication on board? Something totally incomprehensible?

Two more big doses xanex are in order and I think I'll be sleeping the day way.Today I could probably shoot up the xanex and would probably not bother me at all.

Ok, I'm rambling, I think anyway. I always think of Heath Ledger during time like this. I hate mixing my meds, especially at such high doses. I surely don't want to wake up dead.

Ok happy, normal people this seriously drugged up Diva is slurring. This is taking forever to write. I think I'll try to sleep.

Oh, and Auntie SuSu, I did confirm how much I can take without doing the Heath Ledger exit.

Damn it! I'm out of Tanqueray Ten and Tonic! Double damn!

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No XX Here!

Disclaimer: Ok, this is only an observation. I'm not condemning nor am I condoning anything.

After diving head first into Harley sub-culture a few years ago I had to get the gear, you know, the leathers. I wanted them mostly for the protection they offer, but I loved the fringe benefits. Most, some, a few women look great in tightly fitted chaps. And the chaps HAVE to be tightly fitted for that sexy look to allow for stretching.

The first ride out in my new found hotness gear left me with a stress fracture on my knee. I didn't know it was a stress fracture at first. It hurt, it was swollen, I had to see the doctor, yada, yada, yada.

I made a phone call to set an appointment and was told that there was only ONE doctor in the ENTIRE practice that could see me that day. It was a female doctor that I'll call Dr. XY. I was shocked, but intrigued.

I'd never seen Dr. XY before but I'd heard all of the salacious gossip about this physician. In our small town rumors and rumors of rumors spread like wildfire. Dr XY had been married for 30+ years, was an accomplished pilot, a parent and one of the founding members of the largest medical practice in our little area. Dr. XY's secret was also the topic of many "over latte" discussions.

I was sitting in the office waiting for Dr. XY to come in after I'd been x-rayed. Suddenly the door was forced open and this whirlwind of a doctor came blowing into the room. In one swift motion a short, stubby, cankled leg, with a dowdy shoe, forced up the frumpy skirt and kicked the door shut.

I tried not to stare, but it was impossible. Dr XY wore the most hideous outfit EVER created, badly applied, and over done, make-up and a terrible excuse of a wig. Yes, you see Dr. XY was bald. Dr. XY was also an XY, chromosomely speaking.

A few years before Dr XY, now you know why I picked "XY," chose to have his "his" parts removed and replaced with "her" parts. I'm not sure why his wife, as in still married, didn't give old XY a few make-up tips and a little help holding that creepy wig in place.

Back to my story. Dr. XY glared at me from the start.

XY: ::Shaking the x-rays in front of me:: "Do you have ANY idea what crashing a motorcycle at 60 mph is like?"

Me: "No, I didn't crash."

XY: "I used to work in the trauma center!" XY's twitching forehead made the wig fall a little more off center. It was then several inches longer on one side and the bangs were all tweaked out.

Bubble thought here: "Your point? Airplanes crash all the time killing multiple people in almost every instance and you still fly."

XY: eye twitching now and make-up running, "It's like falling out of a SIX STORY WINDOW!"

I just stared at this curiously dressed person that was struggling to keep the bad wig in place and the cheap mascara from running.

XY: "Why in HELL would you CHOOSE to do that?!"

I sat there in disbelief trying to decide what the heck to say.

XY: "Well, I asked you WHY you would CHOOSE to do that?!"

Me: "I guess we all make decisions that others might not make."

Dr. XY huffed, threw down the x-rays and left me sitting in the room. Dr. XY never returned.

I wonder if he/she knew I was speaking of the wig?

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A Question For You

Ok guys, I have a question for you all. Please give me your answers even if you read and don't comment much.  I believe it's a fundamental first amendment question.

So if you wrote a truthful post and someone asked you to remove it, how would you respond? Would you remove it or would you exercise your first amendment right and cling to one of the basic foundations of our constitution?

While I can understand, to a point, the request, I believe that my right to freedom of speech, as long as it's truthful, is undeniable. I did remove a follow up post because, truthfully, it was on the edge and I did remove a picture.

The subject of my post was un-named and unknown by all but a handful of people that have encountered the same situation of which I wrote.

So tell me, what would you do? Gucci, I expect a brilliant commentary from you.

Ok, one more hour and I'm off to the Redwoods. I hope to post pictures and tonight I have scheduled a past post that I find particularly funny. It also has to do with an un-named (does a hyphen go there?) subject that only a handful of local people will know.

See ya soon!

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And I'm Off

Packing up the Harley tomorrow and leaving for Northern California to ride the Redwoods! Can't wait.

Maybe I'll post along the way, maybe not. But either way I hope to see you all soon!

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And Your Explanation Is?

I'm hooked up with Blog Tracker. It has your usual tracking features, ya know pages visited, total visitors, geo location, and key words.

I was just looking at it and it seems as if someone from my past life is pretty damned interested in what's going on in my present life and if I'm writing about them. Come on, it was a life time and a restraining order ago and I think you could let it go already.

Searches have included "Bipolar Diva" and "Ex." "Bipolar Diva" and the ex's name, the ex's kid's name, the ex's occupation, etc. All from the same IP address using Safari and a Mac. Unfortunately there's not a geo location listed so I guess I'll have to type in your IP address into google and see which of you it is.

If you're so interested in what I have to say about my past life with the person and his family, you know how to get a hold of me on Facebook. I know you're smart enough to know that when I comment on my son's status you can tell who I am and you, if you're not too lazy, can go to my profile and message me.

Why all this super sleuth stuff? Come on already. Big Brother is Watching you, or I should say The Bipolar Diva is watching you.

Here, how about this. I'll tell you about my day and you can be all happy you found out something about me.

• Woke up and had to call AAA to have my truck taken to the shop. 
• Got in my car and drove to Starbucks where I had a double tall, whole milk, one splenda latte and a slice of lemon pound cake.
• Went to the gym, 24 Hr. Fitness, and worked my quads, glutes, calves and hamstrings. 
• Came home and went over Quickbooks stuff with my daughter
• Had a protein shake
• Took a shower
• Went to counseling
• Went out for sushi
• Went mattress shopping
• Came home and talked baby names with my son
• Blogged on my secret site that there's no way in hell you can find
• Came to bed with my yorkie and my laptop
• Online shopped. Bought make-up and Chanel No. 5 lotion, I'm not out of the perfume yet
• Now I'm taking my night time medication and looking up your IP address.

And to save you time for the rest of the week:

• Tuesday workout and eye appointment
• Wednesday workout and psychiatrist appointment
• Thursday leaving town on a motorcycle trip
• Coming home on Sunday

If you have any other questions about what I'm up to 25 years later, message me or leave a freaking comment. Quit this sneaking around bullshit. Oh, and I'll put all of your search terms into the label box so this will be easier for you to find.


Have fun,

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Let's Talk About Starbucks' Toilets

Yep, you read that correctly. Starbucks. Toilets. Ahem.

As per habit, I stopped by Starbucks this morning before what was to be an amazing motorcycle ride. Lot's of coffee and a long ride ahead  meant I had to make sure I went to that bathroom before I left.

Oh great, the door was locked. I waited and I waited, not a good sign. She was in there a LONG time. It wasn't gonna be good when she left I was certain.

Finally she walked by and I was so very glad I had put on Chanel No. 5 lotion before leaving this morning. You know when you get in a bathroom that smells a great perfume or lotion up to the nose is the ONLY way to make it through without totally puking.

Sure enough. Hands to the nose. Problem solved. Well it was solved until I looked into the toilet. ::gagging here::

I'll just say that she really should have waited to make sure everything was whisked away. Oh Holy Mother of God, I was about to lose the lemon loaf I'd just consumed.

"Breathe, just breathe." My hands were in use, they were not coming away from my face, so I flushed the toilet with my foot. I totally can't pee with someone's poop floating around in the toilet.

Guess what wanted to hang around just to make my day complete? Yep, you've got it. It was the poop that wouldn't go down. So I foot flushed again, and again the, ahem, shit came right back up. I was getting the feeling the day was so gonna suck.

I foot flushed again, there was no way on Earth I was going to smell anything, especially if I had to look at it too. There it went, going, going, gone. Uh, not. It came back! The damn stuff came right back up!

If I didn't have such a long ride ahead of me and if I didn't have to pee so badly I would have left. I wasn't in the mood to watch unnamed lady's reappearing poop.

I foot flushed again and there it wen.....not so fast. It was back. "Oh please God," I thought, "please, please let it go away this time." This time we actually made progress, it was half in and half out.

I foot flushed again and again. Finally, I swear, on about the 11th or 12th flush it was finally gone. I watched to make sure it wasn't going to magically reappear. It was gone, it was really gone.

Now for my next task. How in the hell was I going to get my belt undone, my chaps undone, my zipper and pants down with my hands up to my nose? And if, just if, I could get all that done, how was I supposed to get it all put back together with my hands at my face?

Let's just say it wasn't the best Diva day. Oh, and Jolene, tell Tim the damn toilet is a piece of crap!

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Happy Valley Moms Redux

Yes, I know this is, this is Oregon. How shall I say it that's PC? Is "recycle" still PC? Maybe "previously posted" would be better. Hell I don't know. It sure as hell isn't green, you see, I don't do "green." But tonight, tonight of all nights I think "reposting" this is appropriate. Yeah, we're rockin' a little Happy Valley drama around here today and I was feeling a bit nostalgic. Feeling a little bit like "Just who in the HELL do you think you are mutha?"


So here we go one more time, ya know, just for old time's sake. 

Happy Valley moms aren’t really any different than the moms of any other affluent town. Many volunteer at the neighborhood school and make it a point to get to know the other Happy Valley Moms. Their white collar husbands work eighty hour weeks and the moms themselves stay home, keep the house immaculate, and run kids to dance, soccer and lacrosse.

For the most part their hair is blonde, some natural but most is “enhanced” and always perfect. They have well manicured nails, constant pedicures and see their massage therapists on a regular basis. No one is supposed to know, but everyone does, that they see their “counselors” monthly, sometimes more, to discuss the hardships of being a stay at home mom with their 2.5 kids.

The kids, by the way, also are generally blonde haired, blued eyed, perfectly dressed and stars in school. During the mornings you’ll find the moms in the neighborhood Starbucks dressed in new matching workout gear and pristine cross-training shoes. Their flaxen hair is pulled into ponytails and the requisite Dolce Gabana or Chanel sun glasses are propped snuggly on their heads. They’ll grab a bottle of filtered spring water along with their lattes before jumping into their leather upholstered cars to head for the gym.

BMW, Lexus, Land Rover and Mercedes are the cars of choice and they’re always perfectly spotless and gleaming. You’ll find them parked neatly in rows away from the “other” cars in the parking lots in the community. Many of the cars are also labeled with the stickers of the liberal politician of the day.

The Happy Valley Moms are always outgoing and seemingly friendly. However, it’s mostly a façade. If you’re not a part of their bunco games or volunteer organizations (which are impossible to penetrate) they’ll politely rip you apart over margaritas and tapas at their weekly gatherings.

Yesterday after coffee and on the way to the gym I glanced into the rear-view mirror of my Mercedes and screamed “Holy freaking shit! I’m a Happy Valley Mom!” My highlighted blonde hair was pulled in a ponytail and was shimmering in the sunlight that streamed in from the open sun-roof. I had my Chanel sunglasses on and my designer bag was at my side.

There was a bottle of filtered spring water in the cup holder next to my latte. I could feel my heart race as I froze in that horrific moment of realization. I quickly ran through my lifestyle, searching for anything to separate me from that clique. OMG! There had to be something! I had to find it before I hyperventilated and wrecked my Mercedes.

It wasn’t looking good. I had just had a pedicure and my massage appointment was scheduled for the next day. I kept driving and saw my therapist’s office on the right hand side of the road. The sight of it jolted me. I grabbed the wheel of my car and jerked it back into my lane. My latte spilled all over the leather interior. I needed a xanex. I could feel a panic attack coming on.

“Breathe Teri, breathe” I kept repeating to myself. I reached to turn down the volume of the entertainment center. Wait! That’s something! I had to turn down the volume of my new Nickleback CD. No other Happy Valley Mom would be caught dead with a Nickleback CD in their car. Ok, good. That’s a start. “Keep going Teri. You can do it”.

The pressure was on. I ripped the Chanel glasses off of my head, pulled the hair tie out of my hair and let my chemically treated tresses fall around my shoulders. “I’ve got it, I’ve got it!” My 2.5 blonde haired, blue eyed kids totaled eight at last count and they were far from the stereotypical Happy Valley kids. My kids are black, white and conservative.

My husband, while the owner of a company, is blue collar and my house is anything but immaculate. Ok, now I’m getting somewhere. Hey, what about the Harley, and the tattoos? My breathing slowed and my heart began to return to a normal pace. The secrets I told my therapist weren’t ones of the trials of raising children they were much darker and much deeper.

I never volunteered at the schools (the political bullshit makes me wanna puke), my kids were home schooled, another difference between us. Then my thoughts wandered to a subject that I hadn’t thought of. Yes on the outside I looked like the typical Happy Valley Mom, just like the other moms. How did I know what they told their therapists? What if they had wanted more kids and couldn’t have them? What if their husband’s jobs were on the line? What if, what if, what if? (Here's a thought, maybe, just maybe, they were too busy talking about other people that it never once crossed their mind that therapy was actually for them.)

When I stopped at the red light I pulled my hair back into a ponytail, put on my Chanel sunglasses and turned up the volume on my Nickleback cd. I couldn’t judge them anymore than they could judge me. The light turned green and I drove on to the gym. I wasn’t a Happy Valley Mom on the inside and they might not be either. For all I know late at night after the 2.5 kids are tucked into their designer beds a glass of wine is poured and a joint is lit.

The moral of the story? So glad you asked. The moral is that those that live in glass houses, how does that go again? Oh yes, those that live in glass houses have skeletons that are easily seen. 

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When Your Psychiatrist Tells You To Get Your Nose Pierced

Pretty much great day all around. We're gonna cover it in bullet form. Cool with you? If not, so sorry. My blog, my rules and tonight I say bullet form.

• Got my sweat on at the gym. Evidently it's working, got told I have killer biceps. Yea me! I think my delts are pretty rad too, but that's just me.
• Daughter tells me a kid in my 4 yr old grand son's swim class wouldn't leave him alone so he began aggressively biting at her in the air like a snapping turtle. The picture of him doing that made me laugh so hard I kept dropping weights in the gym. I'm sure everyone thought I was totally looped. 
• Saw the psychiatrist today. She want's me to try this Israeli defense program called Krav Maga for my PTSD. She said I need to be in a "fighting sport." It kind of freaked me out, ya know with my toe cancer and all I don't know if hand to hand, or foot to face, combat is such a good idea.
• Then she told me I was a rule breaker, like she was, and I should get my nose pierced. I seriously love her. But the thought of a pokey thing through my nose cartilage makes me need to take a couple of valium. I think I'll consider it though. I know that her telling me I was a rule breaker totally shocked you all. Sorry about that.
• It was bike night at a tavern here and I don't think I've had so many men talk to me in years! The one with the lamest pick up line said "I saw your bike in Reno at Street Vibrations last year." I'm still not sure if he was trying to pick me up or my bike. I have to admit, my bike is pretty hot. But, dude, that was totally lame. I think I'd rather have a drink with the old guy that was howling like a wolf at absolutely nothing.
• Then I had the most interesting ride home. I only wear one contact. I use the eye that it's in for reading and my other eye for distance. Completely forgot that at night it makes me lose all depth perception. On a motorcycle, not such a good idea. Freaked myself out more than I care to admit. 
• And the perfect end to a pretty awesome day was coming home to my Martini. Not the drink, but my yorkie. She wuvs me. She's also seriously spoiled, and a bed hog!

My Martini

Man magnet

Snapping turtle

Now valium, sonata and something else I forgot what it's called have been ingested. Lights out. Gotta try to get a kid into the Job Corps tomorrow.

Ciao,

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I'm Pretty Sure I Have It Figured Out, Sort Of

I think I'm dying. There's no other explanation. Yes, I think I've convinced myself that I'm in my final days. I know, you're (see Gucci, I can do it!) thinking dramatic, Diva-like behavior. It's not, I swear!

I've had this pain for a few months now. First it was only when I wore stilettos......I know, I know....5'12" with 4" heels.....get over it. It's a statement after all. Of what I'm not sure, but I tell myself that because I LOVE stilettos.

Ok, I'm off track. Back to the pain. It's continual now and it's in the joint of my right big toe. I've, with my vast medical knowledge, narrowed the possibilities to arthritis, but you have to be old for that right? Gout, another old lady thing and SO NOT Diva-like, or cancer. Yes, I think I have cancer of the big toe.

So first thing tomorrow morning I'm making an appointment with my primary care doc to tell him my diagnosis.

Ouch, it hurts and I DON'T do pain well. I know somewhere in my pharmaceutical arsenal I'll be able to find some vicodin at the very least. If I'm lucky, oxycontin.

Yes people, that is my bedside gun safe. Not only do I keep my Walther .380 and a magazine filled with hollow points inside, I keep it filled with my meds. Now if I can only remember the damn code. I knew I should have gone for the biometric model.

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Until Next Year...

It was when I awoke Tuesday morning that I first heard the voice of a woman whose name I hadn't known until the week before, a woman that I've "known" online for over a year. While I slept she left me a voice mail saying that she'd missed her plane, the plane that was to bring her to Portland, to my house to stay with me for a few days.

Disappointment filled me and anxiety began to cast it's shadow. She doesn't carry a cell phone so the only way of contact was by email. A variety of circumstances prevented us making contact until late in the afternoon. It was so late that catching a flight that evening was going to be impossible. We got everything worked out through dozens of emails and were able to get her booked on a flight the following day.

The next evening, Wednesday, as I drove to the airport I knew I'd recognize the woman that I'd never seen, not even a picture. I knew I'd know her.

While driving through the maze of cars to the pick up point I carefully looked through the crowd. It was at the very end I saw her. I called her name. She turned and saw me. I jumped from the car to hug her, after all we were, are, friends. I'll never forget the look on her face as she looked into my eyes. She stared at me as if she was trying to discern if it was really me that was hugging her, or some random Oregonian.

On the way home we stopped at a restaurant so I could eat, she'd eaten in the airport. I wanted a quiet place we could talk before being assaulted by the herd of kids that call my house their home.

It was nice, it was quiet. We talked, and we talked more. We got to know each other in a way you can't really online. I could look in her eyes and see her depth.

Finally we finished and drove to my house. All the kids and dogs were there to greet her. I can't believe her bravery having to live through such a meeting. But hey she's from NYC, I'm sure she seen worse, or at the very least something close to it.

We got her settled in her room. She was exhausted from the flight and the days leading to it. We said goodnight and went to our various rooms for much needed sleep.

The next morning we were off and running. First we went for coffee and then I took her to a little area here in Portland called NW 23rd. We walked the quaint blocks, browsed in the shops and had lunch at one of my favorite places.

Suddenly the day of walking and talking had to end, it was time to go. After all the rest of the kids were coming over for hamburgers that evening. She had no idea what she was in for.

The night went pretty well. The kids were calm for the most part and we laughed and we talked and laughed some more.

Before we knew it bedtime was upon us. The next morning, yesterday, she had to leave. She had to be back in NYC. She's a singer and had a show to do tonight (Saturday).  Some of you may even read her blog, Classic NYC Story. If you don't you really should swing by and check her out. You might even decide to stay a while.

I'll treasure our time together and hopefully I'll get to see her again next year. Blogher is having their convention in NYC next August. It's one I just might have to make.

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Laugh? Cry? Priest?

You know those days, well in my case weeks, months....who in the hell am I kidding? Years, you know those years (you probably don't because you don't live my freak show of a life) if you don't laugh you'll cry?

Well I'm laughing my butt off right now. Hysterically, really, can you hear me? Ok, maybe not hysterically and maybe I do have a tear in my eye but I'd never admit it to anyone but you, the entire blogosphere.

You see I have this Landrover. It's a beautiful car and totally luxurious. It's fun to drive, awesome to look at and totally frustrating.

It's been dying when my daughter drives it. First we had the battery tested. Yep, battery was bad. Replaced the battery. All should be well, right? HA, remember this is MY life. I seem to exist in this drama filled bubble.

Car kept dying. Took the POS to the shop. It was there for two weeks and they couldn't get the problem to reproduce. Today I decided to have the kids pick up the Rover and bring it home. Maybe it was a fluke. HA again!

Nikki started the Rover right up and drove to the gas station. She turned off the car so it could be filled with overpriced fuel. Went to turn the car on....nothing. NOTHING! It was perfect at the mechanic's place, you know, kinda like when your kid's head is spinning 'round and 'round while they projectile vomit pea soup and when you take them to the pediatrician they're all like they came out of a Shirley Temple movie? Yeah, that's my Landrover. Possessed and Shirley Temple without the grenadine. 

Someone please pop this drama bubble I live in. Or better yet, any of you good with Landrovers? I surely could use your help. At the moment I'm thinking of using the thing for target practice!

I just had a thought. It only happens when Nikki drives it. Hmmmm.......I may need a priest after all.

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Cocaine And Alcohol. Let's Par-Tay!

It's tragic that some people choose to live that way, especially when they are carrying a life. That  life, that child, didn't choose to be born cocaine and alcohol addicted. That child didn't choose to be affected by Fetal Alcohol Effects. That child didn't choose the cards they were dealt. But they damn sure can choose how they play those cards.

A few of my kids were dealt those very cards. It's been interesting to see how they've played them. A couple have gone off the deep end and decided to return to the very life they came from before being placed as my children. It's a shame, but it was their choice.

One of my children, my daughter Nikki, was dealt a pretty shitty hand. On her hospital records the nurses noted "infant smells like a brewery." She was also filled to the brim with cocaine. She was three pounds of pure addiction. You can read more of her story here.

Turns out my little "Cupcake" can play a mean hand of cards. It took me three years after her high school graduation to talk her into taking one college class. I wanted her to get her feet wet. I wanted her to meet people. I wanted her to know she could succeed.

Today when I drove up to the mailboxes at the end of our cul-de-sac I heard, "MOM, I PASSED! I MADE IT INTO READING 115!" I could see each and every tooth in that sparkling smile. She was practically jumping up and down.

As soon as I got in the house she showed me her test results, her face beaming. Then she took the paper and put it on the refrigerator for everyone else to see. She was SO proud of herself, and she should be. 

She hit a milestone today, not really making it into Reading 115, but by gaining the confidence to know she can do it.  She didn't let her learning difficulty get in the way. She worked her ass off and she played a royal flush. She hit the jackpot. She knows her future is in her very capable hands. My baby girl won and she has a mom that's saying, "I knew you could do it!"

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I Think It Would Be Really Cool

I was riding my motorcycle the other day. While I was riding I was thinking of my Dad and my brothers. Dad rode a motorcycle for years before I did.

I got my bike a couple of years before he died and although he was a bit un-nerved by me riding I think he was proud too. When my bike got totaled he was pretty freaked out, but he was still proud.

When I was riding I was thinking how cool he would think it would be to ride with all of his kids at once. I think it would have been cool too, awesome as a matter of fact.

Now I need to make sure I at least ride with my brothers. I guess a trip to Texas is in order sometime soon. I'll rent a bike and we'll ride and ride. We'll ride for Dad.

Dad and Nikki. He had a Goldwing that he had converted to a trike when his knees went bad.

My brother Joel 

My brother Eric, AKA Moose, and my niece Sydney

Me!

Even my sister in law, Tina, rides now. 

Yes, it would have been cool for us all to ride with Dad. After we ride maybe we'll visit him at his resting place, toast him with some Tanqueray and Tonics and pour one for him too. Mom, I'll take her coffee.

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Want To See A Diva Come Unglued?

Beautiful summer morning. Starbucks. Perfect latte (why can't Jolene make my latte ALWAYS?) Laptop. Quiet. Makes sense to me. What can possibly be wrong with that picture? Well the clue can be found in the first three words of this post.

All you moms, and probably Cheeseboy, will get it right off the bat. Summer. That's right summer when all the kids are out of school. Unruly, noisy, screaming, chair pulling, brats are out and about with their beaten down parents.

When did parents stop being parents? When did the kids decide to take over the earth and rule by shrill screams and slaps to the face? I think it was about the time, duh duh duh.......don't shoot me here, but I have a sneaking suspicion it was when parents decided to be their kids' friends and not their parents.

Kids need boundaries folks, as a matter of fact they crave them. The way I see it walking through life with no boundaries is kind of like walking along a wooden bridge 300 feet over a canyon without handrails, not the canyon, the bridge.

We all have to live by limits. We all have to be respectful of others and that begins with little ones. It's really not the kids' fault that they're running around screaming like little stuck pigs, it's the fault of the parents.

It was all I could do today to bite my tongue while the wild bunch of kids ran, screamed, threw, and fought in Starbucks for what seemed like hours this morning. All the time the mom and dad were saying "Stop that," "you need to be quiet," "leave your sister alone," and my favorite of all time, said over and over, "if you do that one more time...." It's funny, the parents never said what was going to happen if the kid in question did that one more time. It's no wonder the kids kept at it until the frazzled parents grabbed a kid under each arm and left Starbucks crying themselves.

You could hear a collective sigh of relief when the family exited the store. If those kids act that way now, when they're 4-7, what in the hell are they going to be like when they're teenagers? What will they be when they're grown? Congressmen and Senators?

I'm by no means a perfect parent. My kids will tell you flat out that little fact. But something my kids did only once, maybe twice (except for the one with the disability) was to question what I said, at least in my presence. They knew I meant business. They knew their limits. They knew I had duct tape and I wasn't afraid to use it.

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