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Pretty Damned Cool!

Tuesday, May 31, 2011

I received this email from a woman at a website called "Masters In Psychology" a couple of days ago:

I just published an article on my blog entitled "Top 50 Blogs About Depression" (http://www.mastersinpsychology.net/top-50-blogs-about-depression,) and I'm happy to let you know that I've included your site in my article.

At first I was all like, "Yeah, so what do you want?" Then I checked it out and my little blog is the first one listed under blogs about bipolar! It's actually number 26, but hey, it's first under the bipolar section! The site is actually wonderful and has some great resources for depression of all types. I highly encourage anyone dealing with depression of any sort to check it out.

She, Michelle Parsons, also said about my blog,  "A simple blog entry on the third birthday of her granddaughter alone makes the blog worth reading." You can read that post here. My regular readers know the story well. Anna-Grace wasn't supposed to live but she did and she's more than thriving. Baby Diva ~hey the name fits~ is kicking ass!


Michelle Parson's email got me to thinking. So here I am Diva-ing around writing under the name "The Bipolar Diva" about all sorts of stuff, but not much of anything about bipolar lately.


I guess there are a couple of reasons for that. The first is that I really want people out in the general public to realize that people with bipolar disorder are just like they are. We laugh, we play, we cry, we have jobs (unless you do the Diva thing like I do), we work out ( I still haven't figured out a way to get someone to do that for me), we have good days and we have bad days. We're people that unfortunately have this stigma attached to us that for the most part isn't true.

That's not to say that there aren't those that are severely affected, even disabled by bipolar, and those that choose not to keep on top of the medicinal cocktails that many of of us have to live with. But damn it, for the most part we're just like you, it's just that sometimes our good days and bad days might be a little more good or a little more bad than the typical person's.

Another reason I think I haven't written about bipolar recently is that I feel pretty great lately. I haven't had any swings, any depression and everything, aside from the economy and owning a business (sucks!), anyway things are pretty good for me right now.And I haven't had any ambien related shopping sprees lately.

Feeling so good kinda scares me a little. Since I was diagnosed I've become all too familiar with signs of the different states of bipolar. Generally I'm on the happy side of life, but when things are going so well I always wonder if I'm going into "hypomania."

I found this great definition of hypomania on the WebMD website:

"...it's tremendous ... ideas are fast ... like shooting stars you follow until brighter ones appear... . All shyness disappears, the right words and gestures are suddenly there ... uninteresting people, things become intensely interesting. Sensuality is pervasive, the desire to seduce and be seduced is irresistible. Your marrow is infused with unbelievable feelings of ease, power, well-being, omnipotence, euphoria ... you can do anything ..."


So for me, at the moment, the stars are shining and there are brighter ones in the distance. Is it hypomania? Is it the medicinal concoction I'm on? Or is it just that I'm here, I'm back and I'm doing ok? I choose to believe the latter, that and the fact that I have one kick ass doctor!


Until later,


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Oh Crap!

Tuesday, May 24, 2011

It’s amusing how, in those foggy moments before sleep takes hold, ideas are plentiful and always seem brilliant. As I lay gazing at murky outlines dancing on my walls, with my head enveloped between pillows, I am amazed by my own cleverness. I chuckle out loud at as I drift off to sleep. I’m certain that when dawn arrives and the shadows fade my ideas will grow more distant with them. What I seem to be left with are remnants and flashes of rather ordinary thoughts.

One thought, however, stayed with me. It’s been with me for years.


On our first visit to Puerto Vallarta Jeff braved the cobblestone streets with a bad knee, a case of traveler’s diarrhea and no bathroom’s in sight.

“Make sure you use hand sanitizer,” I warned him before we left on our trip. I’m not sure if it’s his line of work in the construction industry, or it’s just a man thing, but for some reason my husband seems to be of the opinion that he is the “conqueror of germs” and their potent arsenal is trivial when it comes to his brut strength.

I’ve never had much of a problem traveling in Mexico. I drink the water at the hotel. I eat salads and have ice in my drinks. I’m not saying that I am indiscriminate in where I choose to eat, but I do keep sanitizer handy for use before and after everything, whether it’s exchanging money, eating or site seeing.

On that visit to Puerto Vallarta Jeff actually was much more concerned than I was with what he ate and drank. He only had bottled drinks and ate nothing uncooked. Unfortunately for him he didn’t take the time to wash or sanitize his hands often. After all, germs tremble at the site of him.

About the third day we both felt a little twinge of that familiar traveler’s bug. Neither of us seemed to be hit hard, only enough to lie low for a day and recover by the pool. By the following afternoon we felt fine and decided it was time to see the boardwalk area of Puerto Vallarta by moonlight.

It was a lovely walk through the lively streets of the colorful seaside town. We had picked the perfect evening for site seeing. It was the time of the week that the locals filled the center of town and the atmosphere was that of a summer’s night carnival complete with street performers and endless mariachi music. There were children running and laughing and young couples holding hands as the elder generation watched from benches alongside the beach.

Jeff and I were laughing and enjoying the sites when he suddenly grabbed his side and leaned up against a building. Knowing that he had been having trouble with his knee I asked if it was giving him trouble.

“It’s not my knee. I need to find a bathroom, fast!”

Remembering that public bathrooms are few and far between in Mexico I wasn’t sure what to do.
“We’re going to have to go to the hotel,” I told him. “It’s closer than back to the restaurant.”

“I’m not sure I can make it that far,” he managed to say between contorting his face and squeezing his stomach.

I grabbed him by the arm and started off, “You don’t have a choice. We’ll make it.”

As I tried to take the lead and guide him through the hazard filled street he begged me to slow down, he was having trouble walking with the stabbing pain in his knee and with growing storm in his gut. We would slow only to be reminded of why we needed to move more quickly.

“Teri I can’t make it!” he blurted out.

“Yes you can, I remember where a bathroom is. It’s up there a couple of blocks ahead. There was a girl attendant sitting outside,” I reminded him.

“I’m telling you I CAN”T MAKE IT!”

After what seemed like hours we reached the bathroom and he darted in. The attendant glanced up at him before shaking her head and looking down to continue reading her book. That’s when I saw another man walk up to her, pay for toilet paper and enter the bathroom.

“Oh holy shit!” It was then I remembered that there’s usually no toilet paper in the public restrooms, you have to pay the attendant for it. In desperation Jeff ran right past her and into the bathroom.

I stood there shaking my head, it wasn’t going to be good. I waited forever for him to emerge from the bathroom. Finally I saw him. He didn’t look well and rushed up to me.

“We need to get back to the hotel NOW.”

I noticed he was drenched with sweat. He reminded me of the anchor man on “Network News.” His hair was wet, there was sweat dripping from his face and his shirt was clinging to him.

“Are you ok?”

“As soon as I got in there and took my shorts down I exploded all over the wall, the toilet and the floor!”

I was trying to contain my laughter.

“There wasn’t any toilet paper was there?”

“Hell NO! I had to take off my underwear and try to use them to clean up, and there was another person waiting to get into the stall. There was shit everywhere, the smell was terrible. Then I saw a basket filled with toilet paper.”

Oh no, I couldn’t believe what he was about to tell me.

“I reached in to grab some of the paper and it was covered with someone else’s crap! I have another person’s shit all over my hands!”

A lot of the bathrooms in Mexico have baskets beside the toilets. Their sewer systems aren’t able to process the toilet paper. It goes in the basket, not the toilet.

I was really trying to contain my laughter then, it would only piss him off more if I let loose. That’s when I noticed there was something on his shorts.

“Teri, it’s shit! And, I had to throw away my underwear. We have to get back to the hotel. You walk in front of me so no one sees my shorts.”

“Ok, follow me.” I scurried off.

“Teri, slow down, my knee’s killing me. I can’t go that fast.”

“Do you want to get to the hotel or not? Do you want everyone to smell you as you walk by?”

“Ok, I’ll try to keep up. Just go,” he said.

As we half ran, half limped through the streets I knew everyone was staring at us. They had to smell him as we passed by.

Jeff was mumbling, loudly, about uncivilized countries, no bathrooms, no toilet paper and savages. That wasn’t going to help us if any locals heard him. I told him to keep his thoughts to himself and try to keep up with me.

Luckily when we got to the hotel there was no one else waiting for the elevator. We were able to make it to our room without offending another person’s olfactory sense.


After making it to the room he went straight to the shower. Soon he came into the room holding his pair of freshly washed shorts. Silk shorts. I realized it would be better if I said nothing about the possibility of them being ruined.

He put the shorts out on the balcony to dry and came to sit beside me on the bed. I could contain myself no more and burst into uncontrollable laughter. After a few terse looks, he too began to laugh.

We laughed forever before I told him we had to skype with the kids. I had to tell them that their father just crapped, not only his pants, but an entire bathroom.

When we got home from our trip I told him he had to take the shorts to the cleaners, that I wouldn’t do it. He said he took them in and John, the owner of the dry cleaners, looked the shorts over and asked

“What are these stains?”

“What did you tell him?”

“Nothing. I was trying to think of what to say when he looked at me and said ‘Never mind.’

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In Bed With A Diva

Monday, May 16, 2011



In case you've never given it much thought, and really why would you, it takes a lot to learn to sleep like a Diva.  Unless, of course, it's in your genes.




From as far back as most can remember the family line was derived from hard working, Texan farm people. Somehow that Texas country gene mutated. From that mutation came my grandmother Roxie. The above picture is of her on her high school graduation day. It was about 1939. 


Oh yes, the Diva-ness continued. This is her in the early 70's. In 1977, the year lung cancer took her from us at age 56, she bought a new, fresh off the showroom floor, Lipstick Red Lincoln Continental with white leather interior and white landau top. I know, I know, but it WAS the 70's.

Ms. Roxie, known to the grandkids as Denia (long story), was all about luxury and that also included her bed time life. Denia had a thing for long, flowing, flashy nightgowns with feathers, sequins and shit and satin sheets. I can't for the life of me figure out how in the hell she was able to actually stay in the bed with all that satin.

Well times have changed. I'm all about 1200 count Egyptian cotton, ironed sheets, a silk chemise, if anything at all, and three synthetic, yes synthetic, goose down pillows. I'm not having those damned little white feathers flying all around in the middle of the night. Especially if they might happen to come in contact with my nose.

I only use flat sheets on the bed. Those "fitted" sheets, well, they're satanic in my mind. They NEVER stay put and are a constant pain in the ass. I'm not one to want to referee a fight between a huge pillow top mattress and a damned fitted sheet. Forget 'em, I don't need the pressure, or another valium.

So here's the order: flat sheet on the bottom, another flat sheet on top of that one, then a light blanket covered by a third flat sheet. I know it sounds a little crazy, HELLO, bipolar, crazy, point made. Anyway on top of all of that it a matelasse quilt.

Right about now, after looking this over, I think I have a touch of night time OCD, Who in the hell am I kidding? I know it, you know it, why try to hide it? But, alas, it only gets worse. I pull back the matelasse quilt, the third flat sheet, the blanket and the second flat sheet and snuggle in between the bottom flat sheet and all the rest of the crap on my bed.

Next I Facebook a little, blog a little, pop an ambien, a valium and lie my head on two of the pillows. The third pillow? Well, you see, here's where the Diva skips town and the west Texas girl comes back, or maybe it's just the crazy in me. The third pillow goes over my head, all of my head except my nose, my mouth and sometimes my eyes, It can't cover my nose....I mean there is no way in hell that I'm going to breathe in already breathed in, and out, air. It's just not happening. Writing about it almost sends me into a panic attack. And I wonder why I'm in therapy.




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Public Data

Friday, May 13, 2011

This afternoon has been a quiet one. I was the only one home besides my yorkie, Martini. I was trying to catch up on blogs, FB a little, but mostly enjoy the quiet that eludes my house most of the time.

Then I had the bright idea of searching PublicData.com. I have a subscription to it in order to check out potential boyfriends/girlfriends of my kids, possible employees, and find out just where the sex offenders lurking in my neighborhood are. FYI, the sex offender search is free. You just type in your zip code.

Well, I happened to type in my son's name out of curiosity. Bingo. Hit. Busted.

Said son then walked into the house.

"Son, have you ever been arrested?"

"No Mom, why?"

"Well then someone with your birthday, name and description has, several times. Maybe it's not you. There's something funky about the description. 6'3", that fits, 190 lbs, that fits, brown hair, that fits. But under eyes it says none found."

"Well then, see Mom, it's not me. I still have my eyes."

"Not so fast Son. The address listed is MY address and the phone number listed is MY phone number."

Son laughs his nervous laugh and comes a little closer to inspect the records.

"Wow, Son there are records here from Clackamas County, Multnomah County, Portland Police and the Oregon State police."

"I swear Mom the only time I was arrested was when I ran away from home when I was 16 and they said my "magical" knife was a concealed weapon."

Oh how I remember the police officer calling me that day. He was laughing and apologetic at the same time. Seems Son was the ring leader of a group of kids that decided to run away. He bought a "knife" from a magic shop to "protect" them. The officer explained that it was an "artsy knife like" thing but it was over the length for a concealed weapon and he had no choice but to arrest my son. Just for the record I left Son sitting in the juvi cell for the longest period of time I could. I wanted him to imagine all sorts of torturous things I would do to him when I got my hands on him.

"Well Son, these are all when you were 18 and 19. Any explanation?"

"Yeah, I guess so. It all started when I got a ticket and didn't pay it so they suspended my license. Then I got caught several times driving with a suspended license. But Mom, I SWEAR I never went to jail!"

Boy how I love seeing the kids squirm sometimes.

Oh I love publicdata.com. You never know what you're going to find.


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Theories, Poodles And Slang

Tuesday, May 10, 2011

I've had nothing, absolutely nothing to say for about a week now. I know what you're thinking....."What the hell is she smokin' to have nothing to say."

Well it's true. I guess the change in medications has me off a bit. Writing has been a "want to but cant."

I was sitting around with the kids tonight asking them to give me topics. I was hoping one of their topics would interest me.

Nothing really jumped out so I'm just going to give you all of them.

Coins. I've bought 16 silver quarters. Not just any quarters but huge, 5 oz. quarters. There are five in a set and they commemorate five national parks. See, the thing is that only so many of these huge-ass quarters were made and collectors want them like mad. I sat around totally obsessed with getting these quarters. You had to buy online at a certain time. It took forever, but I finally got 16 of them. So I have them in for grading now and will sell them to collectors on eBay, hopefully making a nice profit.

Another topic that was thrown at me was my standard poodle with an attitude. Seriously, the dog will stare you down. She completely freaks me out. It's like she's doing the canine version of the Vulcan mind meld. Totally creepy.

Then my liberal (breathe Teri, breathe) son wants me to write about conspiracy theories of course. All I can say on that is no pics, no video, Wag The Dog, ratings boost and all that shit.

Next on the list was text slang. U no the sht kds use. I've told my kids that if I EVER see them texting in text slang I'll take their freaking phones. Same goes with Facebook. Their status updates damn well be in English and not in textlish. I am the keeper of their FB accounts and phones. I have total control. I am Mom the Dictator.

Now for Sara, my pregnant daughter in law. She is obsessed with baked potatoes and apple pie. Three potatoes today and now more pie. We have 6 more months of this. Oh, did I mention that she lives with me? So I have six more months of this.

We did a gender predictor test the other day. Basically you pee in this cup that contains this glitter looking concoction. You swirl it around and around to mix it. Then you wait for it to change colors. We got green. Green means boy. They say it's right 50% of the time.

Oh yeah, the baby, my 14th grandchild, is due on Thanksgiving. Of all FREAKING days to be due! I guess it could be worse, but not much. I planned on eating, a lot, that day. Now I'll probably be gnawing on a turkey leg while telling Sara to push between bites.

That's it, that's all I have.

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