deadlines and diapers

I'm getting into the habit of blogging here right before I go to bed. The house is quiet. The dishes are (finally) done, and Buttercup is asleep (for now.)
Blogging here is kind of like dessert. Or a prize for a job well done. I've finished some freelancing for the day, so now I get to play. For a few precious minutes, anyway.
We went to IKEA today, and Buttercup was a total peach the whole day. She and Butterfly, her baby-friend who is just one day older, were living it up in their Ergo Baby Carriers, and Angel and I probably sold 10 to moms who stopped us to chat.
I spent way too much money, but that's bound to happen when you drive 45 minutes just to shop. At that point, the trip has to be worth it, right?
So I walked away with a new comforter, a few duvet covers, a ton of little things for Buttercup, and a wish list for the next time we go back.
Last night, I was so close to canceling the trip because I was just overwhelmed, tired, and depressed. I didn't, of course, but only because my mother had already arrived at my house so we could just pack up and go come morning. And as upset as I was the night before, I'm glad I went.
I'm still a bit off...but I know that it's got a lot to do with the fact that I'm probably in need of my happy pills again (it's more fun to say than Prozac), and the fact that my insulin levels are jacked to all hell right now, which affects my depression levels and, of course, the size of my ass (as in: the bigger it is, the more I think my life sucks).
Stick around long enough, and you'll probably see me go in the stages from depressed to motivated and feeling good to promising I'll never go back to being depressed (and fat, which are kind of synonymous in my book) again.
It's kind of like the self-imposed drama that is my life. A writer is supposed to be torchered, right? Well, here's me, doing my best to give myself material for the Great Mexican American Novel I hope to eventually write.