Before this goes any further, I think you should know a little bit about me.

I am a 41-year-old single, bipolar, shopaholic, overly analytical, clutter-phobic, insomniac mother of one with a relationship rescuing complex. Meyers Briggs says I'm an ESFJ personality: The Caretaker. A people person with a strong need for approval. The "need for approval" part is my Achilles' heel.

Physically: I have great legs. Nice eyes, a nice smile, my father's nose (not a good thing), challenging hair and a small chest. Really, if you start from the toes and pan up, it's all downhill beyond the legs. Or if you just put me on my head, it's a direct downhill, and not nearly so difficult to explain. Not a dramatic, avalanche-inducing downhill, but my legs are as good as it gets for me and I accept that. I also know how to work it, and feign innocence about doing so.

My belly button is pierced, the victim of a 40th Vegas birthday celebration.

I have a fulltime job that includes required, daily, formula-variety writing.

I have an amazingly perceptive, smart, good-humored and cute 10-year-old son. I know every mom says these things about her child, but if you continue reading these posts, I'll convince you it's true.

We have a dog with an unrelenting funk, a cat who thinks he's a dog and two gerbils.

I drive a gold Saturn sedan with a spoiler and a sunroof that I thought was a pretty sharp car until we began meeting its identical twin at every stoplight in the city. I feel embarrassed, and frankly a bit angry, every time this happens.

I do yoga, which I think makes me sound spiritual and wise until I admit that I've never achieved the vast emotional benefits everyone talks about. Just taking slow, deep breaths is an enormous challenge.

I'm blessed - a word I never say aloud - with a wide and varied circle of friends.

My last serious relationship is four years in the grave.

I hate the words "blogging" and "blog."

Details on some of this stuff to follow. But that's plenty enough about me for now.

Back to the plan.