So, I got the prescription for “a low-dose SSRI” yesterday (casually mentioning it to the nurse who gave me my flu shot like it was no big deal) and she asked the doc and they called it in for me.  Jack thinks it’s a poor idea.  (Too bad.)  I took it today for the first time, and we’ll see how it goes.  I’m not thrilled about it myself, but I just think of it like, well, getting a flu shot, or buying tampons, or going to work- something I don’t really want to do, but the alternatives are just not all that great either.


In other news, it’s getting chilly here.  THis morning I woke up with a cat under each arm.  That was awesome.


I had that really incompetent therapist earlier this year.  It was kind of scary how bad she was.  I did take one piece of advice from her, which was to talk to my personal physician about going on some psychotropic medication.  He suggested going on an SSRI for just the winter, going on to state that he has several patients who are on SSRI’s for six months out of the year.  “Think about it,” he said, “and let me know in the first week of October.”  Well, that starts tomorrow.


I thought about it.  I thought about it a lot.


I tried to do some research on it, utilizing my insurance’s formulary (since I know how much hassle that can entail)- which seems to be nonexistent.  I couldn’t find it online.  Calling the 1-800 number was unhelpful.  Finally I called my pharmacist.  And you know what?  She was more helpful and knowledgeable than the therapist, and told me more than the doc did- which ones are covered, which ones have a generic, which ones are harder to get off of, which ones seem to be more effective.  A good pharmacist is gold.  I’ve said it many times.


I just want to not get SAD- Seasonal Affective Crappy Feeling- this winter.  I have goals.  I have been exercising.  I have been spending quality time with Jack and friends.  I have been petting my cats.  I have been creative, not enough.  I’d like to be creative more often.  I’d also like to have deeper friendships, more meaningful somehow.  I don’t know if Zoloft would aid or stunt that, and that is the bigger philosophical conundrum.

Jack discovered this digital station that shows old TV shows and commercials without regard to  intrinsic quality or timelessness.  He loves The Incredible Hulk, Mary Tyler Moore, and this one weird spy show that is kind of cool in small doses.   The thing is, he is glued to the set for hours every night, whining that I’m on the computer too much (hilariously illogical!), which is only because he won’t do stuff with me.  Like, this spy show, it’s from 1968 or ’69.  Last night the protagonists went to a party that was like those scenes on Laugh-In– the party scenes.  There was a band, the extras were all dancing, and I wanted to dance, right?  Of course!  But I could not get that man off the couch to dance with me, leaving me to dance “at him,” as Gidget would say.  But who was going to see?  Who would know?  Nobody.  The cats only. 


The cats are black and white like most of these shows.


One other thought: how many episodes of The Incredible Hulk does a person have to watch to realize that…all of the episodes are the same?  Three, I reckon: two to suspect that this is indeed the case, and a third to confirm.  Jack and I did have a spirited philosophical discussion about the nature of The Hulk- is he really just a metaphor for David Banner’s righteous anger?  We concluded that no, he really does transform into a green beast.  I do continue to watch sometimes, hoping that *this* time Mr. Banner’s pants button will also pop- perhaps The Hulk did extra ab work that week in prep for his scenes.  No.  Never- boot leather tears, pants turn to shreds, the shirt is torn asunder- always, the waist stays intact.

So we had one of our lunchtime work meetings today.  You know they gave me this huge new project to “run with…nobody’s ever done this before.”  So nobody really knows how to do it.  So, if I screw up, who will know?  Who will stop me?  I am used to being micromanaged.  My one-up even watches me just in case I use the wrong bathroom.


So I mentioned that I would like more feedback, because I would like to make sure I am at least headed in the right direction.  My manager (not my micromanager…the manager with the kissable-looking lips) took the opportunity to heap on some praise.  “You’re doing great!”  I told him that wasn’t what I was looking for, I wanted concrete feedback.  He seemed really embarrassed.  But I really want to know!  I feel like I am letting go of a bunch of helium balloons, watching them float up toward the clouds.  I have no idea where they are headed.  One of them might even float to New Zealand (not likely, but this is a metaphor) and if nobody mails me back a “Hey!  I got your balloon, and hi from New Zealand!” then I have no idea whatsoever. Right?  How about “you currently have met 10% of your goal.”  Now that would be good!  He didn’t like the feedback I gave him about my feedback- is that right?  Is that irony?  What is that?

Biking home from work last night, it was cold for an August evening, and I was loaded down with fresh produce bought in the am from the farmers’ market downtown.  I’ve been trying to eat “Five a day, the color way” and it’s not easy.  Muskmelons were three for $2, so had those, as well as a three-pound bag of apples, a dozen sweet peppers, and an eggplant.  My mom had given me a boatload of tomatoes the day before, so red is pretty well covered.  Anyway, after working late, the ride home was chilly and dark so I took an alternate route, right past the coffee shop that has half-price bakery after 8pm or whenever the baristas get to putting the sign out.  The lure of muffins was irresistible.  My friend happened to be there for the chattin’.  That was awesome: the perfect end to an almost-perfect day.

My new boss is a rebellious former dietician.  He got his master’s degree in managering and so now he is a manager.  I have yet to see him eat anything with nutritional value, and I have seen him eat quite often, as he is fond of lunchtime meetings and the office candy dish.  Styrofoam cups full of gas-station coffee…soup from a plastic container with steamholes in the top for microwaving…and today’s lunch, an entire box of  Cheez-its. Gross.  He’s like a teenager rebelling against the strict parents of healthy dining habits.  It’s kind of weird.


The other weird thing is that he has incredibly kissable-appearing lips.  I swear.  It is very distracting.  I’m mostly over it (the first couple months we had to work together I had very naughty kissing thoughts about him) but then today he was talking about the new H1N1 flu recommendations, and how (I didn’t read this from but…) “teenagers are not supposed to kiss unless they have plastic in between.”  I cannot see that happening, any more than teenagers use condoms or- gasp- abstain.  If squelching teenage hormones are all that stand between us and a full-blown swine flu outbreak, God help us all.

So my band (Secondhand Thong) had a couple gigs recently.  It’s always an adventure.  Sometimes we end up playing somewhat inappropriate venues.  Last Saturday we got heckled pretty bad by a few drunks and an old lady.  Whatever.  Nobody threw anything, and we got paid in beer.  Somebody (not one of the other grrrrls in the band) stuck a hairbrush in my gig case though.  It was full of dishwater blonde dirty hairs and Aquanet stickiness.  Gross.  I threw that…away. 


Unfortunately, we’re kind of “on hiatus” now due to Candy (guitar babe) wanting a little more time to herself.  Supposedly we’re going to magically get back together in November, but I don’t see it happening, so I’m kind of on the scam for other musical opportunities.