Saw the doc yesterday, he increased my Zoloft dose and then insinuated that my job might be depressing in and of itself (he’s sort of intimately acquainted with my workplace).  I told him I like it enough and the things he thought would be stressful about it, are some of the things I like about it.  I can’t imagine that working anywhere else would be better. 

Sometimes I tell people that if I wanted to make people happy at work, I would work at the ice cream store instead of (workplace) but people can get bitchy at the ice cream store too so whatevs.

Anyway, I decided that I really need some yoga in my life.  I started craving a yoga class.  I never went to one before, but I saw it on Sex and the City.  Of course, I thought getting a pedicure with my friend would be like SATC too, and it was not wonderful at all.  But the yoga class I went to last night was way better.  I kept thinking, “Puedo hacerlo!”  which is probably unZenlike, but I didn’t hurt myself, even with all the downward dogging.  It was great.  I feel great today too.  I can’t wait to go again.


Jack is totally anti-yoga, he never wanted me to go before even though I knew it would be good for me, because of the weird Eastern-religion aspect of it.  I guess I don’t understand why it should be that way, why couldn’t it be just a lot of stretching, and the class I went to wasn’t really too much like that, which I was happy to report back to the skeptic at home.  He said, “That’s what you think.”  I’ll take what I want from it and leave the rest.


I was going to get one of those light boxes for seasonal affective disorder (SAD) but the only local place that seems to stock it charges $250.  I’ve seen the same thing online for less, but I don’t order things online, so I just put off getting it.  Yeah, yeah, I know.  Anyway, now it’s at the point where not only are the days much shorter, but it’s been cloudy almost every day as well.  Really, not a good combination.


I had the brilliant (HA!) idea to purchase, instead, one of those “full spectrum” lights marketed to crafters, which I am, and which cost much less- $59.99 on sale at the big-box craft store.   It’s supposed to be the closest thing to natural light (even though it’s a fluorescent bulb; it’s counterintuitive). I thought, I’ll put it by the bed, turn it on when my alarm goes off, and it will be like beautiful morning sunshine pouring in like in one of those fake decorating magazines!    OK, well, it puts off kind of an off-putting cool light.  Not really super-appealing.  Neither my conscious nor my sub-conscious mind is fooled.


This morning Jack- who loves those curly fluorescent bulbs and has replaced every fixture with them- was getting ready and I saw a nice golden light radiating from his closet.  I thought, you hypocrite!  “What kind of bulb do you have in there?” I mumbled (I don’t have to work until 11 today).  He was kind of embarrassed.  “There are two.  The regular kind.”  Maybe that’s the secret?  Just regular, old, electricity-wasting round incandescent bulbs.  What an idea.  (Get it?  Idea?  Like, you know, the light bulb lit up over my head in the graphic novel of my life.)

Ok, so I feel the same today, except more tired.  I weaned myself off coffee, and that was awesome!  (That’s old news.)  So, I started the Zoloft yesterday, and you’re not supposed to drink alcohol at all while on it.  I weighed the pros and cons.  Happy only when drinking beer, or happy pretty much most of the time?  I never used to drink at all, so it seemed pretty clear to me.


I went by my dad’s last night.  He still thinks I am 12 years old.  Whatever, I am used to it, it works out.  He can’t get a change to stick in his head.  So, I could tell him one hundred times that I no longer drink coffee, and he will still offer it to me.  Anyway, he was making fancy martinis last night, with this raspberry liqueur, and I wanted one, but I said no, and really driving home on those dark country roads would be best unliquored anyhow.  So he made a pot of coffee for me instead and I drank it (yes, all of it, and it was good).  Except for not being able to sleep.


Jack and I have sort of a running joke now, where he says, “I don’t know you anymore!” because obviously I am a totally different person now that I have taken a couple doses of psychotropic meds.  I guess it is not funny in print, sorry.  At least I can check off “Used humor to deal with stress” on my weekly log.  It’s one of those corporate things- yeah, I’m a sucker for that kind of thing.  I’ve been able to check off few days for “exercise 30 minutes” but the “humor” one is in the bag.  In the bag!  (The prize- I mean, except for self stress awareness and reduction blah blah blah is probably a cheap tote bag or something, but I’m still a sucker.)

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.

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.

Jack knows that I love vintage fabric.  He brought some home for me one day.  It was in this really cool bag that he found somewhere- literally, found somewhere: a cloth bag with the word “Laundry” embroidered on it in Chinese-style letters, an innocent joke from the ’50’s that is racist by today’s standards, I suppose. 


Anyway, I made a skirt out of one of the pieces of “laundry” inside.  I wore it everywhere.  I thought it looked really neat.  I asked Jack what he thought of it.  “It looks like a tablecloth,” he said.  Wrong!  It had been a curtain.  And here I thought I was so Gone with the Wind.  So Pretty in PinkMovies can’t even get sewing right.  Except for maybe Silence of the Lambs.

So, you have found my “secret” online diary.


What tipped you off that this is really me?


Is it my idiosyncratic, slightly pedantic syntax?


Or just that fact that it’s obviously me?


Some of the things herein were obviously written under the influence of prescription medication which has all been metabolized and excreted.  I could tell you the very minute that the last molecule of valium left my body, my soul, my mind.


Some of the things that I wrote are barely recognizable to me as mine.  It is as though they were written by not-me, by another me.  Jack said it was me but “a heightened version of yourself,” which is considerably less scary.  I just feel like I lost several weeks, but I am glad that it all happened.  (“Why?” is another post for another day.)