You are currently browsing the daily archive for May 14th, 2008.
So now that I’ve weaned the baby, my shrink and I are ready to take the pharmaceutical support to a whole new level. (Or as Eugene Struthers would say, the “HNL.”) So the first thing we thought we’d try is augmenting the Zoloft with a stimulant, such as Aderall, or what I have ended up taking, which is Vyvanse. Vyvanse is a newer drug, and it’s fancy, and it’s expensive, but you know, when it comes to my mental health, money is no object. Or something like that. So far I think it might be helping a little bit, only not so much that I feel like doing useful things, like cleaning the house. (Nope, I checked. Not feeling it.) It’s also decreasing my appetite, which is impressive.
Half the time I was in Texas, I forgot to take it, which is how I managed to eat so many pork ribs while I was there, I think, because now that I am taking it regularly again, I am not wanting to eat. Which is just not like me. Like, I feel my empty stomach and wooziness from not eating, but I don’t want to eat. I don’t. I cannot stress to you enough how UNlike me this is. I always want to eat. Except when I’ve just eaten half a rack of pork ribs. But that’s different.
Today I ate a bowl of Frosted Mini-Wheats, half a bagel, a cup of yogurt, two Cheetos, and a Zone bar. That’s it. I don’t think this can continue. For one thing, I don’t need to lose weight, so that’s not a benefit. For another thing, if I stop wanting to eat, I will stop being me, and I won’t know who I am and worse, whoever I am, I may not want to know her. Who wants to be friends with a person who eats a Zone bar for dinner at 4 p.m.? Not me.
Maybe it’s not helping as much as I thought (hoped) it was. I don’t really want to be on a Schedule II drug anyway, because it’s such a pain in the neck, and I don’t want the hassle of arguing with the insurance company over whether or not they’re going to pay for it. I had a voucher for thirty free pills, but the pharmacy initially tried to bill my insurance and the insurance company said they wouldn’t cover it because of my age. My age. Apparently I am too old to take a drug that is marketed to children with ADHD. Which seems ridiculous on its face, but logic’s never paid a medical claim, so far as I know, so whatever. Anyway. I’ve lost my will to eat, and the house isn’t getting any cleaner by itself, so maybe it’s back to the drawing board for me and the shrink.
Or maybe I just need to get off my lazy keister and unload the dishwasher. And put in a load of laundry. And get some sleep. Not necessarily in that order.
When my mother-in-law was up here (taking care of the kids while Sugar Daddy and I were on our vacation), she brought with her some People magazines. I don’t often read People magazine because it is too stupid to pay money for and the doctors’ offices I frequent subscribe only to periodicals such as Parenting, Golf Digest and Sunset. Seriously, who reads Golf Digest? I can just barely get my head around someone wanting to play golf. The entertainment value of watching golf thoroughly eludes me, and the allure of reading about golf–well, to be honest, it almost makes me angry to think about it. It’s like they want me to commit suicide in their waiting room. Whatever.
So I read People magazine only occasionally, but I do read it even though it’s stupid. It’s a stupid magazine, and I’m stupid for reading it, and it’s especially stupid for me to read it these days, because I have no clue who most of these celebrities are anymore. Do you realize that it was only a matter of weeks ago that I realized that Mylie Cyrus and Hannah Montana were the same person? And I still don’t know why Jessica Simpson is famous. It used to bother me that I couldn’t figure that out because she was just constantly staring at me from multiple angles in the checkout aisle, and who the freak was she? Anyway, it’s just funny because as a teenager, I was very wrapped up in popular culture, at least in the sense of being knowledgeable about it. I’m sure it was a source of pride for me, though in retrospect I have no idea why, except that people are stupid, and I’m a person. But I digress.
I think it’s largely because I don’t watch television anymore. It’s not like I’m all high-minded and too good to watch television. I’m not even too good to watch bad television. And that’s the problem. I realize there are quality programs on the television. I enjoy the quality programs, but I prefer watching them on DVD because every time I watch television television, I’m reminded that television is the idiot box, and I am an idiot for watching it. I don’t like commercials, but it isn’t the advertisements for merchandise and so forth that I mind so much; it’s the commercials for other television shows that just drive me up the wall. I can’t explain it, but I am severely troubled by the knowledge that so many people tune in to watch Deal or No Deal. Why does the existence of that show bother me so much, when I’ve never seen it? I don’t know. It’s not like there aren’t probably hundreds of programs that are ten times more offensive. (Moment of Truth springs to mind. Is that thing still on? You know, everyone involved in that show is going to hell. I don’t take pleasure in other people’s damnation, but facts are facts.)
Another thing is that I don’t really listen to contemporary music on the radio anymore–because I am old and don’t understand the stuff kids listen to these days. My only exposure to contemporary pop music is what my husband finds himself singing in the shower (against his better judgment). It’s funny, you know–Princess Zurg was complaining to me the other day that they had a karaoke activity at school and she was embarrassed because she didn’t know any of the songs. PZ has always preferred classical music, but she still managed to shift the blame to poor parenting: “I don’t know any popular music because all my Dad listens to is heavy metal.” (She is unfamiliar with his shower routine, if that didn’t go without saying.) I said she couldn’t really blame me because I’m not allowed to listen to the music I like except when no one else is around. (“It’s not my fault your taste in music is crap.”–SD) Her classmates were particularly dumbfounded that she’d never heard of Madonna. I told her she was lucky, that most people only dream of not knowing who Madonna is, but she didn’t see it that way. She’s still wondering how she can bone up on popular music without actually having to listen to it.
I have really digressed from my original point. Which was…? I was reading People magazine, and I think it was that 100 Most Beautiful People issue, which I enjoy because I don’t have to know who the people are to see whether or not they are beautiful. The one section that gave me pause this time around was the one that had beautiful celebrities not wearing any make-up. On the one hand, I’m totally in favor of showing celebrities without their make-up. People need to understand that no one looks that awesome just rolling out of bed. Except, of course, for these totally gorgeous women profiled in People magazine without their make-up on! Well, they still had professional photographers and, uh, good lighting, so whatever. Don’t hate them because they’re beautiful without their make-up on. But anyway, I was reading the People magazine, and they had a short article on Jennifer Aniston’s new romance with John Mayer, who I understand is a singer of some sort. Well, I know exactly what sort of singer he is, actually. He’s the cat who sang that “Your Body Is a Wonderland” song, which I hate. I get him confused sometimes with James Blunt, who sang that “You’re Beautiful” song, which I only know about because Nicole Parker did a parody of that music video on the Mad TV, and that was too disturbing to be forgotten. Why do I get these two singers confused? Maybe because they both suck. Who knows?
Anyway, John Mayer is dating Jennifer Aniston, and according to some nameless person representing one or both of them, it’s been going on for several weeks and “it’s very real.” Did you get that? “It’s very real.” As opposed to all those other six-week-long relationships that are just made-up and phony. I’m sorry. “It’s very real”? What the hell does that even mean, when you’re talking about a matter of weeks? Sure, I was engaged to SD after a mere eight weeks of dating, but even at that stage I don’t think it would have occurred to me to describe our relationship as “very real.” Because what does that even mean? I know I already asked that, but seriously–what does it mean??? I guess it’s supposed to mean that they’re serious. Probably they’ve been seen “canoodling” in public, which I hear is what you do when you’re famous and your love is “very real.” Not that I begrudge Jennifer Aniston any happiness–or John Mayer, for that matter; you don’t have to be a decent songwriter to be a good person–but apparently I am deeply troubled by the idea of people actually giving a rat’s patootie whether Jennifer Aniston and John Mayer’s relationship is “very real,” or something different.
Speaking of “very real” and “not very real,” I was going to mention, yet again, that I don’t go to movies much, and that is another reason why I am clueless about popular culture. I go to the movies so rarely anymore that I have hardly any awareness of what movies are even out there. There again, it’s the television, or lack thereof. I only know about movies that I read about in the “summer blockbuster preview” or “Oscar season preview” section of the newspaper. I used to know about movies that got reviewed in Newsweek, but I don’t read Newsweek anymore, so whatever. Anyway, I don’t get excited about movie openings, in general. I like movies, and I like watching movies–I really do–but I don’t get all excited about seeing the big movies as soon as they come out. My mother-in-law is very into the movie openings. She dresses up in costume to see movie openings. Which is fine, you know, I think people don’t get dressed up enough these days, so if she wants to put on a pirate outfit to go to the Pirates of the Caribbean show, that’s totally cool, as far as I’m concerned. You know, if I went with her, I might put on an eye patch myself, just to be festive. I’m not entirely devoid of whimsy. I’m just saying, it’s not my usual thing. I just don’t have that much emotional investment in box-office openings. Ordinarily.
Which is why it’s so disconcerting to realize that I am just chomping at the bit (figuratively, as I don’t have a literal bit handy for chomping) to see the new X-Files movie that comes out July 25. You can tell I’m excited because I actually know the date, and I am planning to get a babysitter so I can see it that very same freaking day because I cannot wait, no, I cannot wait any longer than that. I’ve in the middle of (re)-watching Season 5 (courtesy Netflix), and I can’t believe I forgot how much I freaking love this show. I missed so much of it after I moved out of my parents’ house and didn’t have a TV anymore. I used to go over to my parents’ house just to watch it, but then my mother died, and my dad doesn’t like the X-Files (whatever, old man), and I got married and still didn’t have a TV, but fortunately my MIL was an X-Files fan and would tape the shows for us, but then we moved to Oregon and it wasn’t feasible to have her send us tapes in the mail–well, it may have been feasible, but I was a grown-up and it would have been ridiculous–and I didn’t see the last two seasons at all, which didn’t seem like a big deal at the time because David Duchovny was gone by then, and I thought it might suck, but now I’m rambling. It’s just that I’m really, totally excited to see the new movie because I had given up hope that it was ever going to be made, but now it has been made, and I will be seeing it in just a matter of weeks! It’s like Christmas! Only better, because I don’t have to bake cookies or send any greeting cards!
I might bake cookies, though, just for the joy of it.
I’ve watched the trailer for X-Files: I Want To Believe several times now. You know what I want to believe? I want to believe that it is not the stupidest title for a movie that Chris Carter could ever come up with. I want to believe that it’s going to be awesome. I want to believe that I’m not going to become so obsessed in my anticipation that I break protocol and start reading plot spoilers on the internet. I want to believe that David Duchovny is as hot as he was ten years ago, but from the looks of the trailer, I’m wise not to put all my eggs in that basket. (No offense to Mr. Duchovny, who, in all fairness, is pushing 50–still a good-looking man, but apparently going more the Robert Redford aging route than the Paul Newman. That’s okay, Duke. You enjoy your life. We’re both happily married, anyway.) Gillian Anderson is still smokin’, though. Hot-cha! Maybe in honor of the premiere, I will dye my hair red. Except that I’ve already dyed it red. Maybe I’ll dye it redder. And start carrying a revolver.
Seriously, dude, shave and a haircut–would it kill you?
I didn’t think so.
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