Category Archive

I have a headache this big, and it has “twelve-pack of super-size Reese’s peanut butter cups” written all over it.

I’ve had this recurring headache for several days now.  It could be caused by any number of things:  stress, premenstrual syndrome, actual-menstrual syndrome, the unseasonably warm weather (90+ degrees in Portland, in July?), or good old-fashioned lack of sleep.  Also, I could have a brain tumor, but that is unlikely.

Also, I am fiddling around with my psychopharmacological supports.  Although my recent trial of Vyvanse did not go as well as we’d hoped, my psychiatrist does not want to give up on the augmenting-antidepressant-with-stimulant route, and so I am currently on a trial of Aderall–actually, I’m on a trial of generic Aderall, in an attempt to circumvent my insurance company’s pre-authorization requirement for ADD/ADHD drugs when they are prescribed for adults.  (I don’t have ADD or ADHD, incidentally.  Apparently stimlants aren’t just for spazzes anymore.  Hey, is that a chicken?!)  It was folly, of course; the insurance company still required the pre-authorization, but eventually I did get my generic stimulants.

What’s funny about taking generic stimulants is that your prescription bottle just says “AMPHETAMINE” on it.  Woo-hoo!  You’d think with a label that scandalous, it would work better.  Actually, I’m finding this experience similar to the failed Vyvanse experiment.  I felt irritable and anxious, and my appetite decreased, so I stopped taking it, and now I just feel sad.  Of course, I could chalk all of this up to my menstrual cycle–everything but the appetite decrease, of course–so how would I know how the amphetamines are really affecting me?  Maybe they aren’t affecting me at all.  Maybe I need to take more of them.  Except that if I’m losing my appetite on a mere 5 mg per day, I shudder to think of what my body would do on 10 mg or more.  I might never eat another Reese’s peanut butter cup again.  What profiteth it a woman if she gains the world but loses her appetite for it?

The other thing I don’t like about experimenting with stimulants is that in addition to it being a pain in the neck to fill the prescriptions, they are expensive.  I have prescription coverage, obviously, but I don’t like the waste.  I mean, this one’s generic, so it’s only $100 for a month’s worth (yes, I said “only”), which is a small price for my insurance company to pay for my health, I’m sure, but I only took maybe a week’s worth before deciding that they weren’t for me, and now I have a fistful of amphetamines I can’t return and don’t know what to do with, unless I sell them to a meth lab, which is against my personal ethics, and anyway, why would they buy amphetamines from me when they can steal Sudafed from their local pharmacy?  Not that I’ve thought this through or anything.  I’m just talking.

And now I have this headache I can’t get rid of.  Maybe it’s withdrawal.  That seems kind of ludicrous, considering that I was only taking 5 mg for about a week, but I suppose anything’s possible.  Even a brain tumor is possible.

And now, some random thoughts.

There’s a lady in our neighborhood who walks her dog, or rather, “walks” her dog by driving around in her truck and having him run beside the truck on a leash.  This just doesn’t seem right to me.  In point of fact, it just seems like it’s not safe for the dog.  Not that I’m a dog person, but unlike my husband, I don’t wish them any ill.  I keep thinking that the person must be disabled or have bad knees or whatever–I don’t want to be uncharitable and assume it’s just laziness–but maybe in that case one should just have someone else walk the dog.  You know, by foot.  Maybe she can’t afford to hire someone to walk the dog.  On the other hand, with the price of gas these days, you’d think it would be about even, so what’s the deal?  Maybe the dog likes running beside the truck on a leash.  Maybe the dog likes living dangerously.  Who knows.  It’s really none of my business, I guess, and moreover, if I’m not willing to offer to walk this lady’s dog myself for free, how much do I really care about the dog?  Enough to be judgmental, not enough to stick my nose where it arguably doesn’t belong.  There’s a profound lesson in here somewhere.

In the same vein, I used to notice, on my route to Mister Bubby’s school every day, another home in our neighborhood that sported two American flags hanging over its porch.  Both flags were extremely faded and ripped nearly to shreds.  I don’t think the person was making a political statement.  It’s not that kind of neighborhood.  I think they’d just left their flags up there for several years, and now they were hosed.  The flags, I mean.  Well, maybe the flag owners, too, I wouldn’t know, I never saw them.  I don’t think I’m particularly persnickety about flag protocol, but it does seem a shame to me that Old Glory should be left to rot in this manner.  It disturbs me.  Or rather, it would disturb me, during the school year, when I actually drove past that house every day.  It made me want to go out and buy these folks some new flags.  You know, maybe they’re older people on a fixed income, and they can’t afford new flags and maybe they’re also disabled or have bad knees and can’t climb the ladder and take the old flags down.  I wouldn’t know because I only cared enough to be judgmental, not enough to stick my nose, etc., etc.  I’m learning new things about myself that I don’t like.  On to other subjects.

Tomorrow is our neighborhood’s annual Fourth of July Gala.  We will be attending, as usual, even though I really don’t like the Fourth of July Gala.  It’s not that I hate America–I love America–but the Fourth of July Gala combines several things that I don’t enjoy, namely:

1) Crowds
2) Eating outside
3) Eating with children
4) Parades
5) Fun

So why am I going?  Because my family makes me.  Also, because I love America and I’ll be damned if someone holds a party for her and I won’t show up.  While there are brave men and women making the ultimate sacrifice for our freedom, by golly, I can endure a few lines and cutting up my children’s pancakes with a plastic knife.  I can even stomach a parade.

This reminds me of a random John McCain video.  I have work to do now.  Enjoy.

Conan Presents John McCain’s Deepest, Darkest Secrets

10.  You eat doughnuts for breakfast, second breakfast, and “elevensies.”

9.  Your son has a massive nosebleed all over the front bathroom and entry way, and you don’t clean up all the blood for like, two days.

8.  You decide to get “retail therapy” at your neighbor’s garage sale.

7.  You blog about seat belts.

6.  It is extremely important that you beat your high score in Spider Solitaire.

5.  You paint your fingernails green.  It’s not your color.  Who cares?

4.  You took a shower this morning, but still you feel unclean.

3.  You conclude that it’s not wrong to serve potato chips for dinner.

2.  Your tap class is on hiatus, and suddenly you have no reason to live.

1.  You don’t know what you’ll do when you run out of doughnuts because you’re never leaving the house again if you can possibly help it.  Why do doughnut shops not deliver, dangit?  Why why why?

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.

Dear Portland,

For the last thirty years you have been in denial.  Your population is growing.  Specifically, your car-driving population is growing.  I know.  Those SOB's.  You have the best public transportation system in the country and people insist on locking themselves in their little metal boxes and violating your clean air with that awful, non-biodiesel fuel.  Ew.  You build bike line upon bike lane–bike bridges upon bike bridges, for crying out loud–and you even spent public money holding cycling workshops especially for women so they would free themselves from their patriarchial automobiles and embrace the I-burned-4700 calories-towing-the-kids-to-daycare-on-the-back-of-my-Eros-Donna-so-I-could-arrive-at-work-dripping-with-sweat-and-mascara-running-down-my-face ethos that makes our city great.  All of this to send one simple message:  This isn't L.A. so get on the bus already, dammit. 

Only one problem–no one seems to appreciate your efforts.  I know, you do and do and DO for these people and this is the thanks you get.  Well!  You know what would show them?  Go ahead and just widen the freeway.  Heckfire, build a whole new one while you're at it.  Within no time this place will be just like L.A. and then they'll be sorry.  Then they'll see the error of their ways.  No, really, we–ahem, they will.

Sincerely,

Giraffedriver

* * * 

Dear Young Woman walking home from the bus stop yesterday afternoon,

Even if you weighed fifty pounds less–and girlfriend, I am not saying you should–but let's just say you did:  Wearing your pants so low that your thong shows is still not a classy look.  More to the point, wearing your pants so low that your thong shows in the front is always a Glamour Don't.  There's only one gal who can really pull that look off, and her name is Two-Dollar Whore.  That isn't you.  Trust me.  That isn't you.

Sincerely,

A Friend

* * *  

Dear Medco,

For the record, nine days without Zoloft is the breaking point.  Okay?  Sick experiment over?  Give me my drugs now.  NOW.  NOW!!!

X's & O's,

madhousewife

So last night I started my tap class again.  I was a few minutes late because–oh, who cares, I'm always late for everything, does it even matter why anymore?  So I was a few minutes late, which was okay, because it was the first class of the term and nothing gets done in the first few minutes anyway, so as I'm walking in my instructor says, "Hi!  I'm so glad to see you back." 

"I'm glad to be back," I say.  "It means I'm no longer pregnant."

You'll be glad to know, kids, that my five-month vacation from tapping has had no adverse effects on my dancing abilities.  It's like riding a bicycle.  I tap dance just as crappy now as I did in August, when I had a fetus bouncing on my bladder with every shuffle.  At least back then I had an excuse.  Oh, well.  I had a great time anyway.  The only sad part was that none of my friends is in this class anymore.  They've all moved up to Tap II.  (La-di-da!)  I feel like the dumb kid left back in school, bigger than all the other students and still can't get any of the steps right.  Okay, so I don't exactly suck that much.  After a year and a half of this class, I think I am finally the second-least bad tapper in the bunch.  2006 is going to be my year, kids.  I can feel it.

Actually, I was a little melancholy last night.  I think that during the day when I'm hanging out with the kids, nursing a baby, emptying the dishwasher, sorting the laundry, herding people into the car, and wondering why I still take the paper when I haven't had time to read it in the last five days, I am mercifully distracted from the fact that I'm getting nowhere in life.  You know, if there's anything that's been done to death in the world at large and in this blog in particular, it's the whole I'm-at-home-with-my-kids-all-day-and-I-have-no-time-for-myself shtick.  This is when my better half steps in and says, "Shut up!  If you wanted to spend your days engaged in rewarding intellectual pursuits and reading Dear Abby, you should have stayed single and went back to graduate school.  You're pathetic!  Stop whining!  You're not fit to wear the uniform! etc."  I really don't want to be this person.  I was on the phone with another friend who's going through a case of the blahs–doesn't want to get out of bed, go anywhere, do anything–because, really, what is there to do?  What difference does it make?  I told her she was suffering from post-partum depression.  "Really?" she says.  "But I'm medicated.  Doesn't that mean I get to skip this part?"

Eh, technically, no. 

Her recurring theme during this conversation was the same sort of self-flaggelation I engage in when I start feeling sorry for myself.  "I feel so lame," she said.  "Why am I so lame?  I didn't used to be lame.  I used to be cool.  Why can't I stop being lame?"  Then she told me how her husband told her that he didn't think she was happy staying at home with the kids and maybe she should consider going back to work.  But she wasn't sure if she really wanted to do that. 

"You don't want to do that," I said.  (Not because I'm all-knowing, but I know her and I know she doesn't want to do that.)  And then, because I'm so much wiser for other people than I am for myself, I said, "If you're not happy at home, you're not going to be happy at work.  We always worry that there's one correct choice we can make, and that choice is what will make us happy, but that isn't the way it works at all.  We can't make choices that way.  You have to make the choice you can live with, and you make it work.  If you're going to be happy, it doesn't really matter where you end up doing it."

"I guess you're right," she said.

Of course I'm right.  I believe all the crap I say.  I just don't follow my own advice.  I've never seriously considered going back to work myself, but at home I find that I'm constantly, desperately searching for a life strategy that will remove the bulk of the drudgery in my day-to-day existence and allow more enjoyment of my children and my own interests.  I think if I can get everyone to hang up their towels and put away their own laundry, I will have time to be happy.  If I only had enough storage containers and and an organized spice cabinet, I could be happy.  When I can stop getting someone juice every five minutes, I will be happy.  How do I stop getting people juice?  This is the central question of my life.  I know so many people in my same situation who say, well, you know, there are seasons to life, and this is your season to be with your kids and get them juice.  But I don't accept that.  I don't accept that the time to live the life you want is always in the next season.  I'm a carpe-diem type of soul.  You know, a carpe-diem soul trapped in a quiet-desperation type of body.  Who blogs too much and lives too little. 

Who's so freaking corny today that she makes herself want to throw up.

I used to belong to an online support group for mothers who write, and one time there was a thread on the fear of success.  You know, how the fear of success paralyzes us and keeps us from becoming all that we can.  Everyone kept responding, "Oh, yes, I see how I totally fear success," and people would reference that inspirational message by Marianne Williamson that's always misattributed to Nelson Mandela, about how we're all too timid to be brilliant, but who are we not to be, blah blah–and I finally couldn't stand it anymore and I tapped out, "Am I really the only person here who actually fears failure?" 

I don't need some convoluted explanation for why I don't take risks or don't take action period.  I don't think I'm in denial when I say, with all sincerity, that I have no fear of success.  I laugh in the face of success.  Success can just wait in the dark alleys and hide under my bed all it wants, it doesn't scare me.  Failure scares me.  Failure is what starts giving me the creeps every time I return to the piece I've been working on for the last year–or the one I started on three and a half years ago–and am nowhere near finishing.  Success isn't what's lurking in the darkest corners of my personal ambitions.  Success doesn't say stuff like, "Face it, Mad.  You are really not brilliant.  You are one of those people who showed promise when she was young but has never lived up to her apparent potential.  Sucks to be only theoretically brilliant, doesn't it?  Well, get used to it."  If success is trying to be some bogeyman out to get me, it's really not very good at it.  It could take some pointers from failure.  Failure knows what it's doing.  It's been well-trained.

Well, that's enough crap writing for one day.  I'm off to unload the dishwasher because I'm finished with nursing the baby.  Yes, I was nursing a baby the whole time I was typing this.  If only I would channel these abilities toward something productive, maybe then I would be happy.

Today I screamed so hard at my kids that I wet myself. 

I'm sure I'll find this funny later, but at the time it did nothing to ameliorate my ticked-offness.  I realize that screaming is not an effective parenting technique, just as I'm aware that doing 250 Kegel exercises per day will strengthen my perineal muscles and alleviate much of that incontinence problem.  Trouble is, after giving birth to three kids, I'm not sure I have any perineal muscles left to strengthen, which severely compromises my ability to do Kegels.  And hold my water.  And seven and a half years of being treated like crap by people much shorter than me has severely compromised my ability to resist the temptation to scream during stressful periods.

I try not to scream because it hurts my throat, but sometimes I am just too angry to cry.  Not that I enjoy crying much more than screaming, as crying causes me to clog my sinuses and aggravate my prenatal post-nasal drip.  But I digress. 

Nobody pays a bit of heed to a word I say around here.  They either ignore me or they yell at me and call me names and start hitting me (or each other–they really don't care).  I can't pay anyone to obey me.  When I was a kid, I didn't dare ignore or defy my parents so blatantly and offensively, and it's no mystery why this was so.  I knew if I ever even tried to pull such crap, they would destroy me.  My mother's stern admonitions were a lot more persuasive than mine are because disregarding them usually led to having the bejeesus kicked out of you.  QED.

Yes, I loved my parents (and I knew that my parents loved me), but I also feared them.  Literally.  They could hurt me.  I imagine lots of professionals think it isn't healthy to have your children fear you, but that's neither here nor there.  That's how it was.  I myself don't have the temperament to use corporal punishment in moderation–if I let myself touch my kids when they were ticking me off, I would certainly regret it.  However, I don't have the talent for effectively using "time-out" either.  I'm very interested to meet the children who appreciate the lessons of time-out.  I'm interested in meeting the kids who stay in time-out for any appreciable length of time, whether they learn anything from the experience or not.  My offpring won't stay in time-out for as much as one second unless I sit on them, which to me sort of defeats the purpose of avoiding corporal punishment in the first place. 

Anyway, it would appear that my children disobey because they can "get away with it."  I don't know.  They can certainly get away without bodily injury.  There are consequences (though not of the time-out variety, of course) in this house for misbehaving, but nobody learns from the experience.  It just deepens their sense of victimization, which makes them even more ticked off.  Sort of like when I get so frustrated that I start screaming and peeing on myself.  At least the kids still have their bladder control.

 What my neighborhood needs–or rather, what I need in my neighborhood–is a 24-hour pharmacy.  None of this 9 a.m.-6 p.m. crap.  Who has time to go to the pharmacy between 9 a.m. and 6 p.m.?  Not me.  Who can even freaking remember that they need to go to the pharmacy between 9 a.m. and 6 p.m.?  Not me!  I need a pharmacy that's open during those hours when I'm not chauffeuring children to school or ballet or swim lessons and I can finally sit down to relax for ten seconds before I say, "CRAP!  I forgot to go to the pharmacy again!" 

I think this is Day 3 or Day 4 without the Zoloft.  But you can rest assured that I will be remembering to go in 35 minutes, when Mister Bubby is in pre-school.  I just can't promise I'll remember in 30 days when I have to go again.

Incidentally, does anyone know how to get nail polish out of a cotton skirt?  No reason, just curious.

Here is how you matched up against all the levels:

Level Score

Purgatory (Repenting Believers) Very High

Level 1 - Limbo (Virtuous Non-Believers) Moderate

Level 2 (Lustful) Very Low

Level 3 (Gluttonous) Moderate

Level 4 (Prodigal and Avaricious) Very Low

Level 5 (Wrathful and Gloomy) Moderate

Level 6 - The City of
Dis (Heretics) Very Low

Level 7 (Violent) Low

Level 8- the Malebolge (Fraudulent, Malicious, Panderers) Moderate

Level 9 - Cocytus (Treacherous) Very Low

Take the Dante's Inferno Hell Test

Yikes! The Malebolge! That was unexpected.

——————————————————————————–

"Is there no end to the poop in this house? People are just constantly defecating!"–Overheard recently in the Madhousehold

So it has come to this. I was on Yahoo this morning searching for encopresis support groups. Would you believe there are only three, and none of them is currently active? I actually don't like online support groups, but I'm desperate. (No, I do not suffer from encopresis myself, wiseacres. Not directly, anyway.) I spent my last visit with the shrink detailing my frustrations over my son's bowel habits. "It's not that I'm obsessed with it–it sounds like I'm obsessed with it, but I'm not obsessed with it. It's just that I feel so overwhelmed and not in control of my life, and on top of everything, I'm surrounded by human feces–all the time, all day long, they're always with me, in my face, on my floor, everywhere! I'm not obsessed! It's just that when your house is basically functioning as a giant litter box, life can be really–"

"S****y?" the doctor offered.

"I guess so."

I was looking stuff up on the internet–which is an act of courage when the subject is poop–and the most disheartening thing I read was the sentence, "Encopresis can often be cured." Excuse me, often be cured? Does that mean it sometimes can't be cured? Which means that my child very well may fall into that tiny category of cases that will NEVER BE CURED? People, you can't say stuff like that. It pushes people like me over the edge.

I found an old journal from 2001 in which I detailed my angst over Princess Zurg not yet being potty trained at the ripe old age of three. I used to console myself in those days with the knowledge that she would eventually learn to change her own diapers, and when she went away to college, the whole problem would be out of sight, out of mind (for me anyway–the dean of students might have a different take on it). I'll never forget the day she decided she was going to do all of her business on the toilet. She was not quite four and a half. I remember thinking, "Wow. It's finally over. None of my other children could possibly be harder to toilet-train than she was. Every diaper exodus from here on out is going to be a piece of cake."

That's what your oldest child is for: to give you a false sense of security.

Recently I came to the realization that–with the exception of the five days I spent in
Virginia in May–I have been changing diapers every day for the last seven years, three months, and three days. That's 2,587 days minus five of up close and personal contact with other people's bodily wastes. I was always changing someone's diaper. The last thing I did before going to the hospital to give birth to Mister Bubby was change Princess Zurg's diaper. Then I had to start changing Mister Bubby's diaper, and when I came back home I had to change both of their diapers. While I was pregnant with Elvis, I only had to change Mister Bubby's diapers, but once Elvis was born, I had to change Elvis' diaper and Mister Bubby's diaper, and since Princess Zurg started wetting the bed again, I was again changing her diaper. If a sheet and bedspread count as a diaper–which, as far as she was concerned, it did. I finally put her in pull-ups a year and a half ago, and I would say those definitely count as diapers, so I am now, technically, changing three sets of diapers. And I'm pregnant again. Because I'm an idiot.

I've often wondered what is wrong with me. Like I actually sit down and say aloud, "What is wrong with me?" I consider myself a reasonably competent person in most every respect. I can't do brain surgery, you know, but most of the everyday tasks of life fall within my sphere of capability. Nevertheless, I have failed, in a most pathetic manner, to transfer responsibility for my children's waste excretions to their shoulders. So to speak. It was one thing when it was just PZ who preferred sitting in her own filth to using the miracle of modern plumbing. But now that MB has informed me that he really doesn't freaking care if he never poops in the toilet because he doesn't want to get Spiderman stickers or go to school or join the FBI–I have to think this is less a function of the child's personality than my grossly inadequate parenting style. Seriously. I'm sure he's not the only four and a half year old out there still in disposable training pants, but don't you tend to think us parents of said four and a half year olds must be a few sandwiches short of a picnic? I do.

So there's a lovely Mormon hymn called "Know This, That Every Soul Is Free," in which we sing, "For unto us this truth is giv'n/That God will force no man to Heav'n." Every time I hear that, I think, boy, ain't that the truth. Lately, though, when I hear it, I also think, God sure doesn't have to change diapers, does he?

I don't believe I've ever talked to a pediatrician who thought a parent had any control over when a child started using the potty. They all say it'll happen when the child is ready. All the toilet-training literature talks about waiting until a child is ready, and watching for the signs of readiness. I've been waiting and watching, and what I've observed is that the signs of readiness will all certainly appear eventually–just never simultaneously. One element of readiness is always missing. It's possible that my kids are just freaks, but I don't really think so. I think I've just missed whatever windows of opportunity I may have had because I was waiting for signs of readiness that weren't forthcoming, or I psychologically damaged my offspring by forging ahead in the absence of non-forthcoming signs because I figured, good holy hell, the kid is three, what's the deal? Who would have thought toilet-training had to be so very precise?

Of course I realize MB has a medical condition at this point, but I still suspect I am somehow responsible for it. I didn't, as What To Expect the Toddler Years instructed me, "help my child to feel good about the products of elimination." I didn't feed him enough fiber. And now that the problem has continued for so long, there is definitely a psychological aspect to his behavior (or lack of a specific aspect thereof), which I'm sure I've contributed to because how on earth does a parent stay calm and non-judgmental about poop on her floor indefinitely? I'm envisioning, years from now, my son sitting in his own psychiatrist's office, talking about poop and insisting that he's not obsessed–but his mother sure was.

Yesterday I saw my psychiatrist for the first time since I found out I was pregnant.  I've been staying on my Zoloft because, well, I just won't go off it.  Ever.  Again.  But I had been feeling depressed for several weeks and wondered if I needed an adjustment in the dose.  Of course, I also thought that I was pregnant, tired and puking a lot and who wouldn't be depressed under those circumstances?  But now that I'm feeling better on the puking front, even though I'm still tired, I do feel less than the happy-fun pumped-with-Zoloft gal that I usually am.  My doctor theorized that my liver may be working too efficiently to get the full benefit of the medication.  However, there's not a lot of room for tinkering.  So as of today, I am maxed out on Zoloft and hoping it does the trick.

One of my least favorite expressions in the English language is "have a good cry."  I hate crying.  It makes my face all red and puffy, my nose all stuffed up, and it gives me a splitting headache on top of everything.  On the other hand, I do feel considerable psychological relief afterwards.  So last night, quite against my will, in the middle of watching Danger Mouse, I had an annoying-but-cathartic cry.  And I feel better now.  Sort of.  I've relieved enough stress so that I can comfortably repress all my negative feelings again.

My stepmother has told me that there's some hormone or something that your body has to release to relieve stress, and women do it by crying and men do it by getting into fistfights.  Ordinarily I shun violence, but I must say that a fistfight sounds like it wouldn't aggravate the post-nasal drip, which is a significant consideration for me these days. 

We have had the final IEP meeting of the year for Princess Zurg, and once again we are getting pressure to place her in the district's autism classroom.  I was much more open to that option this year than I was last year, if only because I'm sick and tired of hearing about how mainstreaming isn't working.  Unfortunately, Sugar Daddy and I have concluded that the autism classroom wouldn't work so well either.  Which means that I've run out of ideas for the education of my daughter.  Her current teacher keeps talking about the "small window of opportunity" for teaching her the necessary skills for school success, and frankly, that gets on my nerves a little.  I mean, she may be right, but she isn't making my decision easier.  Especially since I'm not doing what she thinks I should be doing, which is putting my kid on the special ed track.  They talk a lot about weaning my daughter off her various school-setting supports and about using the self-contained classroom to develop the skills necessary for eventual mainstreaming, but SD asked about an exit-from-special-ed strategy and nobody had one.  That lessened my confidence in the program considerably.

I'm so glad summer is almost here and I can stick my head in the sand for another three months.

My favorite questions asked when seeing a psychiatrist for the first time:"Do you feel like you have any special powers, e.g. flying?"

I'm so sick of the sound of Sugar Daddy's pager going off that I could scream.  Is it just bitter irony that he set it up to play the theme from Love Story?

I am sleep-deprived for a number of reasons, the greatest of which is because we bought the third season of Alias on DVD and have been staying up until midnight every night watching the darn thing.  We actually bought it as a birthday gift for my mother-in-law, but she told us to go ahead and watch it before we sent it because that way we don't have to get up at six in the morning and stand in line at the Blockbuster to rent the correct volumes in the correct order.  No, we don't watch first-run Alias on TV because a) we don't watch TV on Sunday evenings, b) we don't get around to watching TV before 10 p.m. anyway, and c) we can't handle all those cliff-hangers!  If I could watch all my TV shows 22 at a time on DVD, I'd really be in business.  Or someone would be.  I guess I'd just be putting that person in business.

For some reason, the show SD really wants to have on DVD is Mork & Mindy.  I think that's kind of weird.  That's all.  That and I wanted to ask if anyone else remembers that Mork & Mindy was a spin-off of Happy Days.  Now that was weird.

On Wednesday I got a phone call from the principal at Princess Zurg's school.  Apparently she'd had several meltdowns that morning and had given the responsible adults chase all over the school and had finally wound up in said principal's office in tears and asking to go home, and would that be a possibility, Mrs. Madhousewife?  Why, yes, it would.  I got this phone call at 9 a.m., incidentally.  In case you're curious.

She did not go to school on Thursday.  I was planning to keep her home until I could scrape together a "team meeting" so all of the responsible adults in her life could be on the same page when it comes to addressing her behavior issues.  Behavior issues.  When did I start talking in such insufferable psychobabble talk?  Probably around the same time I started referring to my other children as "neurotypical."  God help me.  Anyway, I can't get a team meeting until next Thursday.  We sent her to school today, and long story short (or is it too late for that?), we have figured out a game plan which we will hopefully codify at the meeting next week.  Hopefully there will be no more, ahem, incidents between now and then.

My stepmother is ready to return to California.  She hasn't told me as much, of course.  I think she is actually daring me to ask her to stay longer.  She's a hard woman to read sometimes.  She claims to prefer direct communication, but like many people who claim to prefer direct communication, she really prefers the sort of direct communication she wants to hear.  Unfortunately, I have no idea what that is, so I'm going to punt and tell her to go home.  Hopefully I will not regret it.

I had my visit with the therapist yesterday, but alas, we did not get around to the sand tray.  Whatever that is.  I still don't know.  Instead we spent most of the session going over diagrams and charts that explained why I wasn't personally to blame for all of the world's problems.  I'm not sure I bought into it, but it was a fun sort of possibility to consider anyway.  (By the way, Dreamless Slumber, she says she wants to do EMDR with me, too, eventually.  Should I be worried?)

Tomorrow is SD's Big Day.  The annual ward chili-cookoff is upon us.  He hasn't started making it yet, but he has bought all the ingredients, including so much cumin that every time I open my spice cabinet, I think I'm going to get sick.  And I love cumin.  Though I wasn't too crazy about it this morning while I was trying to make French toast.

There's something I'm forgetting, and I just can't remember what it is.

At heart I am a skeptic, but at times I am inclined to be fooled by the hype.  My self-esteem is based almost entirely on believing my own hype, so hype can't be all that bad, can it?  Well, such was my mood yesterday afternoon when I was shopping at the Target with my stepmother.  I've been in the market for a new shampoo for quite some time.  Actually, I am constantly in the market for a new shampoo.  An example of hype that I am not fooled by is that silly notion that expensive salon shampoos aren't any better than Suave, just more expensive.  I am rather hard-pressed to think of a shampoo that is worse than Suave, regardless of price.  I do tend to think one gets what one pays for, so more expensive shampoo is generally better shampoo, but at some point it has to succumb to the law of diminishing returns.  Is $20 shampoo really better than $12 shampoo?  Is $16 shampoo really better than $8 shampoo?  That's the question eternally on my lips.

I hate the shampoo aisle.  It is much too over-stimulating.  There is way too much "product" to choose from.  And too many of these products are promising to do things for my hair that I know in my heart of hearts they just can't possibly do, but part of me–generally, that part of me that looked in the mirror that morning…and the afternoon–wants very much to believe that these bottles are not in fact lying to me.  This was the vulnerable state of mind I was in when I impulsively bought John Frieda's "brilliant brunette" Shine Release Shampoo™ and Light Reflecting Conditioner.  These products will supposedly make my brown hair "come alive with multi-dimensional richness and luminosity."  I had my doubts, but for me the real selling point was that it happened to be on sale this week.  I figured, worst case scenario, my hair merely gets clean.  Best case scenario, my hair comes alive with multi-dimensional richness and luminosity,and all of that is mine for $4.50 instead of $5.79.  Who could ask for anything more?  (Unless it covered my gray, too, in which case I would expect to pay at least $5.79 anyway.)

The trouble was deciding if I needed the special formula for lighter shades of brown or for darker shades of brown.  "Lighter shades of brown" covers everything from amber to maple.  "Darker shades" includes everything from chestnut to cocoa.  Or something.  Well, my hair is sort of medium brown.  It's not amber.  It's not cocoa.  Is it maple or chestnut?  Where does "mousy" fall in the brunette spectrum?  I don't really know what "mousy brown" means, but I suspect it might accurately describe my dull, lackluster brown hair.  If we were talking about a mouse who only needs the right shampoo to achieve incredible shine and clarity–oh, if only John Frieda would give it to me straight!  I can handle the truth, in small doses.

Anyway, I decided I am more maple than chestnut and bought me some of that fancy four-dollar shampoo.  Excuse me, four-and-a-half-dollar shampoo.  Plus conditioner.  Plus what they call "straightening balm."  This is a new one for me.  Some might say my hair has natural curl.  Others might say it has natural wave.  Perhaps one might most accurately say my hair has natural tweak.  Whatever you want to call it, it requires manipulation in order to achieve that chic look we call "combed."  I almost always choose to push it in the curly direction, since it goes there so readily and happily.  Occasionally I try to make it smooth by blow drying it and whatnot, but I can't really keep it "straight" for more than a few minutes.  It wants to curl.  Or wave.  Or tweak.  So tweak it does, especially if there's any sort of humidity in the atmosphere.

So on Friday I got my hair cut in my hip, A-line bob style, and my hairdresser straightened it for me with one of those straightening irons, or flattening irons, whatever they're called.  The first time someone did this for me, it looked really weird.  I suppose from another perspective it looked sleek and classy, but I was so unused to seeing my hair this non-frizzy that I didn't know how I felt about it.  I actually worried that Sugar Daddy wouldn't like it because I looked so different.  As it happened, he was thrilled with it because, in his words, it was like "getting a whole new wife."  That was a few months ago, so I figured maybe it was time to get SD a whole new wife again, so she straightened my hair again, and I looked weird again–to myself, anyway.  SD was very happy with his new wife, and my stepmother thought I looked pretty hot, too, you know, for a stepdaughter.  Even Mister Bubby thought it wasn't too "cwazy."

Over the course of the day the straightness started to grow on me, in the figurative sense, so the next day I bought a straightening iron and this straightening balm that's supposed to illuminate my brown tones, and today I went to church with my new, chic, hip, brilliantly brunette straight hair.  Several people stopped to chat with me about Elvis's new haircut (it's adorable) and the fact that I looked tired.  No one mentioned how chic and straight my hair was.  It may be that when my hair is straight, I look more tired.  It's hard to believe that I could actually look more tired than I usually do, but next week I'm going with curly hair and the same amount of sleep just to see what happens.

To address other areas of self-improvement:

My therapist has told me that on my next visit we will do something called the "sand tray."  I don't know what that is, but it sounds about the same level of corny as the "safe place" exercise.  You might say the hype is unconvincing, but I will keep an open mind nonetheless.  Until the sand starts getting in my shoes.  Then I'm done.

My new addiction is organizedhome.com.  As addictions go, it's kind of a drag, but it was free, and unlike the Fly Lady, it doesn't attack my e-mail inbox with locust-plague ferocity.  And unlike Extreme Home Makeover, or whatever that show is called, it doesn't require public humiliation.  That part is optional.  So far I have decluttered my kitchen, the kids' rooms, all three bathrooms, the downstairs closet, the upstairs closet, and half of the master bedroom.  Congratulate me.  But wait!  There's more.  I even cleaned out the fridge this week.  Funny, but I haven't had much of an appetite ever since.  Do you know what happens to food when you don't eat it? 

So I've spent two of the last seven days on vacation and the other five having my quarterly nervous breakdown.  I'm still in the middle of that, actually.  I'll let you know how it turns out.  The vacation is over, on the other hand–a simple affair, not much to report, but I feel obligated nonetheless.

We took a leisurely drive to the central Oregon coast, stopped in Depoe Bay for lunch at a cafe that served breakfast all day–or until they closed at 2 p.m. anyway.  On trips like this Sugar Daddy and I like to eat things we wouldn't ordinarily be offered in suburban Portland, and we were feeling lucky that day, so we both opted for a shrimp omelet (with Hollandaise sauce–believe me, it makes all the difference).  We survived that experience and went on to enjoy, in a manner of speaking, several hours at the aquarium in Newport.  Who knew anyone could spend several hours at an aquarium?  I'm still marveling that we did it.  The coolest part of the aquarium was the Deep Sea Tunnel, or whatever it's called, where you walk through this big glass tube and the sharks are swimming all around you.  Yes, real sharks, but not really big ones, so it's kind of a rip-off in that respect, but then, what do you expect for $11.25 per person?  There was also, for some reason, a huge bat exhibit.  Look, I told you I don't know why; all I know is it was there.  All in all, Sugar Daddy put it best:  "I didn't think it was all that.  But it might have been a bag of chips."

SD didn't want to pay the premium for a coastal hotel, so we drove out to Albany to spend the night.  Yes, scenic Albany, Oregon.  We stayed at the Phoenix Inn, which is conveniently located next door to a 24-hour "Adult Shop."  I told you it was scenic.

The next morning we drove to Eugene, spent an hour and a half at the equally scenic public pool with our buddies, ordered take-out at the only good Mexican restaurant in Oregon, and spent the evening shooting the breeze with the other adults and ignoring the pleas of our children to go home already, for crying out loud.  Good times.

When I got back I had my second visit with my new therapist.  As some of you know already, it was hard for me to break down and see a dentist I go to church with, but now I'm seeing a therapist whose secretary I go to church with, and I hardly blink an eye while I'm there.  (Speaking of the dentist, I finally saw Dr./Brother A last week, and he reassured me that he does not discuss the state of his fellow ward members' mouths with his wife–a scenario I hadn't really considered, but now it seems rather a shame that he doesn't, since he says I have great teeth.  He told me I didn't have to come in for another year, but that another six years would probably be pushing it.) 

So my therapist didn't quiz me on anything this time, but she did ask me to do a "safe place" exercise with her.  I'm really no good at this sort of thing.  In college my Psych 101 professor did this visualization exercise with us where we were supposed to close our eyes and pretend we were floating on a cloud and basking in the serenity of it all, but I just couldn't get there.  I closed my eyes, and in my mind I was on the cloud, but I kept falling off.  Not terribly relaxing.  When I was pregnant with Mister Bubby, I went to my church ladies' auxiliary meeting, and this good sister was teaching a class on stress management and had us picturing ourselves walking down a staircase carrying heavy suitcases, then putting our suitcases down and opening a door and walking into the Happiest Place in the World.  Afterwards, she asked people where they'd gone, and she got responses like, "Oh, I was at my grandmother's house, and she was baking cookies," and "I was in a peaceful meadow filled with wildflowers," and "I was walking on a sandy beach, etc. etc."  And I remember hoping at the time that she wouldn't call on me because I had been in bed.  In a room with no windows and no doors.  It was a happy place, but not one I would have wanted to share with the group.

So I did the "safe place" exercise with my therapist, and you know, it was a typical visualization exercise with typical results–I was in a place, I was safe, blah blah.  Then it was time to leave the safe place, and I had to choose an object to take with me, and that is now my psychological portal to the safe place any time I need to go there.  Yeah, I don't really think I'll be going back that often.  I'm a little too self-conscious, even in the privacy of my own mind, to effectively transport myself to an imaginary world, particularly when I "need" to. 

I'm reminded, however, of the list of "affirmations" my midwife gave to me near the end of my pregnancy with Elvis.  Stuff like "My body is strong," "My body was designed to give birth," "I will use this pain to help my baby be born," etc. etc.  The day before I went into labor, SD had shared with me an article about competitive eating, a pastime neither of us fully understands, but we find it perversely fascinating nonetheless.  Anyway, I was at the hospital, being in labor, and at one point during a contraction I facetiously said, "My body was designed to give birth," or something similar, and SD whispered into my ear, "I can eat a thousand hot dogs."  Which was funny enough the first couple times, but once I was in transition, he really had to shut up.  I digress.

The bottom line is that I have been assigned to go to a psychiatrist or mental health nurse practitioner to discuss my medication options because the Zoloft, jacked up as it is, is not cutting the mustard.  I really hate seeing mental health professionals for the first time.  I think what gives me the creeps is that they're so calm and dispassionate, and you can be telling them all kinds of horrifying things about yourself, but they never react.  I almost wish they would occasionally say something like, "Really?  Wow!" or "No kidding.  How nuts is that?"  But no, they just sit there, like they've heard it all before and nothing can shock them.  It makes me feel kind of silly.

Six more days until school starts.  I have a feeling that advent will be worth at least 100 mg of Zoloft in itself.

I want to thank those of you who left your supportive comments on my depressed blog yesterday.  Interestingly enough, my doctor did not force the weaning issue at my appointment–probably because she forgot I was breastfeeding, and I didn't bother to remind her since she wasn't suggesting a change in medication.  She did "jack up" my Zoloft, though, and lectured me about bolstering my local social support network because "isolation can be a self-perpetuating cycle."  As though I needed a lecture.  Anyway, there is that.

Since several of you asked about post-partum depression, I thought I would answer here.  My depression is essentially unrelated to anything post-partum.  Although I suppose having been thrice post-partum has not helped much, I've been dealing with this thing for years and years.  (Okay, maybe just years.  I'm not that old.)  I decided a long time ago to be open about it–not like I introduce myself this way because I don't define myself by a chemical imbalance (my username notwithstanding, I don't consider mental illness a personality trait), but I don't go to great lengths to avoid talking about it either–because I know that when people are depressed, they are so sure they are alone in their experience, that everyone in the whole world is coping except for them.  So they don't talk to anyone about their troubles because they're so sure they would feel better if they were just "better people" and they're ashamed that they aren't "better" than they are.  I still do it myself, so I know of what I speak.  Unless, of course, I'm just crazy.  Anyway, I feel somewhat better today, dog troubles notwithstanding, and I'm beginning to regret something I did during a terrible bout of not-coping yesterday afternoon.  I called my step-mother and asked her to come visit me because I really needed some help taking care of the kids.  Part of me thinks I was right to do it, but the other part of me fears I've made a grave error.  I really love my dad's wife, but spending copious amounts of time in close proximity–let's say I'm a little nervous about the advent of some not-so-amusing blog fodder.  It's not just her.  It's me.  And Sugar Daddy.  And possibly the dog.  We shall see.

When I'm not wasting time on the internet with blogging, I sometimes like to waste time on the internet by taking those silly quizzes you find on Quizilla and elsewhere.  I have taken way too many of them, actually.  I have learned a lot about myself. though.  For example, if I were a pair of shoes, I'd be ballet shoes.  Well, that's nice.  My soul's trait is "Willful."  That was rather surprising.  Not quite so surprising was that if I were a Finding Nemo character, I'd be Marlin.  But if I were in Gone with the Wind, I'd be Scarlett–woo-hoo!  How is it possible, you ask?  I don't know, I just accept it.If I were a book, I'd be The Sound and the Fury.  ("Ultimately you signify nothing."  Hmph.  Well, at least they left the word "idiot" out of the equation.)  If I were a country, I'd be
India.  If I were a world leader, I'd be Mother Theresa.  No, wait, it gets better.  If I were a movie, I'd be Schindler's List.  Schindler's List!  If I were a biological entity, I'd be water.  ("People should definitely drink more of you each day."  But they don't, of course, to the detriment of their own health.)  Obviously, these things must be scientific, or they wouldn't be so accurate.

Mostly I find Beliefnet a drag, but I have taken their Belief-O-Matic quiz.  Because, really, how can you resist something called "Belief-O-Matic"?  For those of you who were wondering why I seem like such an atypical Mormon, the reason is, apparently, that I am actually a Reformed Jew.  Hmmm.  Looks like I'm going to have some explaining to do next time I meet Jesus. 

So you see, I am quite the sucker for quizzes.  Especially when there are no wrong answers.  Which reminds me that I saw my new therapist yesterday.  She gave me a depression quiz.  Oh, I'm sure it has some fancy psychological name like the Behavioral Index Standard Depression Scale or some such thing, but she couldn't fool me.  I know a quiz when I see one.  Only this one was like golf–the lower your score is, the better you're doing.  (Or is that bowling–no, wait, that's just me.)  Anyway, I aced the suicide question–zero out of three points awarded.  Go, me!  Way to stay in the game, Madhousewife.  Actually, I was very impressed with the powers of Zoloft.  Sixteen months ago I would probably have been scoring three points on every question.

So my therapist tallies up my points, and she says, "Well, you're pretty depressed."  Really?  Well, I thought so, but I don't usually do so well on quizzes that measure any sort of relevant information.  "Mild to moderate depression hovers around the 20-23 point mark," she continues.  Yes, yes, and what?  Don't keep me in suspense, lady!  "You scored 30."Since I have an appointment with my doctor today, my therapist has recommended that I have her (the doctor) jack up my Zoloft.  Yes, she did say "jack up," actually.  Or, alternatively, switch to something else.  I know the subject of weaning Elvis is going to come up.  I'm not ready to wean Elvis.  Elvis is not ready to wean Elvis.  He is actually nursing as I write this blog.  (You're impressed, aren't you?  I mean those of you who aren't thinking, "Ew!  Ew!  I didn't need to know that!  Argh!"  Well, never mind, he's trying on shoes now.)  But I know my doctor is going to tell me I've done my twelve-month tour of duty and it's time to "weigh the benefits of nursing versus the non-benefits of being depressed."  I can dig that.  The problem is, when one is depressed, one is so sure that it isn't a medical problem.  The problem is that life is so freaking lame!

Once upon a time people didn't have anti-depressants to take when they were having a bad life.  They either sucked it up and got back to work or, if they couldn't hack it, packed the whole thing in, i.e. scored a three on the suicide quiz.  Of course, I wasn't around in those good old days, so I can't testify that it was really so neat and tidy as all that, but what am I, in my cozy little suburban home, doing being depressed in a world where other people have to fight and claw for survival on a daily basis?

You all shouldn't get the impression that I'm moping around all day thinking "woe is me," or walking through my life like a zombie–I am, after all, Mother Theresa.  Not to mention Schindler's Freaking List.  I just don't know yet what I'm going to tell the doctor when she asks me, "Which Personality Disorder Do You Have?"