happy birthday to meeeeeee!!!

Well, another day, another year older. THIS year, I got, as an early present, a prescription for Zoloft. So, now with my zoloft/adderral cocktai, you can actually start calling me again and I will be LESS likely to yell at you. (though, no guarantees) SO bring on the birthday calls!!

When my shrink said, too matter of factly for my liking, that I was depressed, I started arguing with him, which he in turn said was a sign of depression (see blog about NOT ever dating a shrink) I was QUITE certain that my measure of whether I was depressed or not was quite scientific. You know that commercial where they voice over says "WHO does depression hurt?" and it shows various scenes of depressed people neglecting their kids or zoning out at work etc.....well they also show the sad forlorn dog sitting by the door pathetically holding a tennis ball in his mouth. just sitting there because his depressed owner is too depressed to play with him.

THAT used to be my depression check point, because I would say to myself "oh, well, I am NOT depressed because I do in fact, every single goddamn morning, play ball with my spoiled brat dogs" and then I look at said dogs, passed out on their designer dogs beds, exhausted from their morning ball playing and I say "you guys don't EVEN know how good you have it! You could ba like that sad dog with a depressed owner!"

But alas, that check point was wrong. when I drove away from the shrink's pad, I was so confused. I kept thinking "how did that happen to me? My dogs never sit by the door with a sad look holding their ball...I CAN'T BE DEPRESSED if I play ball with my dogs!!!" it just didn't compute.

then the light bulb went on. Here's the X factor i had not calculated....

MY dogs would NEVER just sit by the door with a ball in their mouth looking sad. It actually would never even occur to them. When they want to play ball, they stalk me around the house, each with a ball in their mouth. If I try to ignore them via depression, one drops the ball repeatedly on my lap, while the other shoves the ball in my face over and over. If I still try to ignore them in my depressive state one will drop the ball, stare at the ball and bark..., while the other climbs 80 lbs of fat yellow fur on my lap and hovers over my face mere centimeters away, breathing HARD with the ball in her mouth growling. My depression was masked you see, by obnoxious relentless labrador pursuit. Good think I had a shrink intervention!

anyhoo, back to MY BIRTHDAY. I'm off to vegas tonight to celebrate. Hopefully I'll catch a good .99 cent buffet. I like all things COACH and Pottery Barn. just in case anyone was wondering.

lonnnngggggg day.....

today was one of those long ass days where all you wanna do is come home and throw yourself on the couch and veg out to mindless tv like Next Top Model or people's court or something like that. But no, you throw yourself on the couch and your two cooped up dogs think this is a sign to wrestle and/or play ball. so even though I am completely ignoring them one is staring at me while dropping a wet ball on the couch and the other is pawing me with her fat paw, making what looks like heroin track marks on my arm. I don't even have the energy to swat them away, so like the single welfare mom that I resemble, I just go get the bag of treats and keep throwing them on the floor. Apple needs to make an ipod for dogs or something. where is technology when I need it?!

on modern psychiatry....

what I think is this....if you're a woman you should never fall in love with your shrink.

I've heard of it all the time, and I GET it...I mean there you are on the UGLY couch, pouring out all your evil dark shit, being all vulnerable, and this guy just looks at you with compassion, no judgement, no shock, and tells you that you are fine, you just need a few colorful pills, IT'S NOT YOUR FAULT. You get to be completely self indulgent and a guy sits there, LISTENING, not interrupting, not watching football, just listening.

So OBVIOUSLY you would fall in love, even if he DOES have a semi-bald head, a combover, is short, and rather resembles freud.

But here would be the downside, if you think about it. He would ALWAYS win any arguement. you don't stand a chance. he will always ALWAYS pull out the soft voice and make you think YOU'RE crazy. And he will have lots of text books to back it up.

Also your kids will be screwed up. In the tradition of the "preacher's kids" who are always goth drug addict athiests, your kids will be serial killers or chess players or something weird and creepy like that.

These are the things I think of when I am paying $200 an hour and listening to him talk. And I also think, "every minute this costs $4. thats a mocha per minute. If I leave to go to the bathroom that's like 5 wasted mochas." So not only do I talk fast, I hold my pee too, try not to sneeze or cough, and I am NEVER never late.