Potentially Cool

Now, I haven't actually checked this out yet, so if it sucks, it can't possibly be my fault.. but I think that I have a pretty cool site for you guys to check out: Bad Designs. From what I understand, it's a site devoted to, ahem, bad designs. I looked at it, and they make some good points. Interesting, for quazi-geeks like myself. Unfortunately, it also seems a little boring.

Oh, and here's a great snippet from Bad News Hughs, who is really very funny and I might love him a little bit:

"Unlike other vegetarians I knew whose 'systems' had become too sensitive and pure to digest that poisonous interloper of succulence, meat, accidentally eating animal parts never made me feel sick. I'm not saying I didn't play it up a bit, because what's the fun of being a vegetarian if you don't do that?...You ever wonder why vegetarians only get sick that way when they know they accidentally ate meat? Well, don't, at least not out loud in front of one, because you'll be in for a bracing lecture."

[I had to edit all the quotation marks and apostrophies in that damned paragraph, because somebody has fancy quotation marks and apostrophies. You'd better appreciate that.]

You should all go there, as well, because there's more good stuff where that came from. Or at least I assume there must be, because unless you're me or something, humor like that usually isn't a fluke.

Don't you hate it when you 'save' a blog for 'last', because they've earned the righteous first place in your 'list' of blogs you really enjoy, for not only posting really funny, sometimes touching, so-honest-it-hurts things on an almost religious daily basis, and when you get to the end of your night and you've built up enough anticipation by reading others' blogs, and you know that this favorite blogger will have written something spectacular, because everyone else did, and you're just dying to click on that link and finally you do, and... they haven't posted anything since yesterday? Damn you, Dooce. No, just kidding. Just post sometime soon, ok? I love you.

Oh, and I wrote an email to a really great blog-person, SJ, and she emailed me back within, like, seconds. The only reason I know that is because my husband is on the couch, having fallen asleep with Cartoon Network on at Full Volume, and normally he keeps me from doing things like checking my email compulsively. He also makes a mean chicken thigh. Anywho, just wanted to give mad love to her 'cause she's so sweet.

Thanks for listening, Internet. You make my head hurt less with things I want to talk about but can't, because I don't talk to myself (about things I already know about) and my husband is snoring in the living room and even if I prod him and make him come into the bedroom, he's not going to be in the mood for talking. And after 15 minutes of prodding, I won't be chit-chatty, neither.

Goodnight, Internet.
Love,
Sarah

Blah blah blah... BOO!!!

A funny thing happened on the way into dreamy never-never-land last night.

Before he met me, Bruce was the type of man to fall asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow. I've found that unworthy of her holy chatterboxedness, and have modified his behavior somewhat. Now he falls asleep as soon as I pause to take a breath.

Last night it took me a while after he'd fallen asleep to join him. I remember that the first dream I was having was about the West Wing, because it's not nearly stressful enough for me to watch other people pretending to run the country, I've got to jump in there and do it myself, in my sleep. You know, when I'm "relaxing".

So I was following around my boss, and taking notes about what we should be doing, etc etc etc, I don't really remember, I was sleeping, when all of a sudden the person talking to me (the president, I think) got quieter and quieter and really really quiet. So I leaned in close so I could continue taking my notes. Obviously my notes were going to save the country! You must not underestimate the power of my Note-taking Skillz, Brotha! I leaned myself in real close, so my ear was only inches from the President's (Do I have to capitolize it when I'm talking about a president on TV, and not a real one? What about if he's a better president than we'll probably ever actually have in the White House? Haha, I'm so not kidding!) mouth, and he was talking in his tiny teensy voice and I could barely even hear him at all anymore, and I was frantically trying to listen as hard as I fucking could to try and hear all the stuff coming out of his mouth, when all of a sudden he rears back his head and takes in a giant breath and says...


______________


______________


______________


BOO!!!!

And I woke up. And I freaked out 'cause what's scarier than someone (President or not!) scaring you like that when you're just trying to take notes for them? And also, who says he's not waiting in the dark for me, just so he can sneak up and scare me again with his "Boo!!!!"ing? So, I was terrified and Bruce had to comfort me in my mind-numbingly sleepy/scared state for a minute or two before I could explain. And he laughed his motherfucking ass off, let me tell you. See, the reason I had a dream that the President had scared the shit outta me, was because Bruce had scared the shit outta me - by sneezing in my EAR, right as the President got all quiet in my dream.

God, I was freaked out, but it made a really great time last night.
-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-

So yesterday at work, I bought these Airwick Scented Oil Warmers (and Refills), and I never thought I'd really be able to get into my house smelling like something other than what my house should smell like (cat pee, old pizza, beer cans, etc). But I can! Yes, I can! I can get over my house smelling like turds, because there is a way for my house to smell not of turds, but of Crisp Breeze® Capture the cool morning air with a combination of light florals, gentle eucalyptus and herbs, and not of turds! Seriously, though, my house didn't exactly smell like roses and sunshine, if you understand my meaning. And while it still doesn't smell like roses and sunshine, now it smells like Crisp Breeze®, and I think that's actually better. Less perfumey, you know.

Ahh, Airwick, how I love thee.

Your Inner European is Italian!

Passionate and colorful. You show the world what culture really is.

Who's Your Inner European?

Prozac: Is the Treatment Worse Than the Disease?

Recently, I've been reading some "new" blogs. By "new", I mean "new to me" and do not mean to imply that these bloggers haven't been around the block a few times. Most of the bloggers are more more mature, articulate, and experienced than I am, and I think this is great. More people should read the likes of these blogs. For instance, Kateri.

Kateri has a link to a particular post on her blog, and I read it today. Andrea's post on her depression made me want to share a conversation I had with my boss. I wanted to tell you all about my thoughts on it (or a particular comment within the post, actually), because I have a slight advantage over the average person. I work with pharmacists, and I can ask them about the little questions that nag at me, without feeling like a prat for hoarding their time.

[Incidentally, the most important thing I've learned about pharmacists in the year I've been working with them is that absolutely every good pharmacist out there wants to help you. They are more than happy to answer any questions you might have regarding your medication, whether you're their customer or not. It's their job, after all, to know all they can about side-effects and counter-indications - it's a joy to them to be asked to share their expertise. I can't tell you how many people there are out there who don't even care to know the names of their medication, and having people care enough to ask important questions really makes us feel good.]

One question I asked my pharmacist a few months back was regarding Prozac. I had read some recent studies saying that Prozac was shown to cause a slight increase in suicidal thoughts in some cases, and I wanted to get to the bottom of it. Obviously, it's alarming.

So, anyway, S was happy to answer my question. From what I understand, Prozac (and other anti-depressants in the same class - Prozac has been around longer than the other medications, and therefore naturally the most studies have been done using that particular drug) has been shown, in some cases, to cause an occurrence of suicidal thoughts in young people.

More specifically, however, when a person first starts taking an anti-depressant, they're often so far into the [black pit of despair] that they have moved beyond the point on the slope where they have enough energy or ambition to even think about something as monumental as suicide. There is a small percentage of people who start an anti-depressant after they've gotten too depressed to even have fantasies about killing themselves. The theory is that when these severely depressed people begin taking the medication, their mental state has to go past the point where they have enough energy to think about suicide before they can reach the point of [not feeling depressed anymore].

In short, anti-depressants don't work immediately, and it's a gradual [ascending] from feeling severely depressed to feeling [quote]normal[/quote]. For some people too depressed to think about suicide, the medication has to bring them back past the point where they are depressed with energy (and perhaps thinking of killing themselves) in stages, before eventually making them feel less crippled by this horrible disease.

I thought I'd draw y'all a diagram (if the picture isn't offending, perhaps my attempt at making it humorous will be):



So there you have it, my thoughts (and the thoughts of a registered pharmacist of the state of Missouri) on why Prozac (and other similar anti-depressants) might cause young depressed people to have more suicidal thoughts than they were having previously.

Oh, and as a side note: I don't believe that any (new) anti-depressant should be given without supervision of some sort. Whether it's a psycologist or a family doctor or a watchful family makes no difference to me, as long as they are informed of warning signs. Actually, that pretty much goes for any new medication, as well.

PS:

Just so you guys don't get worried or anythiing, Bruce and I are as blissfull as ever together, but I've got a wicked smarting sense of humor about things, and my particular version of flirting is the kind that feels a little bit like a sting. Also not helping things is the fact that Bruce has been at the computer for the past 2 weeks without a pause, but somehow doesn't ever read my blog anymore. Sob.

Goodness, I Have No Life

I bought Harry Potter and the Halfblood Prince yesterday around 11am, on my break at work. I refused to start it then, knowing I'd happily leave my job for the chance to continue reading.

I waited until I got home, at about 1:30 to start reading. And I did have a break around 7:30, when Bruce and I decided to stop letting our collective stomach acid knaw away the lining(s) of our stomach(s) and leave for nourishment. So take that hour out of the equation.

But at 2:30 when I went to bed, I had finished the book. I think 650 pages is pretty good for 12 hours. Last night when I should have been sleeping, I lay awake trying to turn it into a words/minute number that would leave me feeling smug - but the closest I could get was 50 pages/hour. Happily, I have no one else to compare myself to, because only I use retarded measurements like that. So I automatically win! Ha!

I'm a little disappointed with myself, actually. I'd wanted this book to really occupy my time for a while. But seriously, once I started, I couldn't not read it through.. it was that good.

Dear Husband:

How is your wedding ring supposed to work like a force field against any potential rapist/stalker women wanting to get on you if you leave it dripping on the bathroom couter?

Love,
The Wife

PS: I know your boss isn't into you "in that way", but that's not the point.

What Not to Say

When reading a comic book, looking up to your new wife:

"You should read this; it's actualy pretty funny."

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah, you'd like it, it's your kind of humor."

"So.. You think I'm 'actually pretty funny', huh?"

On Second Thought...

I was sitting on the edge of the bed this morning, too (fucking) early in the morning. We were discussing the disestablishmentarinaism of certain foreign countries - the usual around 5:30 in the morning in this household - when I saw Linus walk out of the bathroom. He was looking very smug, and coming twards us in that jungle-cat way he has about him after he lays out a particularly satisfying turd.

"Are you sure you're satisfied?" I asked the cat.

He replied, "Hmm, now that you mention it, there might be a thing or two I could improve upon."

He proceeded to turn completely around, and walk back into the bathroom to finish off his business. I know what he was doing, because we hear him scratching around with his kitty litter all night long and think it's zombies coming for our brains (or maybe that's just me). But in reality, it's simply Linus saying, "You know? You might be right. Perhaps that particular clump of urine could use a little sprucing up."

This is for Cam:

Here is a test post, in which I teach him how to use the image thingy that's new to blogger. Here is the post, and there's the frickin' picture.

Things What Are Making Me Drool Today:

Did you know there were entire stores devoted to conveniently and attractively organizing your life? Did you know that they were only a click away?

Did you know you were reading an online commercial just then?

Did you know that one of these could make me swoon? I didn't, not until a few minutes ago.

What about this? Doesn't that look nice?

And just for fun, who do you think would win this Celebrity Deathmatch? Just for giggles?

Do you think I'm dreaming of having a home, and all the things that go with it (wanting family/homebody/etc.), dreaming of needing to organize all my crap (completely selfish and material), or wanting to be perfect lady/woman/wife (in manner of Martha Stewart or something gross like that)?

Here's my version of Robo's geek assignment. Come on, you know you wanna****(!). The catch is, after you play, you have to describe your space to us (or send a picture! Yeah!). Go forth and play.

****(!): Ok, so don't actually do it. I did, and now after giving them my information and stuff, I'm afraid they'll totally hunt me down for screwing with them and making them give me a consultation or whatever. So don't actually do it. (You can still describe your closet or whatever, if you want.) Alright then, have a nice day!

I'm a little creeped out. When I posted that post, it removed my previous post.

You know, the one about how Bruce is such a good painter that I'm going to sell him for slave labor after I get all my rooms exactly the way I want them.

Yeah, that one.

At a Friend's House

You know how sometimes there's a situation that just makes everyone damn uncomfortable?

You know how sometimes that situation isn't a 'situation', so much as it is a 'person'?

Have you ever noticed that usually the uncomfortable 'situation' is brought about by a 'person' that the majority of the group has just met?

Yeah, me neither.

Anyway, on Friday we went to Terri's house. She was being gorgeous and divine and knows we were having trouble 'buying' enough food to last us between 'paychecks'. She cooked us some wonderful food on sticks, and potatoes, and these mushroom things that were stuffed with cheese and made me swoon with desire/fullfillment. And also garlic bread. I loves me some garlic bread.

We were out on the patio enjoying our meal, when her daughter's friend came to visit. He also brought his dad. Apparently 'dad' and Terri have been hanging out every now and then, and they engage in conversations about how great it is to have someone to drink wine with and talk to. It's a mutually beneficial relationship. Unfortunately, this man was a little strange.

One problem that arose immediately was that we all realized he was the type of guy (I say guy because he was, in fact, male. Also, there seem to be more males of this type than females. Or it could be that I can't remember any females offhand, but really there are scores of them out there on the perimeters of my brain that I can't stand to such a level that I choose to forget about them when they're not in the immediate vicinity) who always knows something about what you're talking about. If you decide to talk about your lovely trip to Bali last year, he took that same trip! And got the special 'You're so great and know so many people' tours while he was there! And stayed at that hotel just down the street from where you stayed! The one that cost $1000 more/night than what you paid! And he stayed a week longer than you did! My, what a coincidence!

Are you catching what I'm throwin', Internet? He's one of those.

Then we started discussing age difference and how it pertains to dating. Terri, Jamie and I had all been victims of the 'Really old guys only want to date teenagers' syndrome that seems to be going around. Remember when it happened to me, Internet? That wasn't very fun. There was also a period of my life wherein every single guy who asked me out, regardless of race, creed, age, or penis size, was married. WHAT IS UP WITH THAT? Anywhoo, we were discussing this disturbing turn of events, and Mr I'm So Special was telling us that it was all a load of bullocks. He himself is aproximately fifty, and he's never had the desire to date someone younger, he prefers experience, maturity, etc etc etc. And the entire time, he was hitting on Jamie. Jamie, who is at least 20 years his junior. She was a bit uncomfortable.

And then, THEN, when Bruce is talking about his brother Sean, and wishing we could afford to go to St Louis to see him, the man pulls out his wallet as though we were asking for money, even though Bruce totally wasn't, and he didn't even have his beggar clothes on with his cap sitting on the table playing his guitar. I couldn't believe it! And then, what am I supposed to do? I can't sit and argue with Mr I May Not Know Everything, But I Know More Than You. And You., he's slurring all over the table as it is, and I can't even get a word in edgewise with which to demand he take his money back. And it gets worse, Internet.

He procedes to bring out his teenager, and makes him fork over his money. It was humiliating. The poor kid kept looking at Bruce and I, who were shaking our heads so violently I'm sure we knocked a few (more) screws loose, and then at his dad, who kept saying, "Come on now, boy, fork it over! Don't worry, he wouldn't do it if he didn't want to. Give them your money, boy!", and really making me very very squirmy and uncomfortable. So I took the money, Internet. I took it, and I'm not ashamed. I didn't want to spend the rest of the night arguing about it.

And then the next day, we drove to Terri's and gave it back. Well, what I mean is, we gave it to her, to give to him, so we don't have to argue about it. HA! Take that Mr Bow Down To My Conceited Generosity!

And then we painted her daughter's room hot pink. That was fun, and my feet still have hot pink soles. Good times.