Adventures!

This morning started out as usual, mostly. I went to bed at midnight, fell asleep around two, got up at four... well, that's just been the usual this week.

I've dropped the kids off at their respective schools, and I'm on my way home. Suddenly, I smell dog. Dog in the car. Phantom dog. I see little swirlies in my peripheral vision. Fine, whatever. I drive on.

I get home. I walk up the front steps. I fall on the front steps. About three seconds pass, and I'm sitting there on my hands and knees (just off a busy street during rush hour, mind), going "What the fuck?" I get myself together and haul ass inside because A) it's cold, and B) I'm embarrassed as all hell. I mean, really.

My knees are scraped, but not as much as they are bruised. I fell all the time as a kid. I don't remember it hurting like I busted my kneecaps wide open. Sometimes I didn't even notice. My wrist hurts from catching myself, and my hip hurts from falling wrong.

What the hell happened?

Warning

Sugar free candy will make you fart.

I am not joking.

So, I've gone low-carb. I didn't think it'd be easy, but it has been, with only one exception.

Yesterday, if I had seen a child holding a Snickers bar, I would have punched that child in the face and taken their candy. Yes, even a small child. Yes, even a baby. I would have punched that baby for a little bit of chocolate.

Fortunately (maybe) for me, even in this tiny shitheel town, there is a Russell Stover's/Whitman's outlet. And they have a gigantic selection of sugar-free stuff. Stuff that, instead of sugar, contains malitol.

Malitol is a sugar alcohol. It's not quite a sugar. It may produce a small insulin spike, but it doesn't break down into glucose. The body can't really process it, but the bacteria in our intestines can. And they love it. They love it so much, they produce gas.

Imagine that for a second. Microscopic organisms doing keg-stands in your guts. It's not a frat party, it's a fart party.

I thought I needed the chocolate this morning, but goddamn.

This morning's conversation...

Him: You going to go to sleep when you get back?

Me: (after being up all night) I dunno.

Him: You could always fold laundry.

Me: Hey, fuck you. Er, I mean, I'll think about it.

Him: (laughing)

I married my soulmate, y'all.

Short update.

It occurred to me, while watching a carpenter ant writhe in neurotoxin induced seizures, that I probably shouldn't be walking barefoot in the basement. Nice one there, dumbass.

Paxil + BuSpar = Blood pressure drop. I didn't get this, and I still don't. If you see me wandering aimlessly in Wal-Mart, eyes glazing, help me to a chair, goddamnit. 90/60 is borderline. The doctor's office? They had to take my BP eight. Fucking. Times. Before someone realized that my BP could be low, and that didn't mean there was something wrong with their sphygmomanometer or their perceptions. And I'd imagine my blood pressure was kind of high by that point.

Two days, no sleep, brain too full of batshittery to rest. I'm waiting for someone to put me out of my misery, people. A hundred mg's worth of Benadryl (plus an Ambien), and the sleep, why won't it happen?

This is an informed voter, y'all.

My dad called. Truck driver, devout Mormon, etc. We make small talk. I dutifully ignore racist comments ("Yeah, but she was doing it with three Mexicans!" in response to a question of whether or not a particular 'ho was nasty). He then tells me about someone else in his Anger Management class who was a psychiatric nurse. She was in for domestic violence.

The DV requiring Anger Management doesn't bother him in a psychiatric nurse. What bothered him about her is that she's a lesbian. "Homos shouldn't be involved in mental health professions." He then goes off about special interests and a bill in Oregon to give kids an idea about differing sexual orientations.

Me: Allow me to be the Dirty Hippie Liberal Communist Devil's Advocate--

Him: (Silence indicating consent).

Me: --but what about those kids who know they're different and try their best to "pray out the gay," but when they realize they can't at fifteen or sixteen, decide their best chance is to blow their heads off?

Him: You know, I have a lot of respect for those kids that decide to end it instead of succumbing to the dark side.

Me: ... Jesus Christ, Dad.

Suffice it to say that he's not an Obama supporter.

Bonus Footage:

"Did you know that homosexuals are most likely to be pedophiles?"

"Did you know that homosexuals will do their best to get a man fired if he's straight and doesn't respond positively to their advances?"

"Did you know that it's not sex, but a perversion?"

I come from some damn fine breeding stock here, people. Register to have your racist, sexist baby with me, a bargain at only $100k a pop.

PS- Genetic leanings toward bipolar, anxiety, depression and latent schizophrenia free with every order!

BABY FERRET.

OK, so the National Zoo has a Blackfooted Ferret webcam set up on one of their ferrets that became a new mama. She's very pretty. She sleeps mostly. The baby is awake slightly more often, and I've come to the conclusion that the only thing cuter than a kitten is a baby ferret.

Typical ten minutes of ferret life:

Mom: Zzzzzz.

(Baby finds a boob.)

(Mom rolls over.)

(Baby runs a circle around Mom, finds another boob.)

Mom: Zzzzzzz.

And so on.

-----

So, yeah, it's been a while since I've posted. I'm not sure why, other than the usual BS: Kids home from school, City of Heroes, tired as hell.

Is this better or worse?

I go through the list that my auntie sent to me. There are two listings for professionals located in Seymour. So, I look them up.

One of them is in bed with my former former practice (the ones who couldn't get to me until 6 months after the fact), and the other one's associated with the practice that just dismissed me.

People, I know when I'm licked.

I called the former formers to make an appointment.

"We need to have you come in to see a therapist so we can reopen your case."

This to me sounds like they think of me as some goddamn criminal or abused child that needs a social worker. Still, they tell me they can get me in to see a psychiatrist within three weeks after seeing the therapist which is an improvement over six months. I'm transferred to someone who takes my insurance information. And then back.

"Okay, the only doctor we have for [insurance company from hell] is [doctor]. We can get you in as early as May 29th."

Oh my lord. "Is that the psychiatrist?" I ask.

She's impatient. "No, I told you, you have to see a therapist first. [doctor] is the therapist."

Fine, whatever. I get the appointment on the 29th, and then I call my regular doctor's office.

"Hey, I think my medication might be messing with me, what with the mood swings and paranoia."

"[My regular doctor] is out until next week, but I can set you up with [physician's assistant who's a good listener and can run to the doc if I need a prescription]. I have an 11. No, wait. You could come in at 10:30."

"I need a shower first. Anything later?"

"Is 1 okay?"

Dr. K is uncomfortable with prescribing my meds and wonders why I don't go through an approved psychiatrist. I hate to tell him he and his office staff have spoiled me. They have 6 doctors that don't have the one-hour block constraints and they can take me the same day, whether I need stitches and a tetanus shot or a wee bit of therapy to get me through the week in one piece.

Edit: I think they probably have the notation "Suicidal" in my file. And that doesn't hurt either.