The Slough of Despond

Starting last Friday, my depression rose up like a tidal wave and swamped the Good Ship Redhead-pop. I tried to go on about my usual weekend chores, but it's hard to disguise it from people who really know you. I'm at work today, but just marking time until my 2:30 doctor's appt. What he'll be able to do I really can't envision, but at least it will kill a couple hours, and then I can go home and crash again. I HATE those commercials for some antidepressant, the ones that start out, "Who does depression hurt?" pointing out that not only does the victim of depression hurt, but that he/she is such a selfish oblivious jerk that they can't see that it hurts their families, too. So you OWE it to your family to be medicated into la-la land, if that's what it takes to keep you smiling smiling happy as a lark tra la. It isn't surprising to me that such a low percentage of depression sufferers seek professional help. For one thing, it costs a bloody fortune for therapy AND meds; the results are often slight and slow, and the depression itself causes a kind of inertia that is hard to overcome. I remember calling my insurance company when I first realized I wouldn't survive if I didn't get help, but the "case manager" was so callous, she made it seem like I wanted therapy because it's such a rush, don't you know, to pour out your most intimate thoughts to a perfect stranger, so they can write it up and send it in to the insurance company for the rest of the world to read too. She all but told me to suck it up, soldier. May she get terminal hemorrhoids while traveling on a bus in Mexico. In the summer.

I think I'll leave now, maybe I can get in to see doc early; at the minimum, I won't have to guard myself against myself every single moment while I'm in his office.

Addendum: The medical doctor deferred changing the meds to the psych. doctor (reasonable) only the problem is, I can't reach the psych. doctor. My therapist tried today (Wednesday) and she didn't have any success either. So I guess the change to this psychiatrist isn't a great success, but I don't have an alternative either. So I shall take enough sleeping meds to keep me quiescent through the night, and see how it goes. Drugs--can't live with 'em, can't live without 'em.

Too many cooks spoil the broth

I think it's time my daughter moved out. Friday while I was home, I got going on the kitchen. I sorted through the cabinets, got rid of plastic-bowls-with-no-lids, stacked the mixing bowls back into small>medium>large so they'd fit in without holding the door ajar, washing shelves, and so on. I was pretty chuffed when I finished. That night, I was getting plates out of the cabinet when I realized the brand new snack plates I'd put in there were gone. I asked, "What happened to the red plates?" and my daughter replied, oh, they were in the way there, I moved them to this other cabinet (the one I'd cleaned out). I didn't say anything, just raised an eyebrow. Later that night, I saw they were back in the dish cupboard. I asked my husband if he'd moved them back, and he said no, that he had told daughter to move them back.
So don't you think there's one too many women in this household? A woman's kitchen is sacred territory, I determine where and what will be there. This isn't the first time she's done this, she threw out a set of salt shakers because "we didn't need them", packed up a whole box of coffee mugs and stowed them under the stairs because "there wasn't room for them", wrote her name on the bottom of my tupperware "so they won't get lost at work" tossed out food "that was too old" (like baking yeast!), and on and on. When I bring home some odd gadget (I have a soft spot for gadgets) she'll ask, what's THAT for? And then comment that I'll never use it.
It makes me steam just to write all this.
When she finally moves out, I'm going to gift her with all the mis-matched tupperware, the 'extra' coffee mugs, and a set of salt shakers that don't match. Hehehe.
And then I'll rearrange her kitchen when she's not there, too.

It's that time again!

For the last four years we've been leasing my car, known as the Pregnant Rollerskate, but since we're trying to wrap up all the debts, we decided to go ahead and buy the PR, since it has a BlueBook value considerably higher than the lease-end price. Also because I like it. And because shopping for a new car is such a pain, I always feel like everybody else gets a better deal (even though people always lie about what they paid). So Saturday we went to the dealer and forked over what felt like a whole lot of $$. It wasn't at all like buying a new car; I mean, there it sits in the garage, completely covered in paw prints and wilted cherry blossoms, gum wrappers in the ash tray, smelling like the fries you brought home last week, nothing like those showroom waxed beauties at the dealer. It reminded me of other times when we spent a lot of money without having much fun doing it. One was paying to have a home sanitation unit installed, in place of the failed septic tank. You know, all that cash for something you bury in the back yard, can't even talk about it at the water cooler, only memorable if it doesn't work. Or having the roof replaced. Yes, it is nice not to have those plastic trash cans adding to the ambience of the living room (since it is one of Murphy's laws that roofs never leak except in the wintertime). But on the other hand, a roof isn't really very exciting, and there's all those roofing nails to pick up out of the flowerbeds for months. Or paying off hospital bills, you can't help but think what the same amount of money would have gotten you at a really nice resort. And the staff would have been so much friendlier, too. Or grocery shopping, mostly dull stuff like paper towels and baked beans, with the odd kitchen gadget thrown in to make it even somewhat bearable. If I took the same amount of money and hit the outlet mall, what a haul I could make!

But the one that really sticks in my craw is Income Taxes. I think, since the government takes their cut off the top, before we ever get it, that they should be able to figure out how much to take. If they come up short, too bad, right? But every year for as long as I can remember, we figure the taxes out in January, and then save up to pay them by April. Such a downer, to save money for Uncle Sam, knowing that our frugality will be such a pittance to the government, it won't even pay for one new seat on Air Force One. Not that we'd ever get to sit in it, if it did. And there's that looming deadline to meet, no wiggle room if you're a little short. This year, for the first time, I noticed that you can opt to make monthly payments on your outstanding tax liability, the friendly folks at the IRS will just dip into your checking account every month until the bill is paid. Uh, hello? Am I the only one who thinks that giving the IRS the power to bleed your checking account dry is a bad idea? Can you imagine the battle you would have if they took too much (a computer error no doubt, we know how honest the government really is), trying to prove it and get your money back? Your beard would be long and white before you ever saw a penny of that. But of course, if you failed to pay all you owe, rest assured that they will pursue you to the end of the earth to get that last dollar. I think the government ought to collect taxes like in the 'Hagar the Horrible' comic strip; they show up at your door in black masks, one of them holding a bag and the other an axe, pay up or else. At least it would be entertaining, for a change.

Happy tax day!