Wednesday, February 27, 2013

Riding the Zoloft Roller Coaster

I love zoloft.

I really do.  It has saved me numerous times.  Every time I think it won't.  I think, what the hell can a pill do for me?  I start taking it and I still don't believe.  But then....

Aaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.  So this is what it feels like to be normal.

I have been taking it on and off since my early twenties.  In the beginning, once I started feeling "normal,"  I would think, See, I'm fine!  I don't need to be on medication!  

Then I would go off of it, and I would be fine for a while.  Until I wasn't again.  And so began yet another cycle of anxiety... feeling fine, feeling anxious, feeling too anxious to go on medication, finally going on medication, feeling fine again, going off the medication etc.    The cycles can go for months, or years.  But the bottom line is, after a decade or so, I have been humbled (a postpartum episode will do that to you).  Can I live without it?  Yes.  Is life a bit more enjoyable while I'm on it.  YES.

Friday, February 22, 2013

A Revolution Against Males (Inspired by my Hall Bathroom)

I know it seems like I've been all pro-female, I am woman hear me roar lately.  That's not usually my shtick.  But as I sit here, smelling the stench of urine emanating from my hall bathroom, I feel compelled to make this pitch for a revolution against modern men.

Braden has been potty trained for two years now.  But somehow, he still can't quite get it in there. It's on the toilet seat, on the floor, on the walls, and in some unfortunate circumstances, clear across the bathroom when he suddenly turns to tell me something mid-stream.  

I clean that bathroom often.  I scrub.  I light candles.  I open windows.

It still reeks of urine.   

I can't blame Braden, because really, he's just doing what he's told.  He's standing.  He shakes when he's done.  He's doing what males do.  Which leads me to the question...

Really?  This is how men behave in an advanced society?  

Lets break this down.  

Wednesday, February 20, 2013

It's Sad

I've met lots of friends through the blogosphere, but one of my nearest and dearest is Darcy.  Our blogs are very different, but our backgrounds are very similar.  We both worked in biglaw, we both left it to stay home with our kids, we both live in the DC area, and we both enjoy a good cocktail.

It was over one of these cocktails last week that she mentioned to me an article she read where the author argues that women who plan to stay at home with their kids do not deserve an education, because they are taking the spot of someone who will better use that opportunity for a real career.

I rolled my eyes, but I didn't get too angered by it.  After all, I've heard this before - from articles, from message boards, from the look on people's faces when I tell them I quit my job.  I've heard it on this blog, through a comment that caused me to write a whole post in horrified opposition. (Said comment, in case you don't feel like clicking on the link, went something like:  "I wonder if [your] coveted law school spot would have been better spent on someone who needed [a law firm job] and would more likely stick with it.").

I try not to get too angry over this stuff anymore. I figure it is just the rants of ignorant, chauvinistic kooks, and why should I even spend my time thinking about what they have to say?

But then today, my friend Darcy wrote an eloquent, well written, and reasoned post in response to the article she had mentioned to me.  She linked the aforementioned article, and I read it.  And I had to write this post.  I just can't help myself.

Friday, February 15, 2013

Me Versus Three Pounds

It's not even about the weight anymore.

It's about the principle.  

There are these three pounds that have been hanging around for a little over two years now.  They ebb, they flow, but they are pretty much always there.  AND I CAN'T GET RID OF THEM.

I've done Jillian Michaels.  I've broken out the treadmill.  I've done Weight Watchers.  I've started eating vegetables.

I've willed them away, with all my might.

But alas, they suck on me like a leach.  Only they aren't sucking anything out.  They just sit there.

There's this voice in my head that says, Aw, just let them stay.  What's the big deal?  Why deprive yourself of a glass of wine that is only 150 calories?  Life is short!  It's only three pounds, for God's sake!  

NOOOOOOOOOOOOOO, NO I SAY!  I shall not let them win!

Hear ye, hear ye, from this point forward, I shall run every day until every last ounce of that last third pound is off.  I will run like Forrest Gump.  I will run like the wind.

I probably shouldn't have eaten McDonalds today (the fries, oh the fries).

But I'm going to run, damn it.

Monday, February 11, 2013

We Women Get the Short End

We're all equal at birth.

Well, that's not quite true.  Research has shown that baby girls are more likely to survive their first year of life than baby boys.  This is particularly true in the case of premature babies.

Our advantages seem to end there.

We come home from the hospital and we are dressed in pink.  We wear bows.  We look "pretty."  

We are thrust into a world of sequins and barbies and fairies.  We are told we are beautiful and we get dressed up like princesses, and if we're lucky, occasionally we'll get to put on make up and nail polish.  These things make us pretty, you see, just like the barbies and fairies we play with.  We think everyone is pretty.  We don't know any other way.

We play with kitchens and babies and strollers and dollhouses.  Because someday we will be a mom, and we will cook and take care of our children.  We look at boys and see that they don't play with those things (and if they do, that's weird, right?).  No, they play with tools and cars and they wear blue, and God forbid they wear pink, because as we learn quickly, it's shameful for a boy to look or act like a girl.  Their parents cut their hair short so there is no mistaking it.  They are called a "girl" or a "sissy" as a derogatory term.

As we enter grade school, we learn that not everyone is pretty, and the more we veer from that Barbie image that we are bombarded with, the more "not pretty" we are.  We learn that there are "fat" people and "ugly" people, and God forbid, we cannot turn into those.  We start to question how we can avoid that.  We learn that boys like the pretty people.  The ones that look like Barbies.

Wednesday, February 6, 2013

A Simple Life, an Hour Away

When I lived in London back in 2000, I swore I would always live in a city.  I also swore I would always live somewhere where I didn't need a car.  As life has turned out, I've not kept either promise.  Instead, I've made modifications to my personal manifesto:  I will always live near a city, and I will always live somewhere where public transportation is available - whether or not I use it.  It seems unlikely I'll ever break that promise.

But every once in a while I wonder...

Have you ever heard of Washington, Virginia?

I hadn't either.  But as a self proclaimed foodie, I came to learn of it soon after I moved to the DC area, because it happens to house the acclaimed Inn at Little Washington restaurant, which is consistently the top rated restaurant in the area.  It is a little over an hour's drive from DC, and it is in the middle of nowhere.  And when I say the middle of nowhere, I mean it - there is no cell phone service (NO CELL PHONE SERVICE!), and the town consists of about three streets, a handful of B&Bs, and a shop or two.  That's it.

My husband and I made our first trip there back in 2010 sans kids, and I have to be honest, we were a bit taken aback at the time of the whole "middle of nowhereness."  It's not really our scene. But we enjoyed ourselves nonetheless, stayed at the Inn itself (which was a bit hoity toity) and had an amazing meal - I am talking really amazing. We vowed to come back in a couple years.

We did just that this past weekend, and this time, the food took second fiddle to the middle of nowhereness, which, oddly, is becoming more and more appealing to me.

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