Paxil is our friend…
I’m apparently easily amused in my old age…
this may be one of those occupational specific funny things that isn’t entertaining to those not in mental health. I used to be "Haldol Helen" at work, and no one outside of work got that one at all.
Anyways, a video for this short work week:
Paxil Back
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4bOf9HEE7PU
I really hate Justin Timberlake, but this parody is fantastic-
for those well aquainted with Seratonin, OCD, Pfizer & M.D.’s in general…
It may seem insensitive to the OCD sufferers,
but really, as one who loves, and is related to, and treats, those with the illness -I know that that the more one laughs at such things the better.
Otherwise how could you muster the stamina it takes to take on the disorder head on?
Health and life and unbalanced neurochemicals are not for humorless wimps.
Besides,all of us are diagnosable with SOMEthing…I’ve got a rotating list of my own symptoms that alternate by the week.
It’s only those folks who insist they are happier and more "normal" than everyone else that creep me out. No Thanks, I don’t want to hang out with Barbie and Ken.
I’ll take the messiness and joys of the Potato-head world of real plain folks anydays.
post-vacation adjustment
I took a red-eye out on Halloween to Ft. Lauderdale, 62 year old mom and 71 (almost 72 yr.) old aunt in tow. Came rushing back into town 11 pm monday and headed to work Tuesday morn., feeling utterly deflated in 880 traffic and gray skies. Concrete Jungle, indeed.
Where, oh where are those turquoise waters of the Carribean!? Why am I stalking the aisles of Safeway after work instead of headed down to a formal dining room to be served by a team of charming waitstaff? And, after 6 whole days of open shoes (except of course, rock climbing and running shoes on exercise days), wireless freedom (both internet and brassiere)-here I am linked and plugged in, strapped down, propped up, leather shoes and heels at the ready. sigh.
As addicted as I am to wearing boots and going online, and yes, even to work; I was getting comfy putting on a swimsuit every day and just reading that ancient thing: a book.
Instead of Iguanas racing about, it’s just the pigeons, and all the old men clustered in Renaissance Plaza who are all clad in grays and beiges so uniformly dull that I wonder if they planned it, and wished I had my camera.
Yesterday I went hoarse after 2 hours at a meeting, then 2 hours speaking and engaging doctoral students about Psychological work with Asian Americans at the Wright Institute (several quite promising future psychologists in that bunch), then dashing back to Oakland for a client and an hour of individual supervision of my post-doc intern.
Dang, even I think I talk too much! Perhaps the real reason Freud wanted his patients to free associate was so that he could sit there like an all knowing bump on a log and not have to speak.
Tonight I am hoarse from singing my heart out in the car (fortunately with the advent of earpieces, every other person looks like they are gleefully or intently talking to themselves as well), and more importantly from reading the Pixar Cars book & Dr. Suess’s Happy Birthday Book to little D. I never realized that some of the children’s books are quite lengthy to be read aloud! I kept checking to see if he was asleep-but no, and he definitely knew that he gets TWO stories before lights out.
"You’re supposed to talk" he suggest helpfully to inept Auntie Helen as I flip through the glossy pages of Book 1.
"But D, this subway book is in Japanese! I can’t read it…"
Blank look. I expect him to burst into tears and scream for his mother, but he seems to take pity on me though he seems doubtful.
"Look," I proffer the book, "that’s Japanese. See? Not like CARS is in English".
Fortunately, fetching blankie and Dr. Suess saves the day, and I am able to slip out. A kiss on the head and 2 ninja turtle companions later, D goes to slumber without a single tear shed, to say the least of the torrent I half-expected (not that he is a difficult tot, but almost weekly he gets broken up about not being allowed to come to yoga with us).
D’s mum is my oft-mentioned office spouse-guardian of my workplace sanity, yoga/running companion, and provider of banana bread, patient repository of venting/whining/ranting. So, tonight D’s folks get to decompress a bit at Indigo Girls. I love, love, love Indigo Girls, but I have seen them before,and there is something so sweet about being entrusted with this little person…who innocently and unknowingly (to either him or his mother) attended my bachelorette party in Yosemite. D was hiking, yoga-ing, and skinny dipping with us since conception more or less.
Time to go check on the baby…Buenas noches
