· In the middle of a"can't-sleep-or-eat" phase, I got up at the crack of dawn and watched the extremely powerful movie Freedom Writers. I wish my passion - the cats - could graduate someday.

· My car sales manager, Mitch, who found my dream car for me two years ago, called today. He said he missed me since my driver's side door leak had been repaired and I no longer brought it in for service every month. Really? Because I was kind of thinking how great it was not to discover a foot of water on the floor every time it rained. He asked me to play golf and have a few beers on the course with him, but I told him I didn't know how (to golf. Obviously, I excel at drinking beer) and had no clubs. He offered to buy me a set so we could play, which I find a bit odd, especially considering the fact that he didn't give me that great of a deal on the car.

· I then managed to misplace my cell phone, tried calling it from another phone, but dialed the wrong number. Imagine both of our surprise when someone answered and I asked what they were doing with my phone.

· A guy I used to "date" (a term I use loosely since we live six hours apart and manage much better as friends) in Baton Rouge might be interested in buying the engagement ring from my ex to give to his fiancee...am I officially a redneck?



I had a sneaking, egocentric suspicion the movie "In Her Shoes" was based on my sister and me, but the theory was modified one weekend at a a pool in Panama City when a clueless gentleman yelled out, "Look! It's Cameron Diaz and her mom!" (yes, I would be the 'mom').

Appointment-with-the-new-shrink countdown: 5 days.


Running with Scissors (Addendum)

Because they were a little suspicious about all the chemicals in my blood, I had to talk to a substance abuse counselor before I was released from the hospital. Smart, those doctors.

We came up with a "life plan", in which I agreed not to attempt to harm myself before June 16, 2008 (do I get a "best if used before..." date stamp on my forehead?) and to see a counselor, who happened to be a therapist AND a pastor conveniently rolled into one. Great. I eagerly agreed, mostly because I didn't want to raise any flags and spend another night in that tv-less room, throwing up jello, and was in desperate need of a shower.

I made a casual, "hypothetically-speaking, if I did need a therapist" phone call to my insurance company and discovered they were willing to shell out funds for forty-five visits per year. A little pessimisstic, I thought, but at least this self discovery crap wouldn't cost me anything.

My 'therapastor', who doesn't like to focus on the past (what kind of anti-Freud bullshit is this?), welcomed me into his office and distracted me by talking about himself for 45 of the scheduled 55 minutes. The shoulda-been-caped Super-Crisis-Therapist has helped the high school tornado survivors, girls who are "cutters", and families who need help communicating.

After my brief synopsis/sharing of the spotlight, his only concern seemed to be my drinking, so he asked if I'd ever considered AA.

"Nah," I said, quoting my sister, "That's for quitters."
"Does your sister think you drink too much?"
"Uh...no. She's in college."

Obviously, alcohol might have impaired my judgement and encouraged impulsivity, but it seems like it'd be more logical to give up prescription meds if we're going to take this odd approach to curing depression. Yeah, focus on the only enjoyable social activity I have. He deemed me 'fine' and suggested I make another appointment in a few weeks. Delusional narcissist.


Charmed and dangerous

I hauled my bitter, junk-in-the-trunk self back to the gym this week, for the first time in at least five years. I figure if I keep busy and glare at enough sweaty, grunting men in tank tops, my broken heart will eventually mend.

Life begins at 40, baby (squeeze, breathe, relax, and feel the sarcasm).

"The vote means nothing to women. We should be armed."
- Edna O'Brien (b. 1930)


So you think deleting phone numbers out of your cell phone address book makes you less impulsive?

I have this great new game: I send emails (or forward some he wrote to me) to the most recent address I have for my ex-husband. I get to vent under the veil of mystery (is he getting them? Are they sitting in cyberspace?); he gets to remember my bitter, sentimental, accusatory, pitiful and angry sides. Are we having fun yet?