"I'm on the Zoloft to keep from killing y'all." - Mike Tyson

Sometimes to keep the boys occupied until we reach school, we play a game where I count one type of vehicle (I almost always get ambulances. Jude: “Mama. Ambulance. People hurt.”) , Jude counts another, and Si counts a third.
The conversation in the car this morning:
Si: I saw a school bus. I am counting school buses.
Jude: No! I count school buses!
Si: Yes.
Jude: No.
Si: Yes.
Jude: No
Si: Yes.
Jude: No
Si: Yes.
Jude: No
Si: Yes.
Jude: No
Si: Yes.
Jude: No
Si: Yes.
Jude: No
Si: Yes.
Jude: No
Si: Yes.
Jude: No
Si: Yes.
Jude: No
Si: Yes.
Jude: No.
Ad nauseum, or at least till we get to school.
(Interspersed with epithets of pophead, stinky butt, and piece-of-toast.)
I think you get the idea. Someone pass me the Zoloft.

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Speaking of Zoloft, I saw my shrink yesterday. Due to a scheduling conflict I had some interaction with one of his colleagues before I actually saw Dr. R. She checked my blood pressure (?), she interrogated me about my street-drug habits (I have none, just for the record); asked me about my antidepressant use during pregnancy and was I comfortable with this, had I informed my OB, etc. (have I not been stressing over the two heads/twelve fingers/ multiple whatevers of this child since the day of conception?); questioned the fact hat I haven’t seen my therapist in 6 months (I think after close to six years of almost monthly or at least bi-monthly therapy sessions, I can afford to be a little less neurotic) and generally made me feel panicky about whether she was going to give me a prescription for MORE DRUGS, which was pretty much the only reason I was even there. She told me that they needed to see me in four months (somewhere around a month after the baby was born – sigh) and they would “review my situation” then. Then Dr. R. saw me. Fifteen minutes of chit-chat, a prescription, and a directive to call him after the baby is born so he can call in another prescription if I need it. I don’t mean to make him sound cavalier or irresponsible; he is so not those things. But he’s been my shrink for close to five years now, tinkered with meds and dosages many times to make sure I was getting optimal results, and is confident in my ability to be aware of what my brain and the drugs are doing. I love him. And I will definitely be double-checking and confirming appointment times from now on. Because she scared me.

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My PNP called again today tracking down even more phone numbers for various religious officials in a particular order. I am not even sure that half of these offices exist any longer, but since I am not Roman Catholic, what do I know? Here’s the thing: I punted. I called the international office of the order and explained what I was looking for to the very polite, helpful, and sweet priest who answered the phone. He obliged me with the phone number to the “ultimate” priest in charge of the order, the fax number, and the name of his secretary. Poor man, he didn’t realize what I had just let him in for. At least she won’t call him looking for the phone number of local pizza shops and grocery stores. I hope. This (in my opinion ingenious) solution did not please my patron however. She apparently wants my BLOOD, if not my actual brain cells. Ha!

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I am a little more than a third of the way through Misfortune. There’s no doubt that Wesley Stace can write (judging from his songwriting abilities of his alter-ego John Wesley Harding, this comes as no surprise to me). The book is just this far to this side of weird to be a really engrossing read, but I think it will improve now that we have a first-person narrator as opposed to the omniscient narrator of the first chapters.

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Something else that occurred to me about HP. I realized during the 6th book that I really don’t care for Harry’s father at all. He sounds like such a jerk. His mother Lily sounds sweet and smart and likeable but James just comes across as a bullying show-offy jerk. My sympathies lie with Snape every time I read one of the scenes where James and his friends are bullying or teasing Snape. I always think, “Poor Severus. Why can’t they just leave him alone?” Is it just me?