I Been Served

I think that's some sort of hip lingo the kids are using these days, though I'm not sure what they're talking about when they say it, and I strongly doubt it means the same thing I'm talking about. Last night, around 7:00, I had a process server at my door handing me my very own copy of the douchebag's family access motion, claiming I am denying him visitation or phone calls without cause.

At least it was a nice process server. Some of them are real dicks.

I was still pissed, especially when I read through it. I mean, I knew what it was going to say. I even knew it was coming. But to see it in black and white, and to think someone believed that fucker enough to bother putting all his stupid bullshit in print, just made me want to punch a wall. So I immediately went into freak-out mode, which manifested in my deciding I needed to find my copy of the motion to modify right now. And I couldn't find it anywhere, and that was making me hyperventilate, even though (1) there's a copy at the courthouse and (2) there's a copy in my lawyer's office. Ben gently suggested it might be in my other bag, and when I checked said bag in my car, there it was. I could have made out with him. Instead, I told him thank you, kissed him, and said "I need 5 minutes." Then I parked my ass on the couch with my copy of "Teacher Man" and got lost in the life of a New York City high school teacher in the late 1960s for 5 minutes. And then I was okay. I gave Bob his bath and put him to bed, although I got beat out for story duty by Ben. Which is fine.

I was, at least, proud of myself for not letting it ruin my evening. I didn't. We watched "Last Comic Standing" and "Dog Bites Man" and went to bed happy. And went to sleep happier, nudge nudge, wink wink.

This morning I got to go to my own doctor's office to tell her no, the Zoloft isn't making a shit bit of difference and hell, I'm not even sure 50 mg of anything would make a difference to my body after 33 years of various pharmaceuticals prescribed by various physicians. She said she wasn't surprised it had no effect (then why not start me at a higher dose? sheesh) and gave me a script for a higher dose, and another script for the Ambien i accidentally dropped in the sink last night.

That was funny. I pulled the bottle out by the cap, which had not been secured the night prior, and the bottle and contents spilled into my recently-used and very wet bathroom sink. Fuck. I watched in horror as 2 pills slid down the drain and the rest of them started melting in the sink. I scooped them up and put them back in the bottle. By the time I finished, my fingers were blue with stomach-friendly coating and it looked like I'd just jerked off a smurf. The pills clumped together sadly in the bottle and I started thinking about all the clients in the past who gave me some lame-ass excuse like "I dropped my bottle of OxyContin in the sink" and my thinking (and saying), "sure you did, and you can have a refill in a month." I could just imagine my own doctor thinking the same thing, when here I was with real-life smurf pill goo all over my fingers, telling the damn truth.

I mentioned it to Ben when I got into bed, and he said "why don't you take them with you tomorrow and ask her if it's okay to take them or if you need new ones?"

That's why I married him--because he's a goddamn genius.

Okay, maybe he's not a genius necessarily, but he's able to keep a clear head and make good decisions when I'm freaking out. And that's genius to me.

So the good doctor bought my sad tale (and the sad clump of pills in my palm) and wrote me another prescription, even though she said the old ones should be okay to take.

I've been at work since then trying to figure out what the hell I'm doing. I just can't think today. And I'm not sure why.

Can't believe it's only Thursday.

At least my hair looks good today.