Okay.

I've been on the Zoloft now for about a week. I have noticed some things. The first, it works. Obivously, this is a for me thing. But, it does work. I'm more calm, I'm more able to handle things.

Saturday, my beloved Steve was trying to change something on his beater car. Whatever, something else broke. Two weeks ago, it would have been the end of the world as we know it. Saturday, all I did was start working the phones trying to find one. Had the auto parts place order it, everything will be fine. He can take my car to work until the part comes in on Monday.

Monday comes and it's the wrong part. Again, two weeks ago I would have been through the roof, yelling at the poor auto parts guy, trying to get him to get me something that he just couldn't. Instead, when I returned it and he told me that the part we needed was a dealer only part, I simply ratcheted up the price in my head, bit the bullet and called the dealer. (I was right, the price went up by about $50, by the way.)

When the dealer told me it would be an $20 freight to actually have the part the next day, or I could wait a week and a half, I swallowed hard and said "okay."

So, the Zoloft is working. The headache is gone, the shakes are gone. Everything is going swimmingly.

Except. (C'mon. You knew there'd be an exception.)

One of the biggest things that would have set me off two weeks ago was everyone being in the kitchen when I was trying to dish up supper. Without fail, the second I pick up the serving utensils, the dogs have to go out (through the kitchen door - right beside the stove) everyone needs a drink (from the fridge) everyone needs silverware, etc.

The last two nights I've been dishing up supper, Matt has just been returning home from work and has come into get his drink. And both nights, he's said 'I'm just getting a drink, I don't want you to yell at me.'

Let me be clear. It's not that it bothers me he's in there - it does not. At all.

What bothers me is that apparently I've made everyone I live with completely miserable while going on about how I'm just fine. When, obviously I wasn't fine.

Steve is the only one who would say anything to me about it. I mean, I guess it wasn't the 'boys' place, but still. You'd think someone else could have said something? I don't know. It's wierd.

On another note, my not-quite-three-year-old apparently knows how to work the DVD player. She can even switch movies. Does this frighten anyone else? No? Just me, then. Okie dokie.