Happy Hour

So, last night, as I was refilling my convenient little pill holder (you know, those little daily boxes that you only have to load up once a week, then all your meds are ready and waiting every night? love that thing), Husband looks over my shoulder and says, "What the hell *is* all that?"

Good question. It's Happy Hour at Jane's house. My cocktail of choice?

Oh, a little bit of this, a little bit of that, a dash of the other. Shake with ice. Drink quickly.

And the thing is, it does make for a happy hour. I've been closer to "normal" (head not spinning around backwards, knives not brandished at hapless Jehovah's Witnesses, children relatively unscathed) than I have been in a long time, and I've been enjoying it.

But sometimes, it doesn't quite cover everything, and I get back to feeling less-than-happy again. It starts with the eating. And the shopping. And the sleeping. And the intense desire to move somewhere else. And the niggling feeling that there must be something better out there.

Of course, I know better. This too shall...

Meh. Screw it. I'm going to bed.