Cur, the Curative

My two-month vacation officially starts tomorrow. My husband and I just bought a shiny new gadget on wheels Prius. We'll be vacationing in Monterey for our anniversary. Bush's approval ratings are in the low 20's. I feel safe in saying I am the opposite of depressed regarding my existence these days.

Nonetheless, out of curiosity today I scanned through an article entitled something to the effect of "12 Ways to Deal with Depression" or some such (I'm too lazy to link, and it was barely worth the read). The list contained groundbreaking suggestions such as Make Friends! Find a Hobby! Exercise! (Although the winner had to be "Number 9: Get on Your Knees" which was apparently meant to inspire people to pray). That gem notwithstanding, these lists are almost always laugh-worthy to me because, well, duh much? If you spend all your days lazing in isolation on your ever-expanding posterior with nothing to stimulate your intellect but staring at a talking box, of course you're going to be depressed.

I was, however, pleased to see the presence of furry friends on the list. This, I think, is my secret to surviving what has been a horridly stressful year for me pretty much unscathed — DOGS. (And yes, they really do require the dreaded all caps.) It is definitionally impossible to get all woe-is-me, sad-snowflake when you have 25 pounds of wiggle sticking its tongue in your ear. Really, they should be prescribed. Prescription drogs.