fare thee well coffee yogurt, sort of

How exactly does one announce a blog name change? How does one inform of a profile name update? Send out cyber printed announcements? Commission a video? Hire a plane to pull a banner, a la Mrs. Brightside's post?

I came up with Coffee Yogurt one night in December several years ago. I didn't know what the blogsphere was all about. I was looking for some virtual connection with fellow psychologists. What I came across was a bevy of witty, creative, humorous and real people bloggers. So, I did what any sane 40-something on winter vacation would do: Take up residence.

Before you could say psychoanalysis I had clicked on the Create a Profile button. Presto-chango I had to come up with a moniker for myself. Hmmm. I gave it some about 15 seconds worth of thought. What was something I love and couldn't live without? I spied the empty cup of coffee yogurt on my coffee table.

Lurrve Dannon's coffee yogurt since I sold it at the local dairy convenience store - my first real job. The unwritten, unspoken rule was - if it was sold on the shelf it could be consumed on premises.

Dannon is the yogurt I love but have all but stopped buying because two of my teens seem to love it more than me, even, and those cute little white plastic cups I purchase on sale only pretty much disappear by the next afternoon. Fear not the empty nest; welcome the Dannon-stocked refrigerator shelves.

And in case you don't mind a further trip down the sentimental path, I miss Dannon's waxy cardboard cups. I miss the pleated lids that you had to lift and unfold in accordion fashion, to reveal the tabbed, round, colorful cardboard discs. 

I never really meant to be known 'round the cyber world as a semi-solid sour-ish bacteria fermented food stuff but I was too noncomittal lazy to do anything about it. And so this morning, quite without purpose, I hit the Design button on the dashboard and gave it a looksie. Wahlah, just like that, I deleted Coffee Yogurt from my Header and a Shrink was Born!

Not a very deep or insightful reason for the change. But then, some of us shrinks are not known for our profound insights. We're known for figuring out the problem and fixing it. Fast.

Well, maybe not so fast, but it's done.

When a Shrink Gets On The Couch is the name of my blog. Shrink on the Couch will be my stamp of visitation.

For the time being.

EPIC FAIL

A huge thanks and nod of appreciation to my regular readers who haven't given up on me. Especially those who continue to leave comments despite my EPIC FAIL as a reciprocal blogger.

My excuses are as follows.

Work has been kicking my boo-tay.

Playing limousine driver to my not terribly grateful twin tweens has been kicking my boo-tay.

My husband's rants about the Aggies leaving the Big 12 Conference and joining the SEC have forced me to feign active listening whilst playing Pogo's Poppit ad infinitum.

As you can see, it hasn't been all work and no play (see Poppit). I've been getting to bed earlier and doing more reading. Of the book variety. Rah! My favorite genre, historical fiction. Pithy reviews for those who share my enthusiasm:

Jude Morgan's Charlotte and Emily: A Novel of the Brontes was somewhat slow but one I could sink my teeth into. I can't get enough of 19th Century women authors.

In Manette Ansay's Good Things I Wish You, a contemporary woman writer speculates on the relationship between pianist Clara Schumann and her husband's protege, Johannes Brahms, while also relating to their mutual hardship of balancing career and motherhood. Good stuff.

So here I am, between books, with the aim of reconnecting to bloggerville and finding more entertaining and intellectually stimulating ways to pretend listening. Let's see how well I do.

jenn's sensational high coup

Today Jenn's Sensational Haiku Wednesday theme is ...

beautiful man, there

graceful handsome courteous

dance with ... who me? yes!

don't include me in the 99%

Am I willing to march with the 99% protesters?

Meh. Not so much.

Am I willing to march with the 90% protesters?

Hell to the yeah!

Who can support this growing economic disparity? Better question: What the hell is wrong with Tea Partiers and other tax cut harpers who think the way out of this recession is more of the same?

Thank you Mother Jones for the above chart and others that point out the glaring unfairness faced by the middle class and the poor.

attachpicking: parental bonding of the highest order

For various reasons, I didn't get to breastfeed my kids. Not beyond the first few weeks, anyway. So I wince a little when I remember those shark nibbles hear breast feeding moms make claims that nothing brings a mother and her baby closer than the feeding the way mother nature intended.

Used to be, when I heard smug mommies claim breast is best my stomach would lurch. I wondered if I missed out. Worried that there really is a special bond that only nursing mothers can experience. That maybe my children were deprived because they didn't receive the highest expression of their mother's love.

Well, move over breast milk magnates.

Regrets be gone, ye of the dry breast.

Because I am here to give witness to a heretofore never revealed, far more powerful form of parental bonding. It doesn't matter how many children you have nursed or for how long, you have not thoroughly attached to your child until you have engaged in this most tender, most intimate, this pan-ultimate ritual of self-sacrifice:

Nitpicking.

Or as we nitpicking shrinks call it: attachpicking.

Whether you attachpick in your back yard under the golden rays of the murderously hot summer sun or in the comfort of your family room huddled under the harsh glare of a florescent lamp, attachpicking is guaranteed to bring you and your child closer than you could ever have wanted imagined. Your child will open up and scare the snot outta you share secrets of her soul and confidences heard only at the cafeteria table. Not for the faint of heart or the weak of vision, attachpicking is an extraordinary bonding experience.

Best of all? Dads can do it. No more will fathers be forced to stand helplessly by and watch their wives become the sole super-bonder.

So the next time your child comes home from school for the third time in almost as many years complaining of a scratching head? Do not flinch, groan or roll your eyes. Do not blame the other mom because she allowed a sleepover despite knowing her daughter had head lice.

No ma'am.

With gratitude in your heart and a nit zapping comb in your hand, grab your coke bottle 3.0 strength reading glasses and feel fortunate that you and your child have been granted the privilege, yet again, of luxuriating in this crowning achievement of motherhood.

Either that or see if this little guy is available: