First Snow of the Season

As I drank my Earl Grey this morning, I watched a cold drizzle turn to light snowfall. Now, just about 1 pm, a bit more than half an inch has accumulated on the stones surrounding the fish pond. The paving stones round the pond are treacherously slick, as one would expect. Still, the fish must be fed. I missed yesterday's feeding, so they were quite ravenous just now, devouring the bits of dried and ground up insect as they hit the pond's surface.

I don't know how long I stood watching as they fed, but it was long enough that I'm chilled to the bone and my sweatshirt is soaked through. I can't even say why I stayed so long. I certainly wasn't engrossed in the feeding frenzy, nor even the quiet beauty of snow dusted on rock and evergreen. But there I stood, reluctant to leave and yet not really wanting to stay.

One might say that's metaphoric of my life at present.

I know that I am horribly depressed. The temptation is to stop the medications, as they are outrageously expensive–"no generic equivalent"–and don't seem to be helping a bloody bit. Then I think, but what if I weren't taking them? How much worse off would I be? And the therapy sessions are a disaster. Group is dominated by two thirty- or forty-something women who seem determined that no one shall be more depressed than they. It would be comical were it not so very sad. The monthly (thanks for naught, Blue Cross) private sessions are more productive, but nevertheless have helped only little. Still, little is better than none, eh?

The snow has begun to fall harder now. Perhaps we will get the predicted three inches, after all. It has begun accumulating on the street and drive, blanketing unraked leaves in my garden and disguising the weeds left unpulled in my flower beds. It's quite lovely, actually. Would that I could but enjoy it.

You Betcha!

Gotta love YouTube contributors:

This is Why...

I'm so goddamn depressed:

NEW YORK (AP) -- The estranged wife of South Carolina Gov. Mark Sanford is writing a memoir.

Ballantine Books, an imprint of Random House Inc., said Tuesday it will publish Jenny Sanford's "inspirational memoir" in May 2010.

The publisher says Sanford "will grapple with the universal issue of maintaining integrity and a sense of self during life's difficult times."

The book is currently untitled, and financial terms were not disclosed.

Mark Sanford was once a rising star in the Republican Party. He acknowledged in June that he had a yearlong affair with an Argentine woman he called his soul mate.

Jenny Sanford moved out of the governor's mansion in August, but she and her husband have said they're trying to repair their marriage.

For every piece of worthless crap like this—and the faeces dropping from the likes of Glenn Beck—as many as five worthwhile books won't see publication.

To be fair, it isn't Jenny Sanford's fault. Much as I'd like to blame him, it isn't even Beck's fault. No, good reader (I know there's one of you out there), the blame falls squarely upon the shoulders of we, the people, and our seemingly insatiable appetite for salaciousness. Not to mention political incoherence.

And the bad news is, there's no end in sight.

Back, for a Brief Visit

I haven't posted in a good while, and it probably will be another good while before I post again. But, for those few who actually read this, I thought you might want to know why.

I've been wrestling with the black dog, and I'm afraid he's winning. I've been on sertraline hydrochloride for a month as of tomorrow. It doesn't seem to be working. Though, God knows, were I not on it I might be dead now. Hey, I guess it is working, at least a little. That's the first time I've voiced thoughts about my own death since, well, I can't recall. Wait, now I remember: two weeks ago this morning, in the shrink's office.

Group therapy twice a week and private sessions every other Monday may be helping, I don't know. I don't participate much in group, but I can't shut up in private.

Still, I'm so bloody depressed I can barely haul my fat old arse out of bed most days. Gregory isn't taking classes this semester, so I don't even have to get up to send him out the door. Anyway, he's 20 years old, he can handle that on his own.

Anhedonia. Do you know what that means? It's the inability to find pleasure in actions or events one normally would find pleasurable. I'm a foodie: I love to cook, and I love to eat. Lately, we've survived on Chinese take-away and Papa John's. Yesterday, Gregory and I made spaghetti for the first time in weeks. I mean made spaghetti--the pasta, the sauce--from scratch. He ate. Most of mine is in the fridge.

I sleep 12 to 14 hours, or almost not at all. Some nights I lie in bed and listen to the grandfather's clock chime away the quarter hours, until the sky grows light. Then, if I'm lucky, I sleep an hour or two. Other nights, I fall asleep in this chair before eight o'clock, wake cold and stiff-jointed sometime later, and then off to bed for another ten or more hours of dead-to-the-world.

Maybe the worst is, I can't seem to work. Just writing this little bit, I've been sitting at this bloody machine some 90 minutes.

I need stronger meds, or maybe a hospital bed. Or maybe more therapy. But this one thing is certain: something has to change.

I Just Can't Stand It!

Remember what I said about bookstores (see yesterday's post)? If anyone needed more proof...

NEW YORK (AP) -- Lauren Conrad wants to be known as more than just the former star of MTV's "The Hills." And now she is.

Her first book for teens, "L.A. Candy" (HarperCollins, 326 pages, $17.99), has topped The New York Times best-seller list for children's chapter books. For two straight weeks, Conrad's novel about a young woman living in Los Angeles, who gets discovered for her own reality show, has made the list.

I just can't friggin' stand it!

Rabbis, Oprah and Dating

A well-meaning friend emailed a link to a page on Oprah.com, titled "Where to Find a Nice Guy." No, she wasn't suggesting I switch teams. Rather, she seemed to think I could "reverse-engineer" Rabbi Shmuley's advice to find where women might be looking for nice guys.

All due respect to the good Rabbi, he needs to find his way out of the nineteenth century.

His first suggestion is to look in houses of worship, where one will find "men with a spiritual disposition." Maybe. One also may find religious zealots, child molesters building their cred, and con artists looking for an easy mark (which also would be about building cred, come to that). In short, dear Rabbi, the scum of the earth now go to church not to pray, but to prey. I would be doubly cautious about anyone I met in a house of worship. Scepticism? Perhaps, though I would think it more on the path of prudence.

Next Rabbi Shmuley suggests bookstores, where "you'll find men who are intelligent." Obviously, the Rabbi hasn't been to a Borders lately, and seen the sort of books dominating the shelves. Rabbi, no one who reads the bovine droppings that constitute the vast majority of offerings from the American publishing industry can be considered intelligent. For every No Country for Old Men, or The Brief History of the Dead, there are a dozen dozen bodice-rippers or potboilers. Which do you suppose fly off the shelves?

On that same theme, he suggests libraries: "quiet, contemplative settings that often attract intellectual guys." Not to mention the homeless, who haunt public libraries as refuge from the weather. Now, lest anyone claim I am biased against those down on their luck, I am merely stating the obvious: libraries are no longer the ivory towers they once were.

I have a bit of ambivalence over Rabbi's advice to look to the military. I hold our armed forces in highest regard, but experience—first- and second-hand—proves today's Army attracts many undesirables. Does the name Timothy McVeigh ring any bells? We are fortunate that the wackos of any stripe generally are weeded out in the first two or three years of service, though a few slip through and make the Army a career. So yes, Rabbi, these are "men [and women] with a sense of mission." Just what that mission might be is what must concern us.

I had to laugh at the advice to look to charity events for "men with a social conscience." I have four words for you, Rabbi: court ordered community service.

Likewise, seeking a soul mate on dates set up by friends brought a chuckle. Whilst my friends might be "discerning in who they'll introduce," most of my friends have heard all my tales of blind date disasters—and thus steer well clear of setting me up.

Rabbi Shmuley also suggests the workplace and weddings as potential mate-finding zones. Even if I didn't work in my very own little study, at home, I don't believe in dipping my pen in the company ink. And weddings? Almost everyone I know is married, and has children. Perhaps when the children are ready to marry...

Rabbi, I must say this: at least you try to amplify your spot-on core advice ("Shmuleyism"): "A good [mate], while not easy to find, is possible as long as you look in the right places, and the right places mean venues that foster purpose, compassion, hard work and spiritual commitment." But Rabbi, you gotta get out in the world more.

When It Rains...

Gregory was late returning home last night. Very late. About half two this morning, I was awakened by doorbell ringing and fist pounding. I was rather in a haze, but lucid enough to realise his car was not parked in the driveway.

The Caddy had died, and he waited several hours for AAA to send a tow. Then he left both his house keys and the garage door remote in the bloody car.

Initial diagnosis: blown radiator, blown head gasket. Long story shortened, it seems we are going to be car shopping this weekend. And I'm going to be cashing out at least one more CD—this one well before it matures.

What the hell, I don't need to retire to Provence or Tuscany...