what doesn't kill ya

Chet's nuts roasting on an open fire

Two weeks ago John and I were in a department store, where we heard the first Christmas music of the season.  We looked at each other and cringed, silently agreeing that this was just wayyy too early to be piping Bing Crosby throughout the store.

There's a radio station here in Phoenix that prides itself on playing nothing but Christmas music ALL DAY! EVERY DAY! between Thanksgiving and Christmas.  The station is classified as "adult contemporary," otherwise known as Sterilized-Inoffensive-Politically-Correct-Office-Friendly music.  In other words, terribly boring but better than silence -- most of the time. Too many doses of the Celine Dion/Kenny G/Faith Hill blend make me long for crickets and my whirring brain.  Somehow, my own personal montage of music,  with its references to bootys and drunken cavorting, wouldn't have others in the office feeling very productive. So yesterday, I decided to play nice like I always do and flipped on the warm-fuzzy station.

To my surprise, instead of yet another rockin' three minutes and thirty-one seconds of "Kokomo," I was greeted by John Lennon's "Happy Christmas."  What?  But it's not even Thanksgiving yet!  I was delighted, even with Yoko Ono's tone deaf contribution.   

True, in another two weeks I will have definitely had my fill of holiday music.  And I'll be the first to admit that Tom Jones belting Christmas carols is a bit much.  Not to mention all the talk of "Jack Frost nipping at your nose," meanwhile it's 82 degrees outside and I'm pondering yet another purchase of flip-flops.  And the "people passing dressed in holiday style?" I haven't seen them yet in downtown Phoenix.  Although, I could have missed them amongst the scantily-clad meth-heads and drunks hanging out at the park.  You never know.

For now, I'll enjoy the heavy doses of virgin-pure Christmas music and long for the days when the Donny & Marie dolls in purple satin get-ups topped my Christmas list.  The days when I thought that Santa really was watching, and I'd better not swipe any more candy or my Weeble Fun House would go to that snotty-nosed kid next door.

The bastard.

Depression:7 Heather:8

I'm back, muthafuggas.

It was close; Depression gave me a run for my money once again.  But in the end, I emerged victorious and have mopped the floor with Depression's ass.  I'd be remiss if I didn't thank my team of antidepressants and loved-ones, without whom I would surely be bench-warming indefinitely, watching the world pass me by.

This was my seventh severe depressive episode, the second in one year.  By "episode" I mean a state in which I cannot function normally and my life becomes so adversely effected that words like "intervention" and "crisis" and "hospitalization" get thrown about like all the jeans I've gotten too fat for.  Unfortunately, for me and many others, depression is a part of life.  It's something that in chronic cases must be managed as opposed to cured.  So this is what I have attempted to do since I was a teenager.  Inevitably, the valleys crop up despite all the managing, and foundations morph into quicksand and things gets tough for a spell.  This time was no different.  I lost myself for a few months.  When that "feeling" began creeping up on me in late spring, I was caught off guard and didn't even have the chance to say, WTF??  I began falling down that slippery slope, and fought the disease and myself to crawl my way out of that deep, dark well.  (My nails are fucking trashed.)  Anyway, I won't get into the gory details except to say that it was a bitch and I lost my job and ended a friendship in the process.

I basically threw blogging out of my consciousness until the last week or two, when I started thinking about blathering on via the Internet once again.  I decided to revisit posting for, uh, it's therapeutic effect and whatnot.  My opinions are back with a vengeance and I say, why the hell not? 

So I'm back for another round.

"Fall down seven times, stand up eight." -- Japanese Proverb