It may not seem like a big deal to a lot of you but for me this is nothing short of a miracle. An act of true pharmaceutical intervention.

Back in April, when I first visited my family doctor, I was so quivering and clammy the doc actually suggested we go outside to talk about my anxiety. Because grass is softer than vinyl tile and his liability would be lessened if I fainted there.

Zoloft works. Period. Tom Cruise can shove his zealous rhetoric up his Thetan hole.

I put off taking anti-depressants for years. I was ashamed to admit I needed them. I was afraid of going to the doctor. I was afraid I would become someone else. I was afraid of losing my sex drive.

Now that I've been on them for a month I can't imaging a time when I won't want to take them. My mood has dramatically improved and, frankly, I haven't missed my sex drive. In fact, now it's Donna who lays wondering why I went to bed so early with nary a thought about performing the marital act while I sleep like a cat in a patch of sun. Content and happy.

Now I just know some of you are going to get all up in my face about how much I bitched about Donna and her lack of libido back in the day. And how I used to go on and on about how much it kept me up at night. All I can say is, I think I understand a little better what it's like not to want it all the time. Or to pretty much never have it occur to you.

I've had a few of you ask how I'm feeling since I started on the crazy pills.

I'm reminded of when my mother had her hysterectomy. When we picked her up from the hospital I asked her if she was feeling OK. She looked at me quizzically for a moment before finally muttering flatly, "I don't feel anything. Not happy. Not sad. Not anything."

That's me. I don't really feel much of anything. I think that's basically the point though. Isn't it?

The past few weeks have found me struggling, and mostly failing, to stay out from under a fairly heavy malaise. Simply functioning has been painful at times. At work, I've been hard-pressed to perform at the level for which I'm generously compensated. At home, I'm not even coasting. At night, I drag myself through the motions but fail to follow through.

Falling short in my personal and professional performance leads to feelings of failure and shame. The failure and shame inevitably leads to more feelings of remorse and defeat. And thus the cycle turns. What it doesn't bring are those manic, desperate artistic outbreaks like you see in movies.

So I finally got my sorry ass back into my therapist and took his advice to get myself some crazy pills. And by took his advice I mean that I told him I was doing it and that I needed some advice on staying conscious during a trip to my physician's office. He told me to stop being such a pussy and make the appointment.

When we built our house a few years ago, there was one space that was supposed to be left unfinished. A spare bathroom in the basement. But instead of leaving it totally unfinished a few, but not all, of the contractors did some work in there.

The drywallers put up walls that were painted but no plumbing was installed. Drains were roughed-in the concrete floor for a shower and toilet but the tiling guy just covered the floor without regard for where the toilet, shower and vanity might eventually go. In other words, in order to finish the bathroom, I have to rip out all the drywall, tear up a bunch of tile, add plumbing and generally undo all the work that shouldn't have been done in the first place.

I mean, it was very nice of them to do us what they thought was a favor. But next time guys? Just do what's on the plans. Mkay?

My brother's wife has been in town with their kids for a couple of weeks. She flew in to help her brother finalize the preparations for his wedding to a Filipino mail-order bride. Or something like that. Maybe he met her while he was a Mormon missionary in the Philippines. I'm not entirely sure and the more I hear, the stranger it all seems. It's best to just pretend like it isn't going on around me.

While they were here, we had some good time to spend with my nephews and niece while their mother went off shopping for the world's tiniest wedding shoes and blah blah blah, who cares. During their visits with us we reaffirmed that which Donna and I already suspected.

My nephew is autistic.

Sometimes in life we are faced with choices. Stay in and rent or go out to a movie? Nachos or hot dog? Water or wine?

Sometime around three o'clock this morning I realized I had chosen wrong to all of those choices while suddenly faced with another; what do I do with the contents of my stomach? Do I flood the basement or send it out the chimney? I sat up in that instant with a cold chill and a light head. My stomach churned. Whatever I chose, I didn't want to choose it in bed.

But as I stood to rush to the toilet, I swooned. I was fainting. As something of an expert at losing consciousness, I quickly recognized the sensation and laid back on the bed.

A bleary-eyed Donna stumbled into the kitchen and with a quizzical look declared, "My mouth just went totally numb. Like I've been at the dentist."

Donna's fruit allergies often cause this symptom and usually a Claritin will clear things up right away and get her back to her favorite fruits. She's particularly fond of bananas. I happen to find them repulsive but it is fabulous to watch her put the entire length of one all the way in her mouth and slowly eat it.

I found an antihistamine in the basket over the sink. You know the basket I mean, the one with the empty box of Care Bear Band-Aids and three-years-expired baby suppositories. But the usual instant result didn't come. Moreover, Donna hadn't had a bite to eat.

"I think you should do more shows at the theater."

"Oh? Why's that?"

"So I can get a boob job."

Because we've decided that five is simply one too many weddings to finance before we're forty-five, Donna has had an intrauterine device entrenched in defense of her fertile-as-the-Tenessee-River-valley uterus for a couple of years. Crammed in her cervix just like God intended. Or wherever it is they jam those things.

Sorry, I haven't had a close look for myself lately to know the specifics. Also, I don't think cram and jam are the exact terms that reproductive medical professionals use for this sort of installation. It does send and receive SMS messages though, so that's cool. At least, I presume that it does based on what our insurance company paid for it. I mean, for nine-hundred bucks, it had better have an IP address and run some flavor of UNIX.

Being the high-tech, bionic fishing lure that it is, the IUD requires some kind of regular maintenance. Lube and oil change, probably. So Friday Donna took it in for its fifty-thousand mile maintenance and to have her airbags safety inspected.