So for many, many, many years, my dad and I would refer to our mid-winter malaise as The Februarys. We both got ‘em, there wasn’t much we could do about them, and being the stoic Irish folk we were, we would endure.

In recent years, I’ve been too busy to get the Februarys–last year had its own problems, but I was engrossed with moving and renovating and dealing with some pesky grief issues. Year before that we were working up to close on the house.

But this year? With the recession and job stress and all?

I *just* realized, Dim Bulb that I am, that I have the Februarys. Luckily, the darn month is over next week. Yay.

Meanwhile, I’ve got to go drag my ass to the gym so I can relieve some stress I probably wouldn’t like to know I’m carrying. Le sigh.

[I'd ask you what you to do relieve stress, but I'd probably just get depresseder that I don't have chocolate, am too fat anyway, don't have money to buy a treat, don't have time or money to get pampered, don't have energy for anything but the mopage, and screw you, I'm more miserable than that anyway.]

Last night, the Knicks-Loving-Despite-Himself Spouse (we came thisclose to naming our son Oakley after Charles Oakley) took me to a game. The seven year-old had a sleepover, so we actually HAD A DATE! There were a passel of fratboys behind us (did you know there are words that can be used IN EVERY SINGLE SENTENCE? God, I hated them. Shut up, no-one wants to hear you, bubba), and I had to ask the Spouse of I was getting old because I was hating them so much. The Spouse pointed out I’ve been intolerant my whole life, so I felt better.

And then afterwards we went out to a place where I had coffee ice cream, chocolate nibs, and chocolate port.