So the past three days I’ve been wiped–absolutely wiped–by crazy sinus pain. Which definitely exacerbates the feeling of ‘huh?’ I’ve been experiencing, but doesn’t entirely explain it.

But I digress. I’m in the awful ‘why do I even bother?’ phase of writing. That’s really hard, because I can’t imagine not writing, but I’m also not actively writing, at least not very much. It’s not because I am procrastinating, or lazy (although that charge could be legitimately levied at times), it’s because life otherwise is so busy. But, given that so many other writers handle way more than I do and still produce, perhaps I am lazy? Or bad at time management?

My son is in school from 8:40 until 3:00. That gives me six hours of Son-Free Time. But during this S-F T, I do my freelance work, which takes about three hours. I also handle all the household stuff, go to the gym (usually–today I forgot my stuff, which was fine, because I feel awful anyway), do grocery shopping, errands, etc. Doesn’t leave a lot of time for free-flowing writing. And then, when I can sit down at the computer, I wonder why? Why do I bother? I haven’t gotten much positive affirmation for my writing in the past five years or so, although I have written books. I’ve got a few things out on submission, but I can’t allow myself to be way optimistic, since I have to keep a realistic perspective. So why do I bother?

I would go all woo-woo (Thanks for the verbiage, Picky Vegetarian!) and say it’s because I can’t not write, which is sorta true, but really, would it matter so much if I quit? But then I think about that, and it makes me sick inside. So I flounder along, not writing enough, not producing enough to get myself to the point where I might have a chance for success, and then I beat myself up. Oh, yay.

And then here’s where the Carolyn Jewel example comes in to shame me–Carolyn had early success, then spent a long, long time not being published. And then longer after that not sure she would have a career in writing. But she continued to believe in herself, and did crazy things with time management to make it all work, and now she does have a career, and a good agent, and publishers who believe in her. So why can’t I be as strong as Carolyn? I don’t know.

Anyway. This is a lot longer, and a lot less fun, than my usual posts, so thanks if you made it this far.

Megan
*A Bryan Ferry album, obviously. I like the duality of the image.

This past weekend, post-dancing mayhem, I held a friend’s purebred poodle.

And didn’t sneeze.

I’ve been allergic my whole life; I’ve never held a dog more than a few seconds before, and then always had to rush off to wash my hands. And then would usually sneeze or wheeze or get puffy eyes. But this time, I held the soft sweetie, off and on, for at least half an hour, and–nothing.

Earlier in the evening, the dog’s owner had talked to my son:

Dog’s Owner: So, you like dogs, right?
Son: Yes.
DO: Do you think you’d like to have one?
S: I see where you’re going with this, but my mom’s allergic.

I know my son would adore having a dog; I haven’t told him I didn’t react to the poodle because of a host of things–the cost of a purebred (which would be necessary, since a mix would have the bad dog allergens), the cost of dog upkeep, the requirement to walk and feed and take care of the dog even when we’re away, the smell and wear on my furniture (vintage Heywood-Wakefield, about which I am insane. I’ve threatened my son’s friends’ lives if they damage anything).

But the dog was so much fun to play with, and I know my guy would be thrilled.

Aagh!

So the Delightful Phone Friend will mock (”Ratface!”), but I am experiencing a tremendous urge to watch North And South. Dunno why, it’s kinda like a tide coming into my body or something. It’s weird. At random moments, I’ll think “I MUST see it again!”

Only I haven’t done it yet. Huh. Maybe I am good at delayed gratification (and if so, tell that to the coupla handfuls of cashews I devoured earlier in the day).

Oh, and I wrote again today! Inching ever closer to 25,000 words, which is my stopping point so I can send it to the aforementioned DPF for feedback. Will then go work on festive paranormal idea.

Megan
*Now this is a total in-joke between me and my dad. And since Dad isn’t here anymore, it’s now a total in-joke with just me. Which means that I have officially crossed the line from zany to crazy. But I cannot read a compass, not for the life of me, and I cannot understand its point. Hence the compass joke.

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.]

Tomorrow is a big day, for one sucky reason (death of Dad), and I am hoping to distract myself sufficiently so I don’t break out into sobs at inopportune moments (Someone Else: Ma’am, would you like that to go? Me: Waaahh!). I have a lot of Mom-type chores to do, and then I am taking the Son and his friend to see Twilight (I swear, I did not push them into it!).

Tomorrow night, tea and sympathy. Maybe some wine. Wine and sympathy.

I’ll be posting at the Riskies tomorrow, too, but won’t let any of this drama over there. That’s for business, this? This is personal.

Thanks for not minding when I get all serious and such.

Is woe you?

No, it’s me. Woe is me.

Not for any reason in particular, just feeling the ebb part of the ebb and flow of life. So I’m gonna chill out today and not beleaguer my kind readers with my various Ts and Ts (Trials and Tribulations).

Hope everyone had a great holiday, and please take a moment to remember that today is World AIDs Day, and people around the globe are still dying from this terrible disease (my uncle died over twenty years ago from it, back when it was the “Gay Man’s Disease.”)

Sometimes it’s hard for me to believe this person (Chinese actor Gong Li) and I are the same species:

So ridiculously beautiful. And a darn good actor, too.

Now I must slink off and pretend to be female: Hey, irrational behavior! Wait, overcompensating anxiety, over here . . . and where is that chocolate?!?

Okay, I feel better now.

So my car got towed today. And in a few hours, the Son and I will head to the Brooklyn Navy Yard (it looks as inviting as it sounds!) to free it from the car pokey.

In learning exactly where it was, and how much I had to spend to retrieve it, I ate about a quarter pound of cheese and about 20 Kame Rice Crunch Crackers, Wasabi-flavored.

How stupid is that? Stress eating. When you’re just too dim to drink water.

Feh.

I am SO having a beer tonight.

First of all, a caveat: I am incredibly crabby today. See the post below for why.

But second? Second, I DO NOT WISH TO LOOK LIKE A GOTHIC CLOWN this fall. And yet, the makeup companies are launching tons of dark, dark “smoldering” colors for lips and eyes that will make me look like a daguerrotype. PLUS, I DID that look the first time around! I used to wear super-dark lipstick, smoky eyes, blah, blah, blah. People with darker skin can handle those rich colors, but me? I look like Morticia Addams, without the cool-ass dress. And the knock’emdead figure.

And I know myself. I love dark colors, I will get sucked in, and end up buying something that’s called something like ‘witch’s blood’ or ‘burnished crow’s wing’ (oh, for goodness’ sake, one of the MAC descrips is “burnished eggplant.” Kill me now) and then I will wear it, and then what? I WILL LOOK LIKE A CLOWN!

I am not fond of clowns.

Megan

PS: Did you know there is a word–coulrophobia–meaning abnormal or exaggerated fear of clowns?
PPS: I image-googled “fall 2008 makeup” and this is the first picture that appeared. I rest my case.

First off, don’t let my in(s)anity keep you from ordering Carolyn’s book, here.

But here’s the deal: My grandmother, whom I’ve mentioned here before, had excellent taste in clothes. She only wore four colors: Black, white, hot pink and navy. She and my grandfather had to attend a lot of fancy dress affairs, thanks to his job (he was in retail), so she had a massive wardrobe. MASSIVE.

I have almost a dozen of her and my aunt’s gowns, from Geoffrey Beene to Christian Dior to things she whipped up herself. She was an excellent seamstress, and had five kids, so couture wasn’t always in the cards.

But she was also anorexic (I have two other female relatives with bulimia and morbid obesity. Is it any wonder I’m so messed up?). She weighed *maybe* 110 pounds her whole life, and was proud that she was back to her usual weight within a week of having kids (twins included!). By the time she died, she was a little more than 80 pounds.

So when I try on her gowns–keeping in mind the last time I saw 110 pounds was in fourth grade or something–why am I so incredibly bummed I can’t fit into all of them? I can fit into some, but there’s one that just won’t zip without some serious elbow grease, and the Spouse and I didn’t think it was worth possibly wrecking the gown just to see me bundled into it.

I’ve been in a black cloud since that last one wouldn’t zip. What the hell? I can fit into most, thanks to generous hip allowance and a small waist, but not all. Shouldn’t I be okay with that? Why do I have to be so neurotic? Of course, it doesn’t help that I haven’t worked out consistently since April, and my arms are bugging me. When September comes, I am SO going back to the gym. Then I’ll wear a b&w Dior gown to pick my son up from school. That’ll show ‘em.

Sometimes I think I’m just fine, and then sometimes I really I am just a big hot mess.