I know. A perennial question (or, in my case, daily. Hourly. Minutely, even!). But I ask myself why do I keep trying to do this thing that is a) so hard and b) interferes with what else I have to do when c) things are just not happening?

In order not to jump out the window (likely another fruitless exercise, since we only have two floors in the house), I am going to try to answer the question:

1. Because I think I am funny.
2. Because otherwise how could I justify spending so much time on reading?
3. Because it makes me feel good when I’ve done it.
4. And not just like a frustrated SAHM.
5. Because, as Amanda pointed out recently, if I don’t do it, then nothing WILL happen.
6. And I get to see my friends at conferences. If I weren’t trying to do it at all, I would have no excuse for seeing them. And now some of my best friends are fellow writers.
7. Uh–more excuse to watch hawt guys in historical films?
8. That’s such a good answer it gets two bullet points.
9. That’s it.
10. Tapped out.

But writing tomorrow, for sure.

PS: Reading The Watchmen. WHOA! The narrative structure blows me away!
PPS: Found pix of Richard Armitage not in character, begging the non-PC question: Is he dressed like that because he’s gay, or because he’s British? Apparently he is not gay.

Hey dickhead–yeah, you, the skinny dweeb sporting the iron-decal t-shirt of a cat looking sweet. Yeah, I know you think you’re all kinds of hipster chic, but I’m here to tell you you’re not. In fact, as previously mentioned, I think you’re a dickhead. And not a particularly innovative one, either.

Guess what? It’s not ironic, or clever, or coy to wear that shirt with your skinny little jeans, nerd glasses and scuffed-up sneakers. You just look like you were hip like ten years ago, and dude, you’re not now. So go home, take that too tight t-shirt off your scrawny torso and bring it back to the Goodwill you bought it from.

‘kay?

*Saw this guy last night, clearly it’s been bothering me all day. And it’s not this exact t-shirt, but something similarly sappy.

It’s not like I don’t love my son, or love spending time with him, but this last week of school? Gah. It feels as though school has scheduled all these events just to preview Just How Much Time We’ll Be Spending Together This Summer.

Tomorrow, a school-wide 4th grade picnic. I gotta go to that for at least an hour or two.
Thursday, his class has a picnic. Ditto on the compulsory attendance.
And Friday? A half day. He gets out at noon.

Waaaahhhhhhhhhh!

Just because I am in an anomalous good mood does not mean I’m not still a bitter complainer. For example, how is it helpful to write a review at Netflix of a movie that says ‘Netflix sent me the wrong movie, this isn’t the one I wanted at all, I wanted one with the same title, only a different movie.’

Really? That’s like when Amazon customers say things like, ‘I’d love to review this product, but Amazon never sent it, and customer service never responded.’ Or ‘this didn’t do what I thought I would, I guess I didn’t read the description well enough.’

Great. So apparently you have enough time and wherewithal to enter a review for something that only *you* didn’t like, for whatever reason? HOW IS THAT HELPFUL AT ALL?

Next time, just STFU. Thanks.

So last night I watched Punisher: War Zone, a hyper-violent (based on a video game, so what would you expect?) movie starring Ray Stevenson, who I really liked in HBO’s Rome. Plus I love really stupid action movies, and this fit the bill.

Stevenson was really good in the part, given that he was playing a completely-obsessed man bent on revenge. Didn’t overplay it, was believable in the action sequences and plus he’s foxy.

Okay. So all good. Thus far. But The Wire’s Dominic West was also in it, playing a mega-baddie whose face gets mangled in a glass recycling machine. Not the most overdone of the moments in the film. That’s how over-the-top it was. West’s accent is a grotesque caricature of NY accents, his acting is equally overdone. I was hoping his conniving blackmailer role in 300 was an aberration, but apparently not. I couldn’t help but wonder–who the hell told him THIS would be a good part for him?

The same person who thought Deadwood’s Timothy Olyphant should play a goofy love interest opposite Jennifer Garner? Or worse, the bald, sociopathic assassin in another video game to movie The Hitman?

I will follow neither West nor Olyphant into their next forays. And I like bad movies.

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.]

So Yahoo has decided it wants to be Facebook, so is encouraging me to add email names to my list of ‘Connections,’ I guess, so my friends can see my avatar and maybe see what I’m doing. And I, likewise, can see what they’re up to.

But, honestly? I’m not 15, I don’t have a lot of spare time, I am not that popular, and frankly, I don’t care that much if my friends are getting coffee, or tired, or all done with wrapping presents! or whatever. And if I wanted to know that, I’d head to Facebook or Twitter, not Yahoo, which handles all my email.

So, misanthrope that I am, I am saying ‘no’ to every request for a connection. And I am seriously ticked off at Yahoo for trying to force me into a social dialogue I’m not comfortable having in this venue.

Grrr.

Your Friend,

Megan

Today is my 13th wedding anniversary. I am not griping about that; I am quite happy, actually. Scott and I have weathered a lot together, including passive aggression (working on it!), biting straws, obsessing about bookmarks, deaths in the family, a big move, financial mayhem, the Son, too many paperbacks (not working on it!) and the inability to remember anything from one week to the next.

No, what’s bugging me? Three things:

Last Saturday, I was dressed all fancy at this wedding. I was sitting and noticed a friend talking with another wedding guest, and they were quite obviously talking about me. I thought, because I’m all vain like that, that the wedding guest was saying I looked nice, or pretty, or whatever. Only hours later did I learn that he was actually telling my friend I looked like Sarah Palin, no compliment intended. I was crushed.

Today at the post office I picked a package up and handed my license–which is 13 years old (I got it when I changed my name)–to the clerk. “Oh, is this your daughter’s package?” she asked, looking at the photo. My face must have dropped, because she quickly amended it with, “Oh, I see, you cut your hair.” And apparently got a lot FREAKING OLDER LOOKING.

And the last, non-appearance related gripe is this: Last night, the Spouse and I drank beers and watched Superbad, which was ribald, raunchy and oddly sweet. Plus the script is amazing. But at the end, AFTER HE’S SMOKED CIGARETTES, one of the characters whips out an asthma inhaler and takes a hit. Oh, ha, ha. Very funny. The nerdy guy with glasses MUST ALSO HAVE ASTHMA, let’s get the point across so heavy it’s like being struck on the nose. Totally out-of-place, merely there to be another accent to his total nerddom. If he really had asthma, he would’ve used it earlier in the evening. Why did he need it at that particular time? He didn’t show signs of an attack; it was just movie business that was unnecessary. That really bothered me. Like, really bothered me. Other than that, I liked the movie.

So I have some really fantastic relatives, case in point the aunt and uncle who are putting me and The Son up for over two weeks. I mean, who wants to have people stay in their house for two weeks? Three years in a row (and counting?). This morning, my aunt took me to yoga class at her Y, which was great. I am really inflexible, not just in spirit and spontaneity, so I needed it.

My aunt went through a lot of difficulty growing up, and has developed a philosophy of parenting and life in general that sure sounds good. She and my uncle (my mom’s youngest brother) have an amazing relationship, one that I envy being all passive-aggressive/neurotic/oblique as I can be at times (yes, asking the Spouse is moot, since we all know he’d agree). My uncle is the most blunt-spoken person I know, but also one of the kindest. Of course they, in particular she, have a lot to say about my parenting, but they do think I’m a good mom. If over-protective. Which I have to reluctantly agree with, I am overprotective of my guy, for sure.

Which is a long way to go for saying I feel weird today, mostly ’cause I stayed up too late last night, and my carefully-laid plans for the evening were disrupted when another one of my uncles returned from Brazil (he lives in the Philippines normally, is here for the summer? Not sure; he’s another brilliant-but-odd relative), a young friend of my uncle’s was here getting tutoring and my Son was devastated that his uncle was caring about another boy. Can anyone say ‘only child?’

So instead of settling down to quiet and a book, I had to console a sobbing child, deal with many tired relatives who had less patience for my boy than I did, and then top the night off with a . . . discussion . . . with the Spouse.

I took a nap today, but am wicked fuzzy after. These days happen, for sure, but I wish I didn’t feel so woozy and depressed. Feh.

In the good news department, however, I’ve firmed up plans for Friday, the Son’s birthday. Am I the best mom ever, or what? I’m taking him to the Mall of America to go to the indoor amusement park, making him bacon at some point in the day, taking him to see Hellboy II, and giving him three Miyazaki movies. I rock. I will consume much caffeine that day.

Megan

Want to know how exhausted I am? I am so worn out I couldn’t even find a good picture to post with this. See, I like posting pix with my words because at least you’ll have something to look at. But not today. Today you are on your own.

We moved, and this morning around 8:47am we were officially out of our previous apartment. Today I had visits from the nice Time Warner guy and the even nicer UPS man. I now have internet (see?) and put bathroom stuff away. There are boxes EVERYWHERE. I have a lot of fancy clothes. Good thing I wear a sweatshirt and jeans almost every damn day. I vow to dress up once this is all over.

Tonight we have our brand-new huge-ass plasma TV hooked up. I feel sorta embarrassed it’s so huge, but just think how hot Clive and Sean and Richard will look. Mm.

Uh . . . eventually I will be writing again. My brain hurts a little right now, so it might be awhile, but I am attending the New England Conference in a few weeks, so I better get more writerly, or it will be a waste. And I hate waste.

And can I say, just one more thing? I haven’t read a book IN A WEEK. The last time that happened I think I couldn’t read yet. Even a day after giving birth I had cracked open a James Ellroy.

Megan

*Mark Morrison’s ’90s hit. Sure, you remember it, don’t you?