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.]

This week, due to illness (mine earlier in the week; my son’s later this week) and sundry stresses, I didn’t work out or write as much as I have in past weeks.

And tomorrow would be a dandy day to do the former, and I’m wondering: Once I’ve fallen off the horse, how can I get back on again? I mean, I feel like I don’t even know how to get astride! Grumble. Once I’ve stopped a ‘good’ habit, it’s darn hard for me to pick it up again. Bad habits are a snap (q-tips; interrupting; shoving things randomly into drawers; drinking; etc.).

What’s more, I got some excellent feedback on my contemporary, and I gotta work on polishing that. Editing is way harder than writing fresh stuff, because the fresh stuff can stink. The editing is supposed to remove said odor.

Not only am I meandering, I’m boring, too.

Another thing to work on.

I am now officially growing my hair out. I am going to bobby pin it to death.

I am hopeful my current writing project doesn’t stink.

I left my keys in the house today, so I had to go into Manhattan to get the Spouse’s set. Color me beyond pissed.

My cold isn’t nearly as bad as it was yesterday.

Tomato soup is my friend.

And I am wearing no fewer than four layers right now.

This cover has nothing to do with anything, but I was tired of seeing plain text when I went to my site. Et voila!

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

Me: “I’d like to get these boots resoled.”

Boot Guy: [suspicious squint] “These are man’s boots.”

Me: “Yes, they’re my husband’s.” [Like that's a problem?]

Boot Guy: “When you want them?”

Me: “Uh, I don’t care.”

Boot Guy: “What day?”

Me: [shrugging] “Uh . . . next Tuesday?”

Boot Guy: [scowl] “Hmph.”

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.

Just call me Leni Riefenstahl.

I am in a foul, foul mood. Son forgot a crucial piece of homework this morning, husband groused about some stuff I got defensive about, headache, screwed up a piece of freelance work and there are workers banging on the house next door, which is vibrating here. Oh, and it’s POURING.

BUT the Alpha Dog is coming over to write, and I don’t want to waste her time by being a pill, and I am writing a romance, so somehow I am going to have to swallow my hatred of my fellow man and write some lovey stuff. It will be difficult. But I will survive.

Thank you, Gloria Gaynor.

I have insomnia again. I slept okay last night, but for awhile now, I’ve been waking up, and been up, for a few hours.

I am really mad. Greek yogurt, sleep, coffee, books, black hoodies, hoop earrings–my life necessities. Item #2 has been missing lately.

Liz Maverick brought up one of my perennial conversation-stopper topics recently, only hers was a different take on the problem. Namely, pantslessness. The pantsless thing has long been of concern to me. Why do cartoon characters wear jackets but no pants? Porky Pig, I’m talking to you.

(That doesn’t even BEGIN to go into how I feel about Mickey Mouse. I have a vendetta against him, I think I’m unhinged. It bothers me so much–he’s not funny. He’s not likeable. He wears gloves. Why, in the name of all that’s holy, does he exist?!?)

And I was talking about this to my cousin, the gorgeous, totally together 22 year-old with whom I was shopping yesterday (yeah, how’s THAT for a confidence booster? “Hi, Megan’s insecurities, meet someone who’s literally half your age, blond, smart, savvy, with boobs, who looks good in everything she tries on.”). And Lisa followed up the pantsless question with why Daffy–or Donald, I’m not sure which–Duck* wears a towel after he gets out of the shower. . . when he’s about not to put on any pants! What’s he hiding?

We do know ducks are one of the few birds with penises (is that penii?). Is that it? Is Daffy/Donald hiding the goods, only to expose them when he’s dry?

But really–why can’t cartoon characters have pants? It wouldn’t bother me nearly as much if they weren’t wearing jackets. Consistency, people, consistency! If your anthropomorphic animals wear clothes, make sure they’re fully dressed!

That’s all.

Megan

*Oh, I just googled “Donald Duck shower” and found a quote from Friends about Donald and his showering ways. A flaw in the otherwise perfect cousin? She watched Friends? Megan’s insecurities feel a wee bit of triumph right around now.

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