Earlier this afternoon, while on my way to pick up my son from a playdate, I saw a kid who’d clearly just had a bike accident. There’s construction going on across the street, and he got snagged up in some construction site mayhem.

I rushed across the street; he was conscious, but definitely not getting up anytime soon and what’s more, was bleeding from the head. I called 911 and waited with him, not moving him and trying to keep him talking (that’s what the dispatcher said, not to touch him and to make sure he stayed conscious).

He had his head bowed forward, and blood was dripping onto the road. I went into my purse to pull out a tissue to put on the bleeding, since I thought it must be freaking him out, on top of the whole accident thing.

The tissue was a Hello Kitty tissue. It was all I had. What’s more, the kid (who was 16, I found out) was white with crazy, gnarly dreadlocks. So he was pressing the HK tissue against the wound and his dreaded up hair. An anomalous sight, to be sure.

I did not reprimand him for not wearing a helmet–I figure his parents will do that later.

But–if YOU bike without a helmet, do not. Or run the risk of having a goofy mom hand you an even goofier tissue to stanch your wound.

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.

I have a lot of books.

Okay, so I don’t promise never to get gushy again about the events of the past few weeks (I have two pieces of writing that could not possibly make you cry more than it did me), but can I just say?

If MY husband had an egregious comb-over, so bad it started just on top of one ear and went all the way to the other side, would I let him also dye his hair? I would hope I would be strong enough to tell him, “Honey, you look like ass. Suck it up and be bald.”

Last night, we indulged the Exceedingly Charming and Insanely Cute Son and went to the Boardwalk. I can tell I’m old (and not just ’cause of the creaky bones) because the teenagers baffle me. So loud! So solipsistic! So self-conscious! So like me except for the loud part!

I didn’t even have a drink and I feel like I have a hangover today: “Ohhhh, nooooo, too many teenagers! I feel sick.”

Tomorrow, Brooklyn. I sure miss diversity. And walking. I miss walking.

Next weekend, Shoot ‘Em Up opens. Not that I will see it until someone can hold onto my Son for a few hours. But just knowing it’s out there is enough. Almost.

Last night was the Quadruple Decaded-Spouse’s birthday party (a whole pig was roasted; much beer was consumed; a good time was had by many). During which, one of the Spouse’s friends mentioned he stopped by here, and boy, did I like me some Clive Owen.

To which I say, “Yes. And?”

I am a good woman.

I say this because I got Borat from the library for me and the Likes Uncomfortable Situation Comedy Way More Than I Do Spouse to watch. I am expecting I’ll spend most the movie grimacing.

Writing is going well, I say guardedly (note: Stephen King said “The road to Hell is paved with adverbs.”).

Reading is not going well. I tossed a book after two chapters because I just didn’t care if these people got together or not. My TBR shelves are mocking me. I am not sure what to choose next.

AND CAN I SAY I AM SO TIRED OF WEARING MY WINTER COAT?!? IT’S APRIL, PEOPLE!
[I know. The weather is a) a boring topic b) not controllable and c) predictable in blogdom. But still.]

Dear Writer’s Diary,

Yesterday was a doozy (fyi, did you know ‘doozy’ comes from ‘daisy,’ not originally from the Duesenberg automobile, although that car’s fabulousness added to the word’s luster? Sure you did).

I did laundry, wrestled with real estate mishegas (Yiddish word for craziness; I have been channeling my Inner Jew with all this mess. Just don’t get me started on ‘fakakt,’ although I have no idea how to spell it), wrote a smidge, starting reading Dead Beat by Jim Butcher (LOVE IT!), worked out, then had an actual outside-of-the-house DATE with my husband. Sushi and chocolate. Can’t beat it with a stick.

I am already missing the Picky Vegetarian, who leaves Portland, OR, to head to Laos and Cambodia by way of Hong Kong.

My agent has promised to send out the pitch letter for Lessons In Love next week; then I get to be on all kinds of tenterhooks (btw, I wanted to find the definition of tenterhooks, and here’s what I got: “one of the hooks or bent nails that hold cloth stretched on a tenter.” Big help, thanks).

My son returns from his Dote Week down in South Jersey today; I cannot wait to hug him.

I would write to you about how I feel fat, scared, confident, insecure, nervous, smart, and ochlophobic (afraid of crowds), but I pretty much do that in my regular posts.

Love,

Megan

Hey, here’s an original comment: It’s FREAKING COLD. The first three days of the week I wore silk long underwear, then decided today it wasn’t supposed to be that cold, so I’d eschew the double layers.

Bad idea. My legs got all tingly and wind-slapped, and the only thing I could think of was a) tea and b) my stupidity.

Right now, I am inside (well, duh, I’m not writing this outside on the sidewalk) wearing a shirt, a sweater, and a sweatshirt. It’s cold inside, too. Although I just brewed some fresh tea.

Freelance work and the Great Real Estate Hunt has been taking up way too much of my leisure time, so writing has been slow, but whenever I DO get to do it, it’s a blast. Like a blast of cold air. Refreshing.

What are you doing to stay warm?

Megan