February sucks. Living in New York, I’m just so done with winter by now. I’ve enjoyed the let’s sleep-in, cook up a storm, build a fire snow days. I’ve made it through the last December’s pressure to “enjoy” the “holidays” and already resigned myself to the fact that this coming year won’t be the year I enjoy (or even go to) a gym. This February marks three years since my grandmother died, at what felt like a premature 99. I don’t think I’ll ever get over her leaving. She was my moral compass; my role model; my great friend; a source of joy and laughter in my life. February is also the month of my birthday (No happy happys in the comments please. Hit me up on Twitter or FB if you must.) For many years now my birthday just feels like the tick tick tick toward my inevitable demise and a reminder that I haven’t yet achieved many of the things on my list of things I plan to achieve in this lifetime.
Perhaps I suffer from S.A.D. I strongly feel the need for a beach, a rum drink, and no deadlines (even those that are self-imposed). When I read the newspaper this morning, I found out Shirley Temple Black had died, and now I can’t get the fucking Good Ship Lollypop out of my head. It doesn’t seem at all funny that a suicide bomb instructor blew up his class because he was imbecile enough to use live ammunition in his demonstration. I’m sickened by the NFL hubbub surrounding college football player Michael Sam’s coming out. Are we really still talking about this? Can’t we finally move past labels and discrimination and judgements about people’s sexual orientation, race, and religion? When will fucking spring come? I need a goddamn crocus or something.
I know how lucky I am though. I’m so ridiculously lucky. I’m the luckiest bitch on my block. I live in a nice house with a nice husband and 3 nice children and 2 nice dogs. I have more than enough to eat and mostly don’t need to worry about paying the bills. I’m relatively healthy. I have good friends. I know my personal “problems” are First World problems.
And… Yesterday I read Neil Gaiman’s FORTUNATELY, THE MILK. You see, when all else in my life feels like crap, when it’s February, I have books. FORTUNATELY, THE MILK made me smile, then chuckle, and reminded me to use my fucking imagination. It felt like my soul was going to the gym. And liking it. Later today I’m going to finish editing a client’s manuscript about lady pirates. I don’t think I need to explain what joy that brings me, and not just because it’s well written, sexy, interesting, and well… about lady pirates. And I just plunked down a chunk of change for Donna Tartt’s THE GOLDFINCH, and I’m planning on giving myself a birthday present of taking the time to read it. I’m in the midst of signing a new client with a manuscript where “a younger Bridget Jones meets a quirkier Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants.” It’s a funny, sexy-smart novel set on Cape Cod. Right now it feels a bit like a crocus.
So how do you get through February? What are you reading? What are you writing?