Skip to main content

Tell Me Why

The other day, someone asked what's wrong with me-that I use to be charming to be around but lately, well, all I seem to do is yell and act like a bitch.

Moi? Well, I act like a bitch because YOU are an @$$.  Really.

I tried to think back to when I lost my perpetual smiley face, and started adding a profanity to every sentence like a dime school rapper. It seems to have happened right after Labor Day.  When my tan starts to fade and I put the shorts and tee shirts away in favor of denim and leather, I become the female version of Kanye West.


I suffer not just from SAD but from T-SAD: THREE-Season Affective Disorder.  I don't get depressed or angry in just the winter (although that's the worst).  I start as soon as the leaves change and maintain this pissy demeanor right up until I can dip my toes in the ocean again. That Polar Vortex thing put me in a high speed wobble-especially when the pipe burst in the garage and water drenched not only everything I had left post Sandy, but the classic car my brother had just bought and was storing at my house. Son #3 and I passed the cell phone back and forth saying "You call him and tell him." No you." No YOU." until I fearfully made the call and asked him to move the car from under the waterfall. (PS-he was very calm.  Especially since we found the shut-off valve and I used every beach towel I owned to dry the sucker off before he got there.)

And that's just the tip of my Titanic bitchy iceberg.

My web research on winter depression says I should be exposed to bright lights in the morning since my "circadian rhythm" has shifted.  The clock tells me to get up, but since I'm not working full time, my body says "FU" and I stay in bed, with the laptop open to Google (to diagnose my malaise) and computer games that are certainly rotting my brain. Besides not getting out of bed, I fall asleep early-like 9:30 which has done nothing for my social life.  Of course, if I decide to start hanging around with Vampires my social life will be awesome, since I wake up every stinking night at 2:00. Wide awake.  And according to what I've read on the web, this lack of sleep may give me Alzheimer's in the future.  So I'll be hanging out with Vampires and not remembering why.

The web also says winter depression could be triggered by concerns over money.  Wingman and I alternated years paying the basic bills, but I always had the job of getting paperwork ready for the accountant for tax day.  Inevitably come January every year, I would storm into the family room with a fist full of receipts screaming "DO YOU KNOW HOW MUCH YOU SPENT ON CD'S AND VIDEOS LAST YEAR???"  Which would lead to weeks of accusing each other of our wasteful spending habits and months of recrimination.  Yesterday, I sat at the kitchen table with the puppy at my feet, and went through 2013 receipts.  "DO YOU KNOW HOW MUCH I SPENT ON SHOES LAST YEAR???" I yelled.  The puppy looked up at me, wistfully hoping that I would drop a cheese curl from the bag I found crushed on the floor of the pantry. "AND HOW MUCH I SPENT ON DUNKIN DONUTS AND STARBUCKS???"  No wonder the Weight Watchers that I paid for for six months didn't work.

There are all kinds of other reasons why winter truly sucks the life out of me.  Instinctively, I know that by the time there are buds on the trees, I'll start feeling better, and by the time I buy my beach badge, I'll have a smile on my face.  Until then, I just have to stay out of other people's faces and use Wingman's method of beating the blues-counting down how many days until pitchers and catchers report.

Because the boys of summer, namely the Niagara Baseball team is coming to town, and on March 29th, I'm hosting a team dinner as a thank you for helping me rebuild after Sandy.  And I wish Wingman was around for it.  Because there was nothing like a spring baseball game to bring out the best in both of us.









Comments

Popular posts from this blog

I'm Too Sexy For My Shirt

Wingman use to call me many things. Obstinate. Overcritical. Certainly bitchy. I even recall on our wedding day that he called me "beautiful". But that was a one-time happening, and I don't recall him ever crooning Eric Clapton"s "You Look Wonderful Tonight" after that. So it comes as no surprise that he never called me "sexy".

And I get it.  When I went to school in NYC, a couple of my friends were stopped by Eileen Ford and asked to come to her agency to model.  They were cute, and one was even, in an exotic way, sexy even back then.  But not me. I was and always will be, fine with how I look.




There were some things over the years that got me noticed...like when I stopped dying my hair and grew it out to donate for a wig.  As part of a lecture that I did on The Avon Walk For Breast Cancer, I had my beautician come in and cut my waist-long hair short. The following Sunday at church, I was a Eucharistic Minister, which at a Catholic Mass is a re…

'Cause Baby You're A Firework. Come On Show Them What You're Worth

Five years ago today, I stood in a hospital room strewn with used syringes, rubber gloves and other medical waste, looking at the lifeless body of the man that I shared a life with for over 30 years. I should have been thinking of family, love and loss.  Instead, my first thought was, "Wow, I'm a widow now." Pretty pathetic in retrospect, and when Wingman referred to me just before I left him as "The Bitch", probably not too far off the mark.

But in time-warped speed just a half hour before that, I had already talked to the hospital twice, woken son #3 up to go over to the hospital with me, called Wingman's brother on the way, fought with a gimpy legged night watchman who wouldn't let us in the hospital, and finally took "that meeting" in a small private room where the doctor told my son and I that they did everything possible, but unfortunately (UNFORTUNATELY???) Wingman had passed. My brain was filled with what to do, who to call, …

But She Use To Have A Carefree Mind Of Her Own, With A Devilish Look In Her Eye

The first time I went out with Wingman, he remarked about how much I reminded him of his mother.  When we finally met, I just didn't see it: she was a tall, chain-smoking blonde, with a Lauren Bacall-esque voice, while I considered myself just an average size brunette with no distinguishable qualities.



She and I began our own relationship with stories about our lives, and she won every round of "Can You Top This". At 10 years old, she helped deliver her brother when her mother went into labor at home. Later, her alcoholic mother walked out on the family and was never seen or heard from again, so she dropped out of school to help. At 19, she and her husband eloped, and thought no one knew.  A photographer however, took a picture of them outside City Hall which became the cover of the afternoon edition of the NY World Telegram. (Oops.) A couple of years later, her very pregnant self drove her father and his equally pregnant girlfriend to City Hall in Newark to MAKE them get…