Clara Jane returned to school today, hallelujah and praise be to the snow overlords. And yet, my blahs seem even deeper.

This is a success: I’m currently sitting at the dining room table instead of in the armchair by the fireplace, which has taken on the shape of my ass.

I had no intentions of being home at all during the the school hours today. After drop-off, I headed downtown to … I don’t know. I figured I’d go to Oregon Trail, have a latte, and try to avoid the sun. We’ve got that winter death-ball thing going, where there’s not a cloud to be had and white reflective surfaces everywhere. I hate it.

About halfway there, my stomach decided it was not please with the giant coffee I’d consumed at home. I thought about turning around and going back home, but I was in the middle lane at a busy intersection. Nowhere to go but straight, and no way to feel but trapped. I continued toward downtown.

When I got there, I didn’t have the energy to deal with the parking situation. Prettytown, I love you, but I’m disappointed in the lack of plowed parking lots. Street parking’s a mess because of the mountains of dirty plowed snow. I looped around the block and headed home without trying.

The whole time, I was listening to Memphis to Manchester, normally one of my favorite radio shows.  I don’t know if my trippy form of malaise is a collective thing, but the playlist certainly reflected my uncomfortable, bloated, lackluster frame of mind. “The Theme From The Pink Panther“, followed by Tom Waits’ “The Piano Has Been Drinking”? My God. My brain. Fucked!

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Holy crap, make the snow days end, already! All indicators point to a return to school tomorrow and I could just about do the Naked Dance of Glee in the nine inches of snow in my yard.

I do love time with my daughter. Absolutely. But frankly, we’re bored with each other. So bored we even took a little nap together today. That never happens.

You’d think that with two days of snow closures I could get a lot done. I haven’t. Well, I got Clara Jane’s birthday party invitations in the mail. Other than that, I have done little more than atrophy my ass by sitting on it. I’m not even knitting or writing while sitting on my ass. No. I’m farting around on Facebook. Watching “Yo Gabba Gabba”. Thinking about cutting my snaggly big toenail.

This is madness and it needs to end.

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1. I cannot remember the last time I worried that I cannot do a cartwheel or the splits. Really. This occurred to me a few days ago when Clara Jane yelled, “Look at me!” while doing the splits for the first time. That’s awesome! When did I stop caring about being able to do that? I think it was 1993.

2. I no longer pray for snow days. Partially because of the stuff I wrote on LiveFeed’s blog last night.  I’m lucky – a surprise day off school doesn’t cause a hardship in our family. Mostly, though, it’s selfishness. Clara Jane hasn’t had a full week of school in six weeks. We might go crazy on each other if this continues.

My wishes and prayers were drowned out by the bazillion people I know who wanted a snow day. I can’t say that’s a bad thing, mainly because Brian took the day off/worked from home, allowing me to sit in my favorite chair while my muscles atrophy. Seriously. I’ve always loved winter, but this one is really getting to me.

We had fun, though. First we sent Clara Jane into the front yard in her night gown to feed a flock of giant birds.

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New rule! If your birthday is in the last ten days of January and we do not already have an established relationship, I’m afraid I cannot be friends with you. The same goes for my kid and your late-January-born kids.

I’ve lost track of how many people I know who have birthdays in the last ten days of January. This wouldn’t be a problem, except weather and winter viruses conspire to make me uninclined to celebrate. To whit: right now I should be celebrating Courtney’s birthday with The Funky Butt Brass Band. Instead, I’m home, in my pajamas, watching PBS with my scabby chin. Clara Jane’s got a cold, and after a day of running errands and handing her 489 tissues, I’m too damn tired.

Tomorrow, provided she doesn’t turn into a snot monster overnight, Clara Jane has a birthday party to attend. Wanna see the cute gift I made?

I even got a bakery box to wrap them in, which I attempted to personalize with the child’s name. “Fresh from _____________’s Sweet Shop”, written in a red Sharpie that died after the second letter. Pretty!

The party’s at one of those bouncing facilities, and I really hope the snot stays away because Clara Jane’s extremely excited. I’m having visions kids slipping and sliding on mucus-covered inflated vinyl.

After the reptile experience birthday party two weeks ago, all birthday parties have become terrifying and fraught with possible hazards. Being eaten by a legless lizard. Breaking bones after slipping in snot. For Clara Jane’s upcoming party, we’re renting a facility at a local park. It’s on a hill way over a lake. I’m giving all the kids water wings and a foam noodle upon arrival.

Another friend is having a birthday party tomorrow. In all the years I’ve known her, I’ve never made it to one of her birthday parties.  Considering Clara Jane’s precarious nasal situation and her party tomorrow, I’ve already told her we’ll once again be missing her celebration.

Although by then, I might need to run screaming to a locale with grown-ups and beer.

I was going to do a shuffle/genius thing, but I’m too busy playing the first-line song game on Facebook.

I’m required to document how I spent Tuesday, right? Dumped the kid at school, came home, put on my pajamas, sobbed and laughed and cried and cheered and stood with my had over my heart during the swearing-in, did the Cabbage Patch and sang “Na Na Hey Hey Kiss Him Goodbye” as the helicopter left, thus giving the crowd in Washington to do the same. Sorry about that. Then I celebrated with leftover enchiladas, fetched my kid, came home, and had a complete mental breakdown, the details I really don’t want to discuss.

Can I just say something about our new second lady? I know she gets lost in the shuffle, but damn, I love Jill Biden. I love that she’s an English professor. I love that she’s got a big mouth; I consider this a plus in the political world. And I really, really love that she had the lady-balls to wear that red coat with those awesome black high-heeled boots to the inauguration. Hot damn! It’s like having Nancy Sinatra married to the v-p. I’ve been playing this song over and over in her honor today.  I’d spend all of my loot just to see her in her go-go boots.

Okay, I have a crush on Jill Biden. Or maybe I want to be her. I’m really confused right now.

And how was your day?

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I’ve felt it building for a few days, that heaviness in my chest that signals an oncoming depressive episode. It hit yesterday. Brian took over with Clara Jane while I took to bed with my knitting and the first season of Flight of the Concords. It’s hard to feel bad while watching She’s So Hot. It’s got a sweet M.I.A. vibe I like.  I know, I’m two-five years behind on everything, and that’s not helping the depression so let’s pretend I’m relevant and leave it at that. Boom King!

Before I forget, I’m bolding links from now on, since this damn template doesn’t show links and I’m too picky to find one that does.

Anyway, I drug myself out of bed around 10 PM last night because I figure I might as well completely screw up my sleep patterns while battling some mild mental illness. I figured since the depression was of the numbing variety, as opposed to the uncontrollable weeping and rage type, I’d be safe to watch the We Are One concert.  Right. Even at my most well-adjusted, nothing makes me cry like music. U2, performing “Pride”? On the steps of the Lincoln Memorial? The day before MLK Day, and two days before we get President Obama? Yeah. I cried and cried and cried until I’m pretty sure tears were coming out of the ricotta cheese-filled horn on my head. Follow it with Pete Seeger, his grandson, and Springsteen, doing every verse of “This Land is Your Land” with Pete singing the last three verses (including my beloved fourth verse)? You might as well drain every fluid out of my head. The look of joy on ol’ Pete’s face makes my heart soar.

While watching the concert, I realized something. I don’t think it’s so much that I’ve had a building depression. I think my brain forced my emotions into hibernation to prepare for this week.  Because as I watched, with the tears and sobbing, all I could think was, “It’s happening. Oh my God. It’s finally happening. Thank God, it’s here.”

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I knew I should have gone out tonight. There was a LiveFeed show I wanted to catch (Japanese Bat Bomb), but it’s frigid. And I have a cold. And I’m tired. I could probably still get there in time, but that weird bump thing on my head is making a weird noise, so I should probably stay home. Besides, someone has to be here to wake up Brian an hour after he falls asleep while putting Clara Jane to bed, and the dogs suck at it.

I’ve spent my evening knitting cupcakes, eating M&Ms one at a time, and watching a two-hour thing on History Channel about cults. They’re not even trying anymore; I’m sure I’d seen all of the footage in other programs about cults.

I’m bored. Knowing myself, I make great strides to not get bored, because when I get bored I get into trouble.

Today, I spent some time researching the address of a local Christian men’s organization that’s requesting a boycott of Hallmark because they’re selling cards geared for gay couples. Thought it would be a good idea to concoct a plan to encourage people to buy said cards and mail them to said organization. My research was useless, as the organization included the address in their press release.

When boredom isn’t making me do stupid things, it tends to get me overexcited to the point where I miss the really obvious.

I spent two days this week sneezing. Clara Jane woke up doing the same this morning, so going out to buy said cards wasn’t an option. That’s probably just as well.

Maybe tomorrow will be more entertaining. There’s a chance I might hang out with two people from my childhood. Well, sort of. One of them lived in my hometown, was a grade ahead of me, went to a different elementary school, and moved before we would have went to the same middle school. I don’t think we’ve actually met in person. We got acquainted on Ravelry last year while she was living in Japan.  The other person was in her fourth grade class, and we played on our high school tennis team together for two years. We’ve reconnected on Facebook, which is making me actually want a high school reunion. I’ve never wanted a high school reunion, but I’m finding that a lot of people I didn’t know very well back then have turned out pretty cool. Anyway, we might have a little get-together tomorrow.

I hope so, although by then I might be so stir-crazy that I might suggest road tripping to the hometown for a Guberburger and some wine coolers at The Ruins.

I’m blogging solely because I’m bored. Not because I have anything to say other than, bored. Hating weather extremes that stifle my mobility and creativity. The highlight of my day? While listening to my umpteenth hour of Little Steven’s Underground Garage, I discovered my new theme song: “Rock n’ Roller Girl” by The Mooney Suzuki. Ah, a tale of an aging rock chick. “You may be growing older/But you’ll never be older than/dinosaur bones./And you’ll never be/older than The Ramones.” I’ll bet the girl in the song gets bored and would do stupid stuff, if she had the energy. Pure genius, that song.

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More specifically, fuck-damn, it’s cold!

Before I complain, let me state that I am so, so, so grateful that I have a roof over my head, radiators that work, a fireplace, warm clothes, a fridge full of food that’s steps from being warm and yummy, and the ability to get my kid to school without risking her life to hypothermia.

These problems are borne of bourgeois angst, and I fully admit that.

So let’s continue. Fuck-damn, it’s cold. It’s so cold and my day has been as such that it requires the marriage of cuss words to describe it. It’s not as bad as my friends in Chicago are experiencing, where it is fuck-damn-shit, it’s cold.

Since last night was the coldest night in a decade, it didn’t seem necessary to put our 8-year-old truck in the garage. I’m not quite sure why we have a garage, really, since my truck doesn’t spend nearly enough time in it. Maybe the dogs could live there.

Anyway, the old truck spent the night outside, so I planned accordingly. About ten minutes before I needed to take Clara Jane to school, I went outside, revved up the truck (Yay! The battery works!), moved it as close to the side door as possible, removed my keyless entry remote, locked the doors, and went inside to finish putting Clara Jane into her 239 layers of clothing.

Have I mentioned that the keyless entry remote has been a little shaky since I crashed my truck in 2004?

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I’ve well documented my snake phobia over the years, but I’ll reiterate for newcomers: don’t like snakes. No rational reason why. Like a lot of people. Having a snake-loving kid has forced me to face my fear, because I don’t want to act like a terrified ninny in front of her. I’m pretty sure I developed my fear by seeing my mom act like a terrified ninny in regards to snakes. With that logic, mice should scare me so badly that I make my child empty the mousetraps while I stand on a chair, weeping. I’m not afraid of rodents. Don’t want them in my house but I’m content to co-exist. Snakes, though … *shudder*

In the past few years, thanks to my daughter and a good therapist, I’ve made some progress on the snake front. Not that I’m making any visits to the reptile house at the zoo, but I didn’t wet myself last summer when Clara Jane made friends with a giant red snake at the children’s zoo.

That’s not enough progress to handle a “reptile experience” kids birthday party.

One of Clara Jane’s favorite schoolmates turned four last week. To celebrate, his parents invited someone with an assortment of lizards, giant bugs, and snakes into their home, along with a hoard of kids. What could possibly go wrong?

I’m glad to report that no one was eaten.

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It’s been a mighty busy week. So much so that I’ve hit my quota of human contact for the entire month of January. Not that it was bad human contact. I’m just beat.

Let’s see … where was I? Wednesday night, Courtney and I hit Off Broadway for a LiveFeed show with three local bands. Go read about it here.

Thursday after school, Clara Jane and I hopped a train to my hometown. My youngest baby cousin, Hillary, was getting hitched on Saturday. I still don’t quite have my head wrapped around this scenario. You see, it was about three months ago when I was sitting in Mrs. Bluhm’s class and Mr. Wilso, our curly-haired principal, stuck his head in the classroom door to tell me, “Robin, I’m supposed to tell you that it’s a girl and her name is Hillary.”

Oh, wait … that wasn’t three months ago! That was 1983. It was three months ago when Hillary told us her wedding, planned for July or August, was being bumped to January 10th. And no, she’s not pregnant.

You know what else a wedding means, don’t you? It means Clara Jane as flower girl. Lord help us all.

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