|it's the joy of the season!|
1. Once February rolls around, I'm forced to come to terms with the fact my Christmas decorations have to go. My collection of old fashioned St. Nick's, jovial-faced snowmen, the stockings, the strung LED lights, the oversized sparkle ornaments, my little table tree, the ice-skating penguins, my baby Jesus and his wise-boys, and the lighted villages above my kitchen cabinets that adorn my one bedroom shack, all start to give me, 'the look.' The Virgin Mary appears to launch into a 9 day novena for my sanity. Joseph petitions to be wrapped in swaddling tissue paper. The Advent calendar has run out of time. Even the Nutcrackers start to crack. The mistletoe ball that hangs from the doorframe separating the kitchen from my living room is now a wrecking ball; threatening to drop on my head at any given moment. The wreath on my door begs for a therapy session, or at the very least, a three day weekend. And the jingle bell that has spent two and a half months joyfully jingling every time I open my front door, begins to sound more like an episode of the Gong show. Now is the time. And sadly, I know it.
2. February 1st is also the first day in Cambridge that all of the new faces in traffic and parking working as meter maids launch into their over-zealous ticket assaults on cars who are parked in resident spots with outdated 2011 parking stickers. Trying to attain All-star status at their jobs, they're unconvinced, unwavering, and unmoved by the 13 annual resident stickers that are overtaking your available window space on your car, indicating that you have every intention of grabbing a glove and getting in the game… eventually. This ruthless bullying is all over an $8 parking sticker, which of course you can't get until you pay off the $800 in tickets that you owe the city. Half of which you didn't have the time to contest; the other half a mixed bag of The Ticket Nazi who sees that you're running to move your car, but writes the ticket anyway, and the others, instances of defective meters. But hey, Cambridge doesn't have enough disposable cash, so keep kicking the little people while they're down - it's the American way! Enter: the daily ticket barrage. This typically fuels benzo dependency until I recover enough cash to pay off my existing tickets and obtain a new resident permit. This 3 week period is beyond stressful, and my tendencies toward violence and physical threats are tested on the daily.
3. The Super Bowl. Fun for many, but for those of us completely disinterested in the game of football (or men in tights with glorified bags over their heads in general), this Sunday I'd rather be in Church. In this day's defense, I will be working hard. Harder than Mark Anderson, to take your money as you get sloshed and invest way too much of your cash, your vocal range, and your damaged soul, into a 'game.' I won't waste my time writing out the formal definition of the word, 'game,' however, I will say that words used to describe the definition include 'play' and 'luck.' Stuff definitely worth losing your March mortgage payment over, and/or testing the flexibility of the veins in your neck. A few years back, I remember reading an article detailing how instances of domestic violence dramatically increase on Super Bowl Sunday. Hey, last I checked, no broads were getting beat downs during the French Open.
4. Valentine's Day. Hallmark Holidays go against the grain of my sardonic and generally pragmatic nature. Though I have a special place in my heart for the flowers and chocolates my daddy has been giving me out of sincerity for as long as I can remember, the overall hype and horror of the day makes me want to vomit. And we're not talking a couple dry heaves, here. We're talking head-spinning, projectile green puke. I buy flowers for myself all year long. I'm not impressed by the 20 long stem red roses that mean nothing more to you other than you might secure a blow job. All I can do is thank the Lord above that I am no longer in corporate America, where these kinds of displays monopolize the entire work day, as girls in Ann Taylor sweater sets giggle with delight as some South American delivery boy graces their cubicle with an over-priced arrangement that somehow negates the year's infidelities, the drunken speech he made at your sister's wedding, and his blatant refusal to do laundry. Not to mention, these cube-side antics make the majority of single girls in the office contemplate abandoning their Prius on the Tobin during rush hour and taking a swan dive off the bridge.
5. In addition to the aforementioned, February offers some amazing if-you're-gonna-off-yourself-do-it-now weather. As a nordic bitch who has to bust out the prescription deodorant once the thermometer hits a whopping 60 degrees, it's not the actual temperature I take issue with during this month of nothingness. It's the gray, depressing, Chronicles Of Narnia-esque bleak days that usually send me to Hollywood Tans. I typically counteract this dreary bullshit by sleeping my days away, and rising only to go to work at 4 PM. This way, it's like any other winter night: dark and cold. Nonetheless, it's night time. And night time is the right time. As a nocturnal creature, this inherently appeals to me. Not to mention, rising when it's already dark out not only allows me to escape this daytime depression, but now the possibilities are endless. (Not so) realistically, it could be an October night. A November night. A December night. A New Year's Eve could happen on any given February night, if you let it. Yes, this is active denial, but I eat active yogurt cultures, so I consider it a wash.
However, allow me to end this negative rant on a high note, with a big hit of the old ganja, and a small reminder that this bullshit has an expiration date of 28 days.