Rainy days make me feel like I’m sunk inside myself with no way out. Grey is my mood, grey as the sky. Motivation is at an all-time low and though what I really want to do is lie down and nap I refuse to do so because I know that if I do, I will sleep for several hours, right through dinner, in fact, and will waken feeling drugged and sluggish and grumpier than before. Projects tug and tease at the corners of my mind but I keep ignoring them in favor of lethargy and leaning on one elbow playing endless levels of Noah’s Ark, determined to find out if the next rank above “Noah” is God. If a sudden power loss crashes the game again, I may put a fist through the screen.
Spiraling along, in a loop of simmering discontentment, I feel threatened by my own inability to yank myself out of the doldrums. I suppose what I need is a good wallow in self-pity, lying sprawled on the sofa with Air Supply or Barry Manilow or some such super drivel playing as loudly as possible while tears leak into my ears and hair. My children and husband oblivious to my misery on the other side of the house, I could lie and stare out the window at the raindrops pattering down in the puddles on the deck, reflections of the grey sky and clouds and bedraggled magpies in the yard.
I think about the warming weather and the fact that with the rain, the little frogs will soon come up out of their winter earth-holes and hop straight into the paths of unobservant drivers. The thought of all those little squashed frogs nearly flattens me with sorrow. Googling Air Supply lyrics, I find the words to All Out of Love (what? you thought I actually OWNED one of their albums?) and sing it slowly and throbbingly in my head.
Rain is dripping from the withered honeysuckle vine; the entire garden is sodden and inert. That promise of spring so many weeks ago seems like a cruel prank pulled by a heartless god.
Wallowing in self-created misery is boring after awhile. If I were Cher, I’d slap myself about now and yell, “Snap out of it!” Slapping myself makes my hand sting, makes me giggle. If I were Cher I’d no doubt be dressed inappropriately for my age. Since I don’t actually own any Air Supply or Barry Manilow, or Cher for that matter, I’m at a loss as to what music I could play to get the mood back, which I just lost completely by remembering that scene from Moonstruck where Olympia Dukakis makes toad-in-the-holes (toads-in-the-hole?) for her daughter. My roommate and I went straight from the movie theater to the grocery store and bought eggs and chervil and Italian bread and then went home and made toad-in-the-holes. That was a long time ago.
I’ve treated girlfriends the morning after sleepovers to toad-in-the-holes, but my kids will only eat eggs if they’re hard-boiled so I have yet to make them for my own daughter, or son.
My sister has a birthday coming up this week. One of the items on her wish list was a “toad home.” I didn’t know what she meant, so I googled that, too. Ah, Google, how I do love thee! I was shocked to find out that some enterprising companies are charging upwards of $150 for what is essentially a birdhouse that you put down in a wet place in your yard.
Damn it, the sun just came out. Figures. There goes my bad mood. So much for wallowing, better luck next time crankypants!
In Love With & Coveting: Beastlies
Bundled Bouquets of Belated Birthday Wishes to carrieb!