Does it seem like there is a black cloud hanging around?  I've had a lot of friends and family members with bad news lately.  It seems like everyone's company is laying people off, cutting costs, tightening belts and generally making life miserable.  The gas prices have finally gotten high enough to make people think twice about traveling. The airlines suck ass.  Traveling this summer just doesn't even sound fun.  The weather is insane, and heading into tornado and hurricane season is frightening.  I have a headache like every damn day from the barometric pressure constantly changing.  THE WATER IS TOO WET AND THE ICE IS TOO COLD.

Crabby, crabby, crabby.

Which is bizarre, really, because in my own life things are really good.  A year ago, we moved into Chateau Travolta after a horrible experience selling This Old House and my husband's job was miserable.  My beloved cat Sybil died of kidney failure.  In comparison, 2008 FUCKING ROCKS.  So what gives with my headaches and crankiness?

Here's a lightning bolt: I used to think (I know, I know, rookie) that if I were to get a book published, it would change everything. I would never again have a bad day. I would always be on Cloud Nine.  I would never fight with my husband, my child would flit from flower to flower like a red-headed butterfly.  Everything would be grand, forever and ever, amen.  Ridiculous, right?

But how many people really believe that shit?  That if only you had bigger boobs or thinner thighs or a million dollars or a husband that everything would be all hunky-dory all the time?  I never thought I'd fall prey to that, because after recovering from an eating disorder in my youth I realized that being a size 2 really just meant I was fucking hungry all the time.  It didn't fix anything. So I kind of thought I was immune to this sort of fantastical thinking. 

I'm elated about my book coming out in a few months.  I'm really, really excited about the book tour (widget coming soon with dates).  My beloved has been so supportive and wonderful about this dream of mine as it spun toward fruition that I've fallen in love with him all over again in the past few months.  We're remodeling the house we always wanted to have, cigarette-burned carpets and all. I have a new cat, who, while not Sybil, is a very loud purrer and quite cuddly. My husband has a different job that he really enjoys and whistles a lot.  The little angel has adjusted to her new daycare and is looking forward to going most days. She can draw a rabbit and write any word if you tell her the letters to use. She can read certain names and short words.  Things are good.

But you know what?  There are still bad days.  Tonight I came home with this killer barometric-pressure headache, knowing I had some reviews to do and that I was overwhelmed at work and it was only Monday.  The little angel wouldn't eat her dinner and the old truck wasn't starting very well.  When I went to fill the bathtub, the shower was left on  BY ME and drenched the top of my head.  Not the front, not that back, just the top, which looked totally cool and felt EVEN BETTER.  I couldn't find the Advil.  I tried to find the swimming suit and water shoes for tomorrow's "water play day" at my daughter's school, but she wanted the Crocs and I could only find one goddamn Croc, and she insisted the Dora shoes WOULD NOT DO and I wanted to tell her about all the little children in the world who don't have shoes and get parasites through their feet, but then thinking about those little children made me want to cry and it isn't even that time, seriously.  I'm just low on batteries this week.  And the IRS sent us a letter saying we messed up a box on our 2006 tax return and we owe them $390 yesterday. 

So no, getting a book published didn't fix everything. It just felt really good to achieve a life goal. The end.

In a way, though, it's freeing.  I mean, if that's the case, if realizing a dream I've had my entire life didn't fix everything, that means that nothing will fix everything, and this is as good as it gets, these little minutes, and maybe I should stop worrying about the big, grandiose achievements I always think will finally make me happy.  Maybe I am already happy, or I would be, if I could just find the damn Advil.

Or something.
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Teach your teen to stop hating her thighs.  Read the book review at Surrender, Dorothy: Reviews. Also! I wrote about oral sex today at BlogHer.  Seriously.