Oh yeah. February.

I've had all sorts of hand-wringing questions and dilemmas in the last month. Nothing that can't be resolved with a couple good afternoons-lazily-leading-into-evenings and glasses of wine spent with friends, but those didn't materialize. I tried to make do with evening-time glasses of wine spent with my children and my hand-held yahtzee game, but the latter two didn't have much to say about uterine polyps and protein-heavy diets.

After 17 years of togetherness, I know better than to expect Jim to be my girlfriend. His mind doesn't swing that way. If I want to talk about my period or complain about the parents in Quinn's preschool, I have to call up a friend, arrange a playdate, or send an email. But, well, my arms are kind of ineffective this time of year. February is the month when my limbs and social skills go into hibernation.

Whine. Someone come over and listen to me be inarticulate about my parenting concerns! Nod sympathetically while I bumble through a description of my THREE visits to the gynecologist, wherein my hou-ha got about as much attention as it did during four years of high school. None. (I wasn't particularly anxious to air my 'gina to the Future Loggers of America.) Which, back to the gyno visits, it's byarkity hem-ha jinka yo yo where gyno visits himiny grograx shrang glef. This is what I talk like in February. Hence, hand-wringing. I was just thinking that it's surprising the skin isn't pulled off of my fingers, but then I remembered teenage boys.

Hells bells I need a night out, but ALL my nights are out. Coaching, playing stuff, watching others play stuff, Board Meetings. This month sucks.