I am not sure what’s up with me, but the dawning of a new year has only made me cranky, as though I am permanently PMSing.

In the five days since I rang in 2009 at a wild dance party in Brooklyn at the home of a lovely and generous friend, I am feeling snarky.

Why, you might ask?

1. I saw photos of myself at aforementioned dance party and realized hey, yup, I’m 44! And I look it! A wrinkle appeared between my eyebrows amid the mind-numbingly stressful move to America last fall and it is getting deeper and deeper. It looks like a vertical Nike swoosh and I hate it.

2. People on the Internet, my main source of entertainment, are seeming mighty cranky. I have been in a tw0-day brawl with some snarky weirdo named “La Cieca” on Gawker. He’s a guy but he’s cattier than Regina George and my next salvo is going to be to suggest he get some testosterone injections.

3. I am reassessing a longtime, dearly held relationship and it hurts. I don’t want to put it to bed permanently, but I am starting to think I must. No good can come of it, no matter how much fleeting joy it brings him and  me. The gods conspired against us and I am beginning to think it’s time we just surrendered to their will.

4. I think I’ve gained 10 fucking pounds since I moved here, not due to the U.S., but due to my own sudden fondness for all the things I bake for my children but have always managed to steadfastly avoid eating. For some reason, perhaps loneliness, I am now hoovering all manner of brownies, chocolate chip cookies, cake and pie along with my grateful 14-year-old. It must stop. If I am going to be miserable, I want to be thin and miserable.

5. I worry for the world. This recession isn’t going to be pretty, and I am fretting for all the friends I have who are looking for work.

6. I worry for my friends. Many of them are not getting laid. They are beautiful, sexy women. What is going on with men?

7. And speaking of men, I want nothing to do with them. Some bald guy with a handlebar moustache tricked me into a date with him last week — he is a friend of friends and they thought he was still married. But no, in fact, he’s separated, and didn’t mention that to me when he asked me out for a bike ride.  I even assumed his wife might have been coming along with us. But no, instead he got all  moony on me. Every fibre of my being is screaming at me for the past two years: “I DON’T WANT SOME GUY BUGGING ME.” While I am proud of myself for not needing a partner, on the other hand, I am pretty sure this means I will die alone.

Happy fucking New Year.