Saturday the Thirteenth. I never thought I would say this, but I am anxious for spring—itchy, watery eyes and all. I love winter, but this year it has seemed endless and dreary. I am cold all the time, and Goblin has missed her nighttime off-leash romps through Central Park.

Last night, we watched “Wonderfalls,” an irreverent “Joan of Arcardia” knock-off featuring Diana Scarwid of Mommie Dearest fame. Now, twenty years later, it is Scarwid’s turn to play dysfunctional mother; her acting is still as wooden and chilly as a popsicle stick, and, inexplicably, she looks like a werewolf, but the show is enjoyable despite her non-presence.

As I type this, my face is as red as chili pepper (a red one, not a green one) after having treated it with apple cider vinegar. One of my health newsletters recommends this solution as an astringent, promising clear skin and, after three weeks, reduced signs of aging. It seems this is possible through the magic of acidity: in three weeks, there will be no skin left to age, and the vinegar will be pursuing the disintegration of my skull.

Still, I persevere. And await the spring.