Oh, February.

Traditionally February is a harsh month for me. Though G. denies it, I have never had a good Valentine's day regardless of my relationship status, and I was expecting more of the same this year. The ominous weather earlier in the week seemed to indicate as much, and I prepped a somber all-black outfit suited to my funereal mood.

I threw open the door to my apartment building Thursday morning with a confrontational shove, and dared February 14th to get the better of me. I must have scared something off, because I had a completely uneventful day at work relatively devoid of irritating references to romance and love. The only concession to the holiday spirit was a perusal of the NYT editorial page, full of archaic lists of what it takes to be in love. That made me smile.

Armed in ebon garb with eyes ringed in kohl, I dared anyone clad in rosy hues to even hint at valentines festivities...and it worked! One of the girls at work even mentioned that my makeup looked nice. Ha.

So Valentine's Day passed much like any other, with a low amarga quotient. When I got home I had a few beers, turned on some loud music and completely scoured the bathroom. My parents were coming to town that weekend, and I figured that I might as well do a chore that puts me in a bad mood on a day that puts me in a bad mood, killing two birds with one stone.

The very next day I decided that I was in the mood for a feel-good movie, and called up "Waitress" on my queue from Netflix. I surprisingly enjoyed the movie and its non-formulaic take on romantic relationships. It's fun to see a movie that's truly non run of the mill, that's written with a sense of humor and thoughtfulness. Kerri Russell really stole the show, and although I can't say that I agree with a lot of the value judgments about women in the movie, it was highly entertaining. It also contained one of the best lines I've heard in a while:

I hope someday somebody wants to hold you for 20 minutes straight and that's all they do. They don't pull away. They don't look at your face. They don't try to kiss you. All they do is wrap you up in their arms and hold on tight, without an ounce of selfishness in it.

I like that.

Like Ms. Russell's character, I enjoy event-specific recipe names, christening this evening's meal "Achoo, I'm Getting a Head-cold Lentil Soup." I'm really hoping that my valiant immune system is up to the challenge of doing battle with whatever cold viruses are floating around inside, making the soup moniker oxymoronic.

Apart from some mild sniffles and me missing by Vespa (and the cute boys at the bike shop), winter hasn't been nearly as harsh as I'd expected. Dark, yes. Chilly, yes. Monumentally depressing and soul-crushing? No.

February, you've been remarkably humane thus far, please keep it that way.

It has recently come to my attention...

...that I have sorely neglected my dearest of blogs. My unfinished South American writings languish on my hard drive, waiting for a polish, some cleaning up and a place for display.

Now that the beautiful new "machine" as my family would call it is fully functional, I've performed a long-needed upgrade on Amarga and given her a new coat of paint, not unlike a certain Dodge Caravan from days of old.

I haven't wanted to be too personal lately, and that's okay. Let it suffice to say that I'm doing pretty well still, discovering hidden corners of New York City and of Brooklyn, and trying to make this borough more of my home.

Perhaps I'll send out a round of emails when I've got my travel essays ready, or maybe write something about my photography, if I can think of anything coherent to say. In the meantime, I think I will take a cue from my new roommate and just get back into the habit of writing again.