As many of you know, New York and I have been fighting for a couple of months now.

It started out in the usual way.  Both of us women in our own right, we choose the silent treatment.  She hissed outside as I hibernated and ate soup inside.  She refused me hot water for two days as I liberally applied a spray-on tan.  She bounced a check.  I drank Seattle's Best.  She messed with my mail.  I shopped at Zappos.  And the list goes on and on.  But soon she wasn't having it anymore, and the gloves were off.

Before the frost could melt, she began a 6-month construction zone outside of my bedroom window.  The start times got earlier and earlier and the drills got louder and louder.  She painted constant gray skies and spilled out rain whenever she damn well felt like it.  And when it wasn't raining, you can be sure the pigeons were pooping, so it was a good idea to stay covered at all times.  She tossed in faulty cranes that created catastrophe and another ironic MetroCard fare hike.  Then, she proceeded to take in a long deep breath, and Spitzered all over my face.  What a lady.

Recently, when I was sluggishly traveling home from a long catering job, packed into a jammed subway at 2am on a Saturday night, the wobbly gentleman next to me decided to puke.  It got my leg, it got my bag, it got all over my shoes, and I don't want to even begin to describe how it smelled.  The Puker thought it was hysterical, along with his gaggle of friends, and threw himself into a laughing fit.  I was stuck.  At the end of the train car.  With puke running down my tux pants. 

That was it.  I threw my arms up in the air and exclaimed, "That's it!  I'm done!"

I took the first train out and spent a weekend seeing theatre in New Jersey.  (Ha!  Take that!)  I only watched TV and movies that I knew were produced on the West Coast.  (Who needs ya?!)  I drank at home and socialized only on email and started to plan trips and pack bags and I swear to you, I almost subletted my apartment without even letting my roommate, who also happens to be my boyfriend, have any clue.  Oops. 

I rubbed elbows with those from other lands, overseas, with suntans and sunny dispositions.  I bombarded tourists and spread scare tactics and told them they better get home quick.  I winked at anyone with a thick accent.  I was reckless and I didn't care.  I was through.  (I mean, my vote means more in Indiana right now so why not make a run for it right?)

And then.

She kissed me.

Boy, did she kiss me. 

I had been writing to a friend in LA- getting the lay of the land, gathering details, and trying to remember how exactly to drive a car- when all of a sudden- I felt warm.

I went to a window, one that had been locked all winter long with 5 months of dust sitting on the ledge, and popped it open.

Rush.

I couldn't believe it. 

Birds chirping.  Sunlight flooding in.  Her hot breath on my neck awakening me, stirring me.  And her perfume- oh God, what was that?      

Scents of the morning light hitting the backpacks of the kindergarteners on their way to school. The smell of wet dirt and fresh grass and the first glimpse of a yellow tulip.  The smell of delivery trucks and a stack of the Times.  The smell of bagels, and bacon, and sausage, egg and cheese.  The whiff of a new life, a new love, rumbling underneath the surface. 

"Not now", I said.  "I am not in the mood."

But she didn't listen.  And she stayed.  And stayed calm.  And stayed consistent, for once.  And gave us all, for a whole 24 hours, the most beautiful day.

Girls dug out their flip-flops.  Short skirts were pulled out of storage.  Restaurants opened their doors and windows and sidewalk dining.  Parents danced in the park, picnics spontaneously unfolded, spirits were raised, and even my chip, started to slowly roll, right off my shoulder.

On my way home from another catering job, at the end of the same train car as before, I let out a sneeze.  And then another.  And then another.  

A young man reached into his bag and handed me his pack of tissues.  "Kleenex?" he asked. 

I turned.  And stared at him for a long moment. 

New York had pulled out all the stops with this one.  She had granted me the one thing I could never resist, my greatest weakness.  The one thing that got me each and every time. 

Human kindness.  From a complete stranger. 

Could I get this in LA I wonder?  In Seattle?  Indiana perhaps?  The thoughts buzzed in my mind for a moment and then dissolved. 

She's the one.  She's always been the one.

Here she was, giving me a peace offering, an olive branch disguised in a travel-sized pack of tissues. 
 

Finally, I looked down at the young man's palm and then looked back at his innocent gaze.  "Thank you" I said, as I took a tissue and wiped my nose clean. 

"Please, I know...", he said, "it's allergy season."

And so it is, folks.  So it is.



Bizie-Newsie:  My Law & Order episode, "Bogeyman", airs this Wednesday night, April 30th, on NBC.  Also, if in New York, my Tribeca Film Festival ad will be running in previews at local movie theatres.

I never thought that I would be one of those sun lamp kind of people. 

I am from Wisconsin after all, where snowfalls and falling temperatures are part of my DNA.  It is what creates us Nordic little fighters.  20 inches?  Bring it on.  Below 40 degree windchill?  What else you got.  Football in the 40's?  Never heard of it.

But this winter I have totally lost my cool about the cold.  I have googled light boxes and sunbeams and tropical vacations more times than was necessary.  I have sat in front of the microwave for longer than my mother would have allowed.  And when I sent in my huge tax checks to the government, I actually used a "loogie" to seal the envelope.  It has not been a good time.  And I have not been in a good mood.  I was in, what I like to call, "The Februaries".

And what's so wrong with February, I have to ask myself.  Why such the bad rap?

It is home to Groundhog Day after all.  My favorite holiday of the year.  Where grown men find themselves in top hats and up at the crack of dawn to watch Punxsutawney Phil look up and look down and tell us what we already know.  Six more weeks of winter.

February has V-Day and my B-Day, Lincoln's birthday, Super Tuesday, and The Academy Awards.  And then there is that pending question: to leap or not to leap?  Lots to love.  Lots to celebrate.  And yet, I was miserable.

I found solace in dark corners and under the covers.  I wore gray sweaters under a gray jacket with a gray hood.  I hid in scarves.  I stared at the dirt and demanded something to grow.  I read Dickinson and Plath and watched every depressing award nominated movie.  If it had "Old" or "Blood" or "Devil" in the title, I might have watched it twice. 

I wore out my slippers.  And my Damien Rice music.  And my friend's ears.

But, hells yeah, it is February no longer.  To leap or not to leap, I am a year older, and a month wiser, and if one thing is for certain,  I am ready for a change.

So I am taking my cue from Mother Nature and have vowed to shed the mittens and the moping and have decided to turn my face upwards, to the sun.  It might be hiding, but I know it's there somewhere.  I have my faith back.

I am eating lemons and maple syrup.  I am listening to internet radio.  I am scanning the Self Help section.  I am buying yellow candles and watching them burn next to my TV as CNN reports on the best race to the White House yet. 

I am thinking about buying a plant.  And Swiffering.  And maybe cracking the windows a tad.  And breathing in.

I still sport my gray coat but my hood is down.  My step is lighter as I trade in my winter boots for sneaks.  And my head is looking straight ahead, for the first time in a long time, into the inevitable season of change.  

I welcome it.