Is it just me, or did February really suck?

A month ago, I ended a relationship I wanted to work out so badly that I'd been filing away all these red flags and then trying to forget I could even see in color.

And then my Abbydog died.

And some family friends are experiencing major upheaval and trauma.

And my dad has to get a test for something weird in his lymph nodes, which brings up a lot of scary thoughts.

Today is Leap Day. I propose we stomach February one more day, check out March from the precipice, and move on. Things have to get better. We don't know how strong we are.

But before you take this leap, scream out, "Eff you, FebrUary!"

It feels nice.

1) I miss my old neighbor, the guy who saw me naked. He didn't invite over packs of strident girls every night. He didn't even play bad music.

And the management company didn't paint his door - and only his door - robin's egg blue when he moved in. Seriously, I'm pretty jealous about the door.

2) What does it mean that I recently watched The Sound of Music and liked all of Maria's outfits except the habit and the one she wore when she first moved to the Von Trapp villa?

3) Over the weekend, I almost asked how Abby was. Then I remembered she's gone. I caught myself and quickly got off the phone. I don't seem to really grasp that I will never see Abby again unless I'm staring at a photo.

4) Today I heard a girl around five years old bemoan her weight to her nanny. "I gained a pound! I saw it on my mom's scale!" It made me really sad.

Jing and I are reading a poem in which someone is said to "make a pass at" another someone. I suspect Jing has no idea what that means. My attempts to turn it into a teachable moment about context clues backfires.

Me: So they're on a date, and he kissed her even though she didn't want him to. So "making a pass" could mean...

Jing: Passing something, like they're playing around.

Me: No. Okay, look. "Making a pass" is when someone does something physical with someone else who they are attracted to.

Jing: [enlightened] Oh, yeah. Like the bases.

Me: Yeah, where first base means making out. And second base is touching-

Jing: Whoa, whoa. I thought first base was holding hands and second base was kissing and third base is touching and fourth base is-

Me: There's no fourth base!

Jing: Okay. So the homerun that's when two people, uh, do the Mommy-Daddy Dance.

I don't ask for any elaboration.

I had kind of an invigorating weekend. Not that I really did anything other than attend yoga class, clean my apartment, and watch movies. But that's all you really need when the weather isn't that great and your outlook is downright terrible.

Though I was very much by myself, I didn't feel alone. While watching Under the Tuscan Sun, I unearthed this black jumper thing that I wore a lot this time last year. Then I rummaged through my closet to put together an Amanda's-feeling-better get-up. I found a few items that happened to match and wore it today:

The black top could make anyone look a little pregnant, so I wore it with straight leg jeans and a slim sweater that looks like a tablecloth. I don't love it in spite of the fact that it looks like I swiped it from someone's granny. I love it because of that.

My mom bought me this sweater secondhand before my first trip to New York. "Those Broadway theaters are cold," she warned me. So she bought be a sweater with holes in it. I was twelve years old. This is the only useful thing left from the trip that made me decide to move to the big city someday. Awww...

I bought these polka dot flats for $5 in Washington Heights. I also have them in pink and white. They're adorable, but not the most practical shoes when there's still some ice on the sidewalks. I slid and fell close to my office building this morning. A very nice Wall Street person retrieved my library book, which had almost fallen down an open manhole, and helped me up.

I love this black lucite flower ring. I bought it for $3 and frequently clean it with a toothbrush.

Oh, and the jumper has two big buttons. I like buttons. Come to think of it, I looked very homesewn today, as they'd say on Project Runway. Oh, well. I felt at least 50% more cheerful. The nice weather helped, too.

Defrosting one's freezer is not a difficult enterprise. It's an archaic one.

Today's freezers are frost-free, but I live in New York in a building with shoddy wiring, layers of lead paint, and here's something that reminds me of home in the tropics - the occasional flying cockroach.

So I don't have frost-free anything. The only appliance in the apartment that's not almost my age is the microwave I bought myself. Also, my kitchen is tiny, so all my appliances are miniature versions of the real thing. The real frost-free thing. This, I assure you, is par for the course. It's not just my crappy apartment.

On Thursday, I was at work thinking about what I'd do when I went home. I'd have to wait around downtown for awhile if I opted for yoga. Then an epiphany: What if I stayed home and defrosted the freezer? In its current state, I could store little more than a pint of ice cream and two frozen bags of cranberries. After careful research, I figured out what I'd do and started brainstorming frozen grocery items to buy at Trader Joe's when I finally upped my freezer storage capacity.

Most people manage to unplug the refrigerator after removing perishables, sit pretty, and happen upon a defrosted freezer. (Of course, sometimes there's flooding). If they're really hardcore, they might expedite the process with a blowdryer. These options weren't for me. For one, my refrigerator fits so snugly into the space between the wall and the sink that to try to move it to unplug it would mean being trapped in the kitchen. And while the refrigerator is a runt of an appliance, it's too heavy for me to move myself. Note to self: Next time, maybe do this with backup.

It looked like this endeavor would take a lot more time than I'd anticapted. It did, but I dare say it made success even sweeter. The flower that blooms in adversity is the most beautiful of all, guys. I think I lifted that from Mulan.

How I Defrosted My Godforsaken Refrigerator:

First, I assembled some tools, including a plastic cup for ice scooping and a hammer for chipping away at the tundra. You'll notice the hammer is pretty petite itself. That's because I'm committed to working on my half-assed apartment with half-assed tools from Ikea.

I got the two pots I own and boiled water. I intended to place one pot at a time in the freezer until it would be possible to fit something extravagantly large, like a box of Bagel Bites.

I kept the freezer door open while the boiling water was working its magic. Ever the multi-tasker, I hammered and showered myself with ice chips. Can you believe how frosty the freezer was? I felt like Sir Ernest Shackleton.

Progress was exhilarating. Mind you, I spent hours working on this project. It was a very long, exhausting high.

Ignore the frostbitten fingers. The ancient chunks of ice coming out of the refrigerator were huge. We're talking Clinton administration chunks here. I squealed with glee as each one fell.

I wondered, "What mischievous things could I do with all this ice?" I thought about performing a science experiment to see how long undisturbed ice would last in my freezing kitchen. In the end, I used the faucet to melt holes into the larger pieces. Then I rinsed all the other chunks down the drain.

Voila! The finished product. Yep, that's about how much I keep in my refrigerator/freezer at any given time. Currently, there are two cartons of raspberries and six frozen food items that have been added to this paltry collection.

Whaddya know? It snowed last night and this morning. Consider my defrosting the freezer a portent.


I most appreciate living on Central Park West when it snows. I need to get up early tomorrow and walk around in the powder before it's all gone.



This is the view from the window right behind my desk. The snow fell steadily, the flakes getting larger and larger, until lunchtime.

1) People ask me when I'm going to start dating again and how I'll do it. Will I just wait for someone worthwhile and go for it (or let the other person go for it)? Or will I start a strategic search?

I don't know. I'm still trying to accept that I have given up on Cade loving me the way I want to be loved, the way I know people can be loved. Sometimes I watch this Youtube video of Bonnie Raitt's "I Can't Make You Love Me" with clips from Brokeback Mountain. The footage of Alma discovering Ennis's secret makes me tear up. Things didn't work out in my last relationship, but at least no one was in the closet and living a lie. It's a weird consolation, but better than ice cream.

Quitting someone definitely smarts. Not fun at all. But I can't wait to fall in love with someone else someday. I just think that could be a very long time from now.

2) I have a window on the bathroom wall where my shower/bathtub is. It looks right into the hallway of another apartment. I generally keep it closed, because 1) I don't want the neighbor to see me, and 2) in the past, pigeons have enjoyed sitting in the cracked window, cooing maniacally, and knocking all my shampoo bottles off the tiled sill.

I cracked the window a few days ago when it was 60 degrees. The mercury in the thermometer has since resumed its post around 30 degrees, but I kept the window cracked. Yesterday, I reached for a bottle of shampoo during my shower, and it was partly frozen. Or something.

The shampoo had congealed in parts, so it was its normal consistency, except for some opaque white balls of gunk. If I didn't know any better, I'd wonder if a pigeon embryo - now green tea scented - was in the shampoo. But I'm pretty sure this is basic solid, liquid, gas physical science stuff. I mean, I hope it is. It has to be, right?!

3) Do you know that three out of five weekdays, I don't get back home from work until 8:25-8:30 pm? Now that I'm on my depressed sleep cycle of generally passing out by 11, I only have a few hours to do everything I want to do. Tonight I'm skipping a late yoga class in favor of defrosting my freezer. I hear this is a really fun activity that will enable me to fit more healthy frozen enchiladas inside. It also burns exactly half as many calories as my hour of downward dogging. Well, it will when I flood the kitchen and spend 45 minutes squatting to dry the floor.

We are discussing another co-worker fond of saying "That's not my job!" Despite the clarification, we really aren't sure what she does all day.

Me: Does she have a Marketing degree?

Jim: Yeah. And a minor in Busybodiness.

Phil: [in a stage whisper to Jim] It's called Women's Studies.

Life Coach now has a blog. You should check it out and send him some questions.

Adventures in Signage, Pt. 8

There's nothing all that weird about this sign, but notice there's no door at the store entrance? That's because it's in a shopping mall. A shopping mall! What better place to get a dangerous weapon with which to kill people in a violent rage than a shopping mall? The same one with all the people you want to kill in a violent rage.

Is naming a urology practice after a river akin to putting a waterfall in a bathroom or taunting a friend who really has to pee with a whitewater rafting memory? I think so.

A product with a name that suggests the effects of its consumption. See also: Why I'll never eat at Blimpie's.

I wouldn't say it's all Amanda, but I, too, am semi-open.

How cool to be a guy and visit your folks on Heyson Road...

I don't know about Jesus, but I love punny Bible thumpers.

Hangers are handy, but stickers are quicker. I like stuff like this.

There's a fine line between genius and madness. This is kind of what it's like with Life Coach - he think he's a genius, and I think he's crazy.

LC: I spend a lot of time, talking to women and being a man, and realizing that women have no clue how men think. It's so humorous to hear you girls think you know what you're talking about, yet be so oblivious. And like yourself, you have noticed, no matter what I say, women do not listen. They think I'm crazy...yes, I'm the crazy one. If you notice one thing about me, I'm consistent...

Me: You don't think men are unique? That they don't think differently? All men think the same way?

LC: Yes, all men, same. You ever think of this?

Dear Abby,

You died Saturday. After having a few spells that may have been seizures, may have been small strokes over the last two weeks, you were feeling better. Mama prepared your breakfast and Daddy bathed you. Later, you went to the backyard and fell asleep next to the firecracker bush. You never woke up.

You once taunted the neighbor's dog from that bush, acting much tougher than you actually were. The only person you ever bit, to my knowledge, was Megan. One Thanksgiving, she leaned down to hug you and you snarled grumpily. Mid-snarl, you accidentally bit a tiny piece of Megan's lip. She bled a lot and needed stitches. Megan cried and cried, because she thought Daddy would want to get rid of you for what you did. He didn't, though he did curse and raise his voice. You slunk to your bed mournfully, but were forgiven. Megan's lip still has a scar.

Before you became part of our family, you led other lives. Your parents were show dogs with fancy names and impressive pedigrees. In fact, your AKC registered name is Abigail's Eyes. After a brief stint as a show dog, you failed to produce expensive puppies. The breeders who owned you sold you to a woman named Sue. She thought you looked sad, as if you knew the people you were born to didn't love you.

While Sue loved you, she also loved many other dogs, including a few yippy lapdogs and a large rottweiler. You were jealous of the attention the other dogs received and compensated with aggression and withdrawal. Sue was diagnosed with cancer when you were seven years old, already a mature bulldog by any standard. Mama treated Sue and got to know her very well. Both animal lovers, they talked a lot about you and the other dogs.

When Sue was close to death, she started looking for caretakers for her pets. Her children and friends claimed their favorites - the small dogs were especially popular. No one wanted you.

"I'm telling you, she's a bitch," Sue told Mama. She wanted to be as up front as possible. "She wants to be the queen bee, the only dog." Though we had another dog at the time, Mama was sure things would work out.

The day you came to live with us, Mama brought you home after work. I hadn't paid much attention to the conversations about a new dog, because Mama has always rescued stray cats. Nothing special. Daddy would sigh wearily, but accept it, especially because they lived outside and kept quiet as long as they were fed. I figured adopting this sick woman's dog would work out the same way. But when I saw you, I knew something different would happen. I'd never put a name to the type of dog you were. Now I knew what an English bulldog looked like and the personality the breed seems to embody. I thought you were the cutest thing I'd ever seen.

The first night at home, you were pretty quiet. You growled at our other dog a few times, but otherwise lazed around. You were allowed to stay inside. While I lay in bed, you walked in my bedroom and gazed expectantly at me. I knew you wanted to sleep in my bed, but I'd never let a dog do that before. My family had never had an inside dog. I told you to sit, and you sat for who knows how long before you tried the same thing in the other bedrooms. Mama and Daddy agreed to your request. You snuggled between them and Daddy grumbled the next day that you found sprawling across the top of his legs most comfortable. "I don't know if this dog's going to work out," he said. It was just like his sighs about the cats.

You settled into our family so well, we forget there was a time you weren't part of it. With us, you lived in two different homes. You'd ride in the bed of Daddy's truck to McDonald's, where Daddy ordered you a hamburger "plain and dry," the way he likes them. We called you by a handful of nicknames, including Flabby Abby, Arfy, and Abber Cadabber and included you in Christmas card photos.

Some of my favorite memories involve you and large bodies of water. I remember taking you to the beach, where the smallest waves would completely soak your stout body. You loved it and must have felt safe with us, considering that bulldogs can't swim. You weren't graceful, my clearest recollection of that being the time we took your leash off at Guth Park. You walked to the side of the pond to scope it out and promptly fell in with a large splash. It was three feet of water; you sank like a rock. I screamed and Mama ran into the pond, which happens to have the sludgiest, most feces-ridden water this side of the Hudson River. When she grabbed you and sloshed you over to the edge, I was still hysterical. "Will you grab this dog?!" she hollered. I pulled you up by the front paws. When you got back on land, you shook your entire body and acted like the whole thing never happened. That near-death experience was literally, water off your back. Mama looked a fright and tried unsuccessfully to wring the muck out of her clothes. I laughed about it for a long time.

There are so many other little things about you that I remember, and honestly, I wish there were more. In the last years of your life, we didn't live together. But when I went home, there you were. I'd call out your name and hug you across the breadth of your chest. My - our - family's love has always been a constant, no match for differing time zones or countless miles. For the last few years, I treated our goodbye hugs like last opportunities to hold you. You were a geriatric dog, Abby. I knew you wouldn't be with us forever.

But it still hurts that you're gone. I feel like I'll have to learn how to walk through the front door of our house again. Is it possible to do it without calling your name, without listening for the sound of your toenails on the tile? My family hasn't eaten dinner without your begging for scraps under the table since the twentieth century. When I go back, home will not be the same without you. I'm sure I'll choke up next time I see others walking their bulldogs. Honestly, tears spring to my eyes at much smaller things these days. I miss you so much and am just getting started.

I learned a few days ago that Abigail means "father's joy." You, however, were everyone's. I will spend the rest of my life telling people about you and how maybe you rescued my family more than we rescued you. You are loved now and forever.

Love,
Man

Abby




Oct. 24, 1994 - Feb. 9, 2008

When I was a teacher, kids often marveled at my tights and stockings. Like a good pasty Southern girl, I can't go bare-legged. It doesn't matter if there's a heat index of 110 degrees. The risk of blinding someone is too great. Wearing stockings labeled "Nude," "Nude Bisque," and/or "Almost Albino" enables the masses to go on seeing.

My former students were amazed that stockings were made to match such fair skin. They were also amazed that they could barely tell I wore stockings. "They look like real skin!" they'd exclaim. "There aren't any wrinkles!" I didn't really get what that was all about. Filene's Basement, kiddos. $3.00.

A few months ago, I had to go to a Pay Half near my workplace to buy another pair of black tights. I'd seen Pay Half in Harlem, but had never bought anything there. Earlier that morning, a subway door closed on my leg, leaving a long white crust. I didn't want to even think about the individual elements of the crust, so I bought new tights on my lunch break. I reuse tights as long as they aren't ripped or infected, so I put the Pay Half pair in my drawer for later use.

I wore them Tuesday, and oh dear, what a mistake. Turns out, Pay Half tights are good for a few hours of use before they start to sag. By the time I was on the subway and riding home from work, the tights were pooling at my ankles. I looked like Bjork in the fetish tights and swan dress! Of course, I was wearing a pencil skirt that juxtaposed the sliding, baggy leg coverage. The wind seemed to shake out every last bit of snap in the tights. I felt like I was wearing footed gauchos.

Sadly, when I got home, I still had to have a long conversation in my head before I could throw them out. "They were $2," I told myself. "How often do you use nylon for arts and crafts projects? Never! How could the laundry people possibly change the laws of physics and fix these? Impossible!"

Last week, I assigned Jing a New York Times article about sex offenders in a working-class neighborhood in Long Island. She had to speak her mind when she handed over her short written response. It was the hardest I've laughed all week.

Jing: I hate sex offenders! What do you think?

Me: Well, I don't think anyone likes sex offenders.

Jing: I think that if they wanna offend someone, they should mess with each other. We'll put 'em all in one room.

Me: You mean, one sex offender should harass or assault another sex offender?

Jing: Yep. And then switch so they're even.

This isn't going to become a blog entirely dedicated to the eakupbray, but I want to share a favorite poem.

Worry
By: Wendy Cope

I worry about you-
So long since we spoke.
Love, are you downhearted,
Dispirited, broke?
I worry about you.
I can't sleep at night.
Are you sad? Are you lonely?
Or are you all right?
They say that men suffer,
As badly, as long.
I worry, I worry,
In case they are wrong.

HORNS UP:

*I finally got paid for a travel article I wrote months ago. I'll add the link later if I can find it.

*I talked to a real estate agent/yoga student this week. She had such a cool vibe and couldn't stop raving about yoga and how it's improved her life, made her a better person, etc. Cheesy as it may sound, I totally understood what she was saying. Plus, she's probably hot after so much bending and posing. That would make anyone happier.

*Another cheesy admission: I rented El Cantante, the Hector Lavoe biopic starring Jennifer Lopez and Marc Anthony, last night. It was a good time. The would-be artist formerly known as J.Lo is mesmerizing to me. I can't take my eyes off her when she's on screen. Beyonce does the same thing to me. Maybe it's the booties?

*So many people have been supportive since I shared the breakup news. I've received emails, Youtube links, short pep talks, and invitations out. My girlfriends have been so nice, even when I was talking like a crazy person. I randomly told Julia we should go to Chicago, and she said, "Alright. When?" We decided on May.

*Again, thank you so much for your good wishes and sympathy in response to the breakup post. It really does make me feel a little better.

HORNS DOWN:

*The breakup. Consider this list item an umbrella with countless other possible items underneath. Then add more.

I've been sitting on something since last Tuesday, and now I think I'm ready to share. I wish it were amazing news, like I inherited a penthouse apartment from a generous stranger or my children's book has found a publisher, but instead, all I have to announce is:

I broke up with Cade.

To say this is "all I have to announce" is misleading. It's a huge life event, and I get choked up sometimes just thinking about it. Twice since, I've had blubbery breakdowns - both times in the bathtub. When I soaked, the quiet hit and hulking emotions swiftly assaulted me. The fact that I spent break-up week reading Kafka's The Trial couldn't have helped, either. That's like eating chili to stave off a stomach virus.

At times, I find myself thinking, "You did this. You wanted this. You chose this," and it's true, I'm the one who initiated our breakup. And when I watched Cade react, I was able to soothe him as much as circumstances allowed. It all hit me the next day, that this person I spent almost two years with could become a stranger.

I enjoyed so much: playing Scrabble, exploring places, snickering to R. Kelly songs, and so much more. I appreciate the little and big things, like his unusual name, his comically high-strung personality, his parents, and the idea of growing with him. Maybe not old, but growing. We're both goal-oriented people who want to see the other succeed. I'm sorry that things romance-wise have been derailed.

Cade still means a lot to me. Our current plan, I think, is to keep talking and seeing each other and see what happens. I'm not taking this to mean anything particularly optimistic. I'm a realist, after all. I know things may be temporarily and/or permanently messed up between us. I'm proud that we didn't end things yelling or saying anything we didn't mean. Perhaps that's a good sign? I certainly hope so.

If you know me or feel the need to comment on any of this in any way, please do not say anything negative about Cade or along the lines of, "I knew it wouldn't work..." or "I told you so..." Even "Well, you're so young..." I know I'm young, that Cade is young, and that there are lots of other people who could stomach us enough to call it like, infatuation, or love. Youth never stopped anyone from caring deeply for someone else. Heartbreak doesn't always accomplish the task, either.

Today, a parade celebrates the Giants' Super Bowl win. From my 33rd floor office window, I hear honking and see rowdy specks of people marching/standing/bunching together. I don't get it and have no desire to pass the the remains of the crowd on my lunch break. But I turn to the window when my co-workers do and wish I could get that excited about something I had nothing to do with.

Sunday, a mother and daughter on the subway allow a guy to put his small shopping bag in a crack that would be an open seat, if the people sitting down were compact enough to only occupy one seat. Someone gets up, transforming the crack into an almost full seat. The guy motions for me to sit down. I keep his bag beside me while he shuffles and shimmies and practices the moonwalk to a song only he can hear.

Last Wednesday, a gust of wind hits me as I leave my apartment and head for work. The monthly Metrocard I am holding flutters away and settles precariously on top of a sidewalk grate. I exclaim, "Oh!" and squat down to appraise the situation. Should the wind momentarily blow the card up, it will slip through and fall out of reach. Expensively out of reach, where it will taunt me from the sludge below ground forever. Gingerly, I grab the card so as not to push it through the grate myself. When I stand back up, I put it into my zippered pocket. I can't help thinking I've experienced some kind of redemption from something bigger than New York City.

Under the weather
or maybe just beside it.
Not so much difference.

(Does the last line work, since no one actually says "dif-fer-ence"?)