Back in Action
I'm back! Kudos to all of you who kept visiting, even when it seemed like I abandoned this blog forever. My cable and internet is now officially hooked up, so I'm free to commune with the world again.
I moved. I can't believe I'm actually saying this, because I'm so thrilled, but I live in my own apartment now. It has black and white tiles in the hallway and a huge picture window that I can spy on my neighbors though. It is my New York dream, and I don't say that lightly.
It is a gift to be able to come home and be myself. Right now, that means drinking a glass (okay, this is my second glass) of a decent discount Malbec I found at a great wine shop around the corner and marveling at the genius invention that is HBO On Demand.
My happiness meter is off the charts right now. I wanted all of you to know that, especially after the Void of Hopelessness that was this past beer-and-bartenders summer.
As if this apartment wasn't enough to make me sublimely happy, I am still dating N. I took him out last night, for celebratory drinks after a big work coup he scored. We drank good vodka and kissed in a dark booth in an upscale underground bar/restaurant, and I talked to him, at him, with him. The funny thing about N is that he listens. He remembers things I say weeks after I say them, and that endears him to me. I blame the Russian vodka for the sweet things that tumbled out of my mouth last night (I'm still trying to be a Rules girl, let's not forget), but I'm owning that free speech now. I worried out loud about my loose tongue to my work friend Sunny today, and she said, "But who wants to be boring?" The answer is: not me.
I have always been honest, always been up-front, always been exactly what I said I was, even here, in this blog. No pretenses, no coyness, no posturing. I owned that part of my personality with N last night. He can take it or leave it. But if he leaves it? Well...it's going to be all right. I'm swaddled in this apartment and my self-sufficiency, and I've already noticed that men on the Upper East Side aren't afraid to look me in the eye as I pass. That's a good omen -- one that's very "me."
I'm going to do better here, with my writing. I'll bring you stories -- good ones, honest ones, that don't begin and end with alcohol. Okay, who are we kidding, there's going to be drinking, but not the sad kind. The drinking in my stories now is going to be celebratory, warranted, and appropriate. With a little impropriety as a mixer.
I moved. I can't believe I'm actually saying this, because I'm so thrilled, but I live in my own apartment now. It has black and white tiles in the hallway and a huge picture window that I can spy on my neighbors though. It is my New York dream, and I don't say that lightly.
It is a gift to be able to come home and be myself. Right now, that means drinking a glass (okay, this is my second glass) of a decent discount Malbec I found at a great wine shop around the corner and marveling at the genius invention that is HBO On Demand.
My happiness meter is off the charts right now. I wanted all of you to know that, especially after the Void of Hopelessness that was this past beer-and-bartenders summer.
As if this apartment wasn't enough to make me sublimely happy, I am still dating N. I took him out last night, for celebratory drinks after a big work coup he scored. We drank good vodka and kissed in a dark booth in an upscale underground bar/restaurant, and I talked to him, at him, with him. The funny thing about N is that he listens. He remembers things I say weeks after I say them, and that endears him to me. I blame the Russian vodka for the sweet things that tumbled out of my mouth last night (I'm still trying to be a Rules girl, let's not forget), but I'm owning that free speech now. I worried out loud about my loose tongue to my work friend Sunny today, and she said, "But who wants to be boring?" The answer is: not me.
I have always been honest, always been up-front, always been exactly what I said I was, even here, in this blog. No pretenses, no coyness, no posturing. I owned that part of my personality with N last night. He can take it or leave it. But if he leaves it? Well...it's going to be all right. I'm swaddled in this apartment and my self-sufficiency, and I've already noticed that men on the Upper East Side aren't afraid to look me in the eye as I pass. That's a good omen -- one that's very "me."
I'm going to do better here, with my writing. I'll bring you stories -- good ones, honest ones, that don't begin and end with alcohol. Okay, who are we kidding, there's going to be drinking, but not the sad kind. The drinking in my stories now is going to be celebratory, warranted, and appropriate. With a little impropriety as a mixer.
Labels: bartenders, drinking, n, the bar that has no name, wine
posted by Jane at 10:18 PM
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