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.

Awww, Dad

I'm pretty much the worst daughter ever, as I neglected to call my dad on Father's Day. I MAY have gone to the Jersey Shore that day with a certain Brazilian bartender, and I MAY have been way too drunk at the end of the day to remember to call my dad. But that is neither here nor there. I did call him on Monday, so I still get brownie points, but not as many as I should have racked up.

The great thing about my dad, though, is his view of relationships. He's a wonderful man -- into gardening, into drinking Miller High Life, into working for the church, into playing cards until the wee hours of the morning -- and I think that he thinks that every boy I date is as well-meaning as him. As. If.

When I was in the Midwest this past week, my dad was making copies of our written family history for me to take back on the plane. As he Xeroxed, I pawed through my closet, looking for my old softball glove and twirling an old baton I used to love, and I talked to him about men.

"[The Boyf] was good-looking," I said absentmindedly, stacking and unstacking some old books in my closet, looking for an old family photograph I had stashed there years ago. "I don't know -- I don't know if I'll ever find someone as handsome. But at least I'm prepared for that."

My dad paused, still making copies.

"You never know," he said with his back to me. "You might break the heel of your shoe on the sidewalk, and someone will be right there. Or maybe you'll be at the grocery store, and you'll meet someone."

I loved this. I loved every word of what he was saying. It was so charming -- the chick-flick version of the New York life he thinks I lead. The "meet cute."

Little does my dad know, though, what actually goes on. No parent should, really. But wouldn't it be funny if he did? Wouldn't his words of advice or reassurance be different? For me, it would go something like this:

"You never know. That bartender you've been scamming on could turn out to be un-sketchy and maybe take you out on a real date. Or that guy from the online personals might not be as bald as he looks in his photo, and then maybe you'll go from awkward beers at a neutral location to a less awkward dinner to wedded bliss. Or? That creepy IT guy from work could turn out to be a real charmer -- once you get past the whole creepy IT guy thing, anyway."

Reality is much less charming.


Listen to Dr. Blogstein and I rock it old-school TONIGHT at 9 p.m. EST on Blog Talk Radio. We promise witty banter...but don't hold us to much else. Though we DO have freaking Dick Van Patten, from "Eight is Enough" and a heck of a lot of other stuff (including "Wonder Woman"! Awesome!) on tonight. I think that means you should set your cell phone timer/Outlook calendar alarm for 9 p.m. and prepare to be entertained.