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.

Drinking Stories

Sometimes I wonder why the only pop-culture stories about drinking that I can relate to are those told by men.

Here's what I relate to when I drink (um, not that I've done these things, but they seem most authentic):

Vince Vaughn at the end of Swingers. In a diner standing up on the table booth, swinging his sportcoat around, and saying, "So I'm the asshole?! I'm the asshole!" We've all been the asshole at one time or another.

Adam Davies's character "Harry" in the book The Frog King. Harry has only three or four dollars left, to his name -- money he won from a bet on the dictionary meaning of words with one of his mentors -- and the female bartender has to pry it out of his hands as payment for the PBRs that he owes her.

Paul Giamatti in Sideways. The scene where he drinks and stares at the pay phone and drinks more and goes to the "dark side" and calls his ex. In my opinion, this is the best representation of real-life drinking and dialing and desperation...ever.

Nicolas Cage in Leaving Las Vegas. Screaming nonsense (or non-nonsense?) -- "I am his father!" -- in a bar. I hear that Nic Cage was actually drunk when he did this scene.

Augusten Burroughs in the book Dry. Aside from myriad other serious problems, in one of the first scenes of the book, he somehow ends up in a karaoke bar in Manhattan in the wee morning hours, belting out tunes he never would have sung in "real" life. Been there, done that. Sometimes without the alcohol.

I think that the women in pop culture who are portrayed as drunks are also portrayed as sluts -- and I don't feel that's the case in real life. Here's why I don't relate to the women drunks in pop culture:

Sandra Bullock in the movie 28 Days. I'm not going to lie -- I've watched this movie at least five times. My favorite line is "I'm a journalist. I drink." Nice. But there are too many come-to-Jesus, sincere moments, and not enough resistance on her part. There's no way a hard-boiled journalist would have taken this program seriously, especially after only 28 days.

Judith Light in some horrible Oxygen movie that I can't remember. She played a physically abusive wife to Peter Sellers or some similar actor, and she'd drink white wine (seriously? just white wine?) and begin to beat him as he slept, beginning with the phrase, "You were never theeere for meeee!" Um, yeah, no.

Marcia Cross in Desperate Housewives. Does anyone honestly believe Bree is an alcoholic? Even her blackouts look fake. And off of white wine? Thank you. Case closed.

Tara Reid in Taradise. I'd slam her, but I'm a little afraid I'll end up like her, tanked off my ass at Sea World. Okay, maybe I wouldn't do that, exactly but she's a minor tragic figure no one wants to be compared to.

Helen Hunt in Pay It Forward. I don't think anyone would believe Helen Hunt as a drunk.

But here are the women drunks I can get behind:

Meg Ryan in When a Man Loves a Woman. I like the honest smoking. I like the honest drinking. I like the, "I'm worried I'm not going to be fun anymore." Good line. Also: Love Meg yelling out the window, three sheets to the wind, at her neighbors, "Some people are trying to have sex in here!" And also, to her rakish costar, Andy Garcia, "Ask me how much I want to drink right now."

Parker Posey in Broken English, a performance that I'd mandate win an Oscar if I were two-thirds of the academy. She's a single New York woman -- thin, drinking bottles of wine alone, smoking (God, I miss smoking), and hoping for someone who will see her good heart.


Please add your own thoughts in the comments, if you feel so inclined.

Happy Hour

I went to the Bar that Shall Not Be Named last night after work in order to down a couple of Miller Lite drafts and promptly fall into my bed. It's tricky, though, going to the Bar that Shall Not Be Named by myself, namely because I tend to attract lonely, well-meaning old-timers.

I had a beer all on my own, in blissful silence, and then a well-dressed, silver-haired man carrying a glass of Chardonnay stepped into the bar from the patio, stumbling, drunk, into the doorjamb as he crossed the threshold.

I immediately said to myself, "This is going to be my drinking buddy for the night." And, sure enough, he sat down right next to me, and before I knew it, we were deep into a discussion about 20th-century novelists. I like to think that under my neuroses, there's something calm about me that makes older men gravitate to barstools near me. Or, you know, maybe they just aren't that picky and are attracted to my shiny blond hair. But I prefer the former explanation.

His name was Tom. He said he was 55, but I would have pegged him for 62. It felt very Mad Men, our smooth cameraderie and talk about work and careers and goals. (If this were the show, and not a dive bar in Midtown, I would have been Joan, easy.) Our conversation veered toward relationships, because all conversations had at a bar past 11 p.m. veer toward relationships. He filed for divorce from his wife after 29 years together, he said. They had a happy 11 years, and then they had kids. Eighteen years later, they looked at each other and said, "Who the hell are you?" (His words.)

Maybe I looked like a deer in headlights, frightened of this thing that could easily happen to any couple, or maybe I just nodded at him to go on, but this is the next thing he said to me: "Here's my advice for keeping a marriage together: Have sex all the time. Fuck the kids." It was a poor choice of words on his part, but I got the point. He continued. "Not just sex, but movies, walks. You forget those things when you're raising kids."

We talked more, but that was the salient part of the conversation: the urgency he felt in telling me -- telling anyone -- how to avoid what had happened to him.

He then told me about his German girlfriend, 15 years his junior. He told me he buys her things -- jewelry, clothes, dinners, whatever she wants. I was suspicious of that -- his watch didn't look expensive enough. But he said the one thing she won't do is have sex in their car, in the parking garage, after he buys her jewelry. Should I have been offended? Maybe. But I got the sense that this genuinely bothered him. And, after all, it was sort of a quid pro quo: I buy you a $12,000 necklace, and you give me...what? So I took him seriously. Maybe I shouldn't have. But here's what I told him:

If you want a woman to do something for you, make her think she's working for it. Over dinner, tell her, "There's something I've been wanting to do and -- no, I'm sorry. I can't tell you." She'll then try and pry it out of you. Resist as long as possible. Use the bread basket as distraction. Refuse to tell her, and act embarrassed if she presses. Then, finally, after a good half-hour, hour, or half-day, relent. After you tell her your fantasy, say, "And the strange part is, I've only thought about doing this with you. The thought didn't cross my mind until we were together." Sold. Close the deal. She's yours. Aaaaand you're welcome.

Tom paid for all of my drinks, even the ones I had had before he got there; he also made a drunken yet valiant attempt to pick up the cute 23-year-old British bartender for me (no thanks, Tom -- been there and done that at the Bar that Shall Not Be Named); and then, before I left, he slurred, "So, do you want to fuck?" Again, I know that most women would have been offended. Maybe I should have been. But part of me knew that for this guy, it was most likely something he felt he should do -- something old-school that's required of you when you buy dames drinks. I declined. Of course I did. He knew I would, and he seemed relieved when I laughed and said no. We hugged goodbye.

After I left, I thought, "This is what bars can be in New York. Two strangers from opposite ends of the social/financial spectrum, sharing drinks and good -- if not slightly racy -- conversation instead of sitting in their apartments alone."

Friday Quiz

This is great fun: What Alcoholic Drink Are You?

Here's what I scored:

You Are Whiskey

You're a tough drinker, and you take it like a man
That means no girly drinks for you - even if you are a girl
You prefer a cold, hard drink at the end of the day
Every day, in fact. And make that a few.

Is anyone surprised by my score? Didn't think so.

Reinventing the Girl

I'm drawn to bartenders and actors like a fly is drawn to honey, so it didn't surprise me when I found myself having a nice chat with a young British actor boy at the Bar that Shall Not Be Named on Saturday night. Despite the fact that I think I insulted him when I predicted that his career trajectory would be akin to a Baldwin brother's (if he got that lucky), he was nice to me.

"What's the matter?" he said after a while, as my gaze boozily drifted off into space.

I paused. Then I abruptly swiveled around in my stool to face him dead-on.

"Okay. You want to know what the matter is?" I said. "I've met all of the goals I had for myself as a little girl, and now I don't know what to do next."

This is usually the line that sends guys scrambling for the door -- or at least the next blonde over. But this British boy was different, for some reason. He asked my Brazilian bartender of yore for a scrap of paper from the cash register tape and set about to scribbling with a blue pen. Then he handed the note to me. Here is what it said:

"REINVENT YOURSELF" Program

STEP 1:

Homework:
-Google & read "Desiderata"
-Get & read "The Law of Attraction"

See you next week!!

His "plan" was so incredibly sweet and young and optimistic and well-meaning that I had to keep the piece of paper, and I had to at least do some Googling to find out what the hell he was talking about. There's no way I'm going to spend my money on Law of Attraction, because I refuse to suspend my disbelief long enough to buy into notions like "good energy" and "bad energy" and "vibrations," etc. I think books like that (see: The Secret) are bullshit money-making schemes -- peddling half-baked psychological ideas to the weak and stupid who are willing to slap a credit card on the counter in exchange for a glimmer of hope. But I did find "Desiderata" online, and I liked it. It was enough to make me think and make me smile for two seconds today, so I'm posting it here for you guys to read. I hope you enjoy it for at least as long as I did:


Desiderata
by Max Ehrmann

Go placidly amid the noise and haste,
and remember what peace there may be in silence.
As far as possible without surrender
be on good terms with all persons.
Speak your truth quietly and clearly;
and listen to others,
even the dull and the ignorant;
they too have their story.

Avoid loud and aggressive persons,
they are vexations to the spirit.
If you compare yourself with others,
you may become vain and bitter;
for always there will be greater and lesser persons than yourself.
Enjoy your achievements as well as your plans.

Keep interested in your own career, however humble;
it is a real possession in the changing fortunes of time.
Exercise caution in your business affairs;
for the world is full of trickery.
But let this not blind you to what virtue there is;
many persons strive for high ideals;
and everywhere life is full of heroism.

Be yourself.
Especially, do not feign affection.
Neither be cynical about love;
for in the face of all aridity and disenchantment
it is as perennial as the grass.

Take kindly the counsel of the years,
gracefully surrendering the things of youth.
Nurture strength of spirit to shield you in sudden misfortune.
But do not distress yourself with dark imaginings.
Many fears are born of fatigue and loneliness.
Beyond a wholesome discipline,
be gentle with yourself.

You are a child of the universe,
no less than the trees and the stars;
you have a right to be here.
And whether or not it is clear to you,
no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should.

Therefore be at peace with God,
whatever you conceive Him to be,
and whatever your labors and aspirations,
in the noisy confusion of life keep peace with your soul.

With all its sham, drudgery, and broken dreams,
it is still a beautiful world.
Be cheerful.
Strive to be happy.

Max Ehrmann, Desiderata, Copyright 1952.

Off the Wagon

Here in the city, there's actually a bar named Off the Wagon, so maybe I should have gone there for my inaugural drink last weekend. Instead, I celebrated seven days of sobriety at a new Irish pub in my 'hood (not my usual hangout, the Bar that Shall Not Be Named) that has karaoke on Sundays. I sipped my Bud Light draft(s), chatted up some interesting fellows at the bar, including a fabulously good-looking chef, and sang the following songs:

"Black Velvet," by Alannah Myles
"My Favorite Mistake," by Sheryl Crow
"Why," by Annie Lennox (kind of a downer, but the crowd was sweet and attentive nonetheless)
"Don't Stop Believin'," by Journey

I felt my night was a rousing success and a fantastic entree back into the world of booze. It's my goal to respect the drink -- to harness its power and keep the abuse to a minimum. In the week that I've returned to drinking, I've only done a couple of dumb things -- namely frequenting the Bar that Shall Not Be Named a couple of times and sending some ill-advised text messages to a certain Brazilian bartender who's not having any of it.

But I'm working at getting past this awkward life stage.

I am trying -- as hard as possible, after this breakup and during this new life that I'm carving out for myself -- to be normal, which, for me, Jane, is sometimes hard. Much like the drink, I'm learning to respect my individuality and my quirkiness -- to understand when it works for me and cut it off when I go into overdrive. It's exciting, being single: I have new interests and new likes that I'm not sure would have been possible had life not been stripped down to its barest: just me.

So (because I'm such a huge fan of lists) here is what I'm digging right now -- what I've discovered now that I'm on my own and learning to get along with that:

New favorite bar: the Russian Vodka Room
- Stepping inside is like transporting yourself into the 1940s -- or the 1950s, at the very latest. They have a piano player who sings songs in Russian and a sweet veteran female bartender who will bring you a new drink, no questions asked, if you accidentally spill yours. (Not that I would know this firsthand.)

New favorite musician: Feist
- Check her out on iTunes. I'm listening to her newest album for the first time as I type this, and it's fantastic.

Old favorite musician who's going to blow up huge in no time flat: Sara Bareilles
- I saw her at the Bowery Ballroom a couple of weeks ago, and she's rapidly developing a fanbase that will preclude her from appearing at any more small venues for the rest of her career. I'm happy for her, but I'm sad that she's not my obscure little piano gal anymore. She's opening for Maroon 5 this summer, and I consider that a nail in the indie coffin.

New favorite vacation destination: Miami
- Can't remember the last time I took a vacation that didn't involve going to see relatives. A girlfriend from work and I are buying our tickets tomorrow for a trip to a place I've only fantasized about going. And the hotel looks beautiful and inviting.

New favorite TV show: Mad Men
- There are so many amazing things about this show that I can't enumerate them all here. This is AMC's original series about Madison Avenue ad execs in 1960, and it leaves nothing untouched, including the rampant sexism and racism of the period. Love the costumes, love the actors, love everything about it. It reminds me a little of one of my favorite books, The Best of Everything.

What fun things are you guys obsessed with right now? Do share if you feel so inclined.


And, of course, listen to Blogstein and me keep on rockin' in the free world Tuesday night at 9 on Blog Talk Radio. We'll be expecting you, so show up on time, pen and paper in hand, ready to take notes.

Songs to Drink To

Okay, so we already did breakup songs. Check and double-check on that one. But now, since I've been (sort of) happily sober for five-plus days now, I think we need a list of drinkin' songs. Here's what I've got so far. What am I missing?

1. "Sober," by Tool (Dear Lord, I love this song.)

2. "Rehab," by Amy Winehouse

3. "One Bourbon, One Scotch, and One Beer," by John Lee Hooker

4. "Spill the Wine," by War

5. "I Drink Alone," by George Thorogood and the Destroyers

6. "I'm Drunk Again," by Hank Williams Sr. (though I prefer the Hank Williams III version)

7. "Family Tradition," by Hank Williams Jr.

8. "Gin and Juice," by Snoop Doggy Dogg

On the Wagon

So, um, some of you who read this blog on a semi-regular to regular basis may have noticed that I enjoy the drinking. And by "enjoy" I mean "love." In a good way, of course. A genial way. A totally not trashy-and-yelling-at-bartenders way. Really.

Despite that, due to several drunken...shall we say "incidents" this past weekend, I've decided, dear readers, to put myself on the wagon. For how long? Dunno. I've been dry since Monday. Here's hoping I can make it until Sunday at least.

Here are a few thoughts I've had about being a drunk girl who's trying to stay dry, holding fast to that last little plank of the wooden wagon before a nail gives way and I tumbles onto the red clay:

-When you make a pledge to "not drink," "drinking" becomes one of the only thoughts in your head, even if you've only previously drunk on weekends. Ordering a sandwich at the deli? A beer would go great with this ham on rye. Stressed at work? Lord, I need a shot of Jack. Have a spare 30 minutes in your schedule? Man, the bar would be a great place to kill some time.

-When you're a drinker who makes a temporary sober pledge, it becomes your mission to tell everyone, regardless of whether they care. A coworker of mine asked me if I wanted a beer the other night (we have a pretty laid-back work environment). I could have easily said, "No thanks, man." What I did say -- quite happily and brightly, I might add -- was, "No thanks! I'm on the wagon!" and then I actually skipped away.

-Even if you're holding a nonalcoholic beverage, you shotgun it. I was at a bar with my buddy the other night after a concert, and I was swilling that Diet Coke like it was the lifeblood that would sustain me. He finished his whiskey and soda, and I said, "I'd be happy to get another with you." And another crisp, clean DC with lemon I sure did order, and I downed it within minutes.

-"Sober" can mean "time ticks by like it's molassses." I think to myself, as I'm home and clean at 10 p.m. on a Thursday night, that I would normally be into the wine or into the Bud Light or into a deep, drunken conversation. And then I have another thought: This is where my novel has gone.

Maybe these non-drinkers are onto something...?