back in the new york groove.

i have always been jealous of those people who don't eat when they're depressed. dieting? no, i just lost my cat. working out? me? never! but my fiancée did just leave me at the altar. these people amaze me. there is a definite difference between those who handle a tragedy with tight lipped poise and the rest of the world. i am, predictably, of the wallowing in self-pity with a bottle of kettle and a fistful of dark chocolate variety. ..and bread! and goat cheese! and put some butter on all of that and fry it, per favore.

this is neither here nor there, nor has high seas adventures been traded for self-help empowering women speeches of the oprahnian variety (never, we promise). this is just my little explanation of where i have been.

irregardless of the rumours posted here, missy has not been kidnapped by pirates, rendered computer illiterate by an unfortunate pedicab accident or tied to a chair by bear for the past year (but he HAS been hoarding a worrying amount of rope and twine). i have however noticed a pattern within myself. similar to my tendency to eat when sad, i also tend to create more. not to say that all posts on this blog have been a result of misery and sorrow, that is not the case at all. however in the past year i've settled into a pattern of work, a 9to5 routine which prior to 2007 was just the stuff nightmares and sissy's doldrum dinner stories were made of. but yes, here i am, a member of the corporate ranks --and it's not all glitter and hats like the village people made it seem.

in addition to my real life portrayal of the office (the british version, i'm sorry steve carell, you are a man of ben stiller-worthy repulsion) i have also had my first foray into the grown up world of monogamy. contrary to popular belief, i have not always considered monogamy to be a dirty word. rather, for a while, i just denied its existence. monogamy? isn't that a wood commonly used in furniture of the reddish-tinted variety?

but now here i am, a year into normalcy and it seems i've already obtained my membership to the stepford social club. not that i don't love and respect what i'm doing. and not that my life of anger and vodka and comedy was bad either. but why can't i have the puppies and the rainbows with a dirty martini straight up and some flippant remarks at the girl in the pink uggs (ed. note - really, still??) i'd like the house with the white picket fence, within which i can roll around in paint and hurl insults of Gangy-proportion at neighbors and blogosphere celebutantes alike.

i'm not really sure when i lost my edge, or if i just happened to fall over one, but i'm committed to righting that wrong. after all, no one likes a pants not paint.

xom