What's a Date?

Today I (mostly) unpacked my spare bedroom, aka the Monica Room. You might not think this is blogworthy, however, I have lived in my apartment for over a year now. Three bags of stuff went to Goodwill this afternoon. Alas, I still have a huge pile of trash in a pile in the middle of the room. Maybe next year I'll get to that.

I have begun to think I might be ready to date someone. No one in particular, just someone in general. Many people ask me why I haven't yet. The answer is simple. No one ever asks me. This explanation doesn't always seem to satisfy those well meaning busybodies who are certain that this is somehow my fault. They believe I don't apply myself. I have met several men over the last several months. Many of them call me quite regularly, but none of them ask the magic question: "Would you like to have dinner?" Meeting someone at a bar at 11:30 p.m. with a group of friends does not a date make for a chick in her 30's whose biological clock is screaming out for attention. This is serious, folks. Yes, I could ask guys out, and I have. Somehow, they always seem to think I mean for a group of people to show up as well.

This weekend I attempted to contact nearly everyone in my phonebook. No answers. So, Friday night I drank a few beers and fell asleep by midnight. Last night, I made myself a couple of margaritas and fell asleep around 1 p.m., after unpacking aforementioned Monica Room. This evening, my dearest platonic friend is coming over for a few margaritas. There has been no sex there in the decades we have known each other.

Come on, guys! Throw me a frickin' bone! (literally, really)

Brand Spanking New Day

HoooWeee! It surely has been a long time since I have blogged. A long, torturous year filled with self-pity and solo binge drinking while watching 5 episodes of Law & Order (whichever mutation is on) per evening before segueing into the Lifetime late-night sitcom line-up. A year that has seen me start smoking again, fantasize about driving my car into a concrete wall quite regularly, exhibit some pretty shameful stalker-like qualities, fire two therapists, get a tattoo and knit more washcloths than I will ever use.

But, I'm better now. Mostly. Soon, I might even think about dating again.

Sure, I still have my moments. But they are fewer and farther between. I quit blogging because every post I was writing was horrible, embarrassing and pathetic, and included descriptions of public crying jags that humiliated all involved. I think those are over.

Betrayal is a bitch. That's all I can say about that.