It turns out, I have a lot to get off my chest, which isn’t surprising really as I come from a long line of gabbing yentas from Yonkers, as the story goes, even though the closest thing I knew of a Jewish heritage growing up in the bougie suburbs of Georgia was Hanukkah Harry, Coffee Talk, and lox spread.

To practice Judaism in its purest form is to dutifully obey all 613 Mitzvah’s, or commandments, given in the Torah.  I followed 1:

My Bat Mitzvah, which is reformed Hebrew for “giant, ungodly gift-giving party at the Ritz.”

So here I am, a 30-something single woman finding myself – after a brief stint in San Franciscold as fuck  – back in the land of Civil War reenactments, seasons, and funnel cake; where “that Devil Sherman” watched the city burn, the “Big Peach,” the ATL, the one and only Atlanta. I’ve frequently been called a “nerd,” and a hopeless “romantic,” the former due to the fact that I carry an astronaut pen and pocket-sized OED on my person at all times — AND

The latter because that’s what friends who are married or in committed relationships sweetly say is the reason I’m still single so as to make it sound like it’s a choice.

I’m willing to admit that my life is, for the most part, quite ordinary. Frankly, I’m one, prime-time cable crime drama and pack of Virginia Slims away from becoming Selma Bouvier. But, in between the wide, vapid yawn of my existence, there is the occasional mind-blowing observation or thunder-crapping experience that warrants immediate public notice (read: shameless self-promotion).  On that list:

• 2 years and 60-plus internet dates (and counting) from various online matchmaking sites, and the various misadventures that have ensued.
• Frequent international travels and local adventures that lead to mysterious places, people, and food-borne parasites.
• Random musings on life that can’t be contained in 140 characters or less.
• Family dysfunctions, exploits with friends, music and movie commentary, meshugass of all shapes and sizes, prizes at the bottom of cereal boxes, opportunity that knocks-es, shopping sprees and deep-seated psychological epiphanies; art shows and broken heart blows. And last but certainly not least…

• My cat Poppycock Artemis Schmute the III who astonishingly taught himself to type despite his lack of opposable thumbs, AND will be using this blog on occasion for self-expression.
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So, let’s join our virtual hands together and begin this crazy little thing called blog.