She's Baaack!

The exclusivity of invitation-only access to this blog was no consolation for those of you who enjoyed regaling in the public disclosure of my misadventures. That's nothing compared to the demoralized readers who are just as anonymous to me as I am to them.

I had drinks with a group of girlfriends who are producers at various networks tonight. One of them asked for an invitation to read this blog drawing the exasperated sigh of another who called my decision to take the Love Pariah underground "self-censorship." I pleaded my case in vain. "You know that half the fun is putting yourself out there or why not just write it all in a journal?," she said. In fact, journal is just half of what I am. The "ist" comes from the combination of "exhibitionist" or, if you're prone to armchair therapy, "masochist." So here we are. Miss me?

The last entry alluded to an encounter with a despicable man worthy of a permanent anointment as Keith Olberman's "Worst Person In the World." Last Saturday, my friend Bourge, her cousin Denise and I were at a club in Vegas when a man approached us and chimed into the tail end of our conversation. "We should just have a good time," Bourge was advising me as she wrapped up a story about our stupid friend- a producer from Cleveland- who had taken leave of both her senses and manners during our "girl's weekend."

"Yeah," he slurred, "We should just have fun." We stopped and stared. He was a white guy in his late 30s. "The bartender gave me an extra shot. Do you want it?" he asked us. I was about to avail myself to the free alcohol when the street smart friend of mine demurred. "I don't do shots," she offered. He told us he had a table and within seconds, an executive decision to maneuver ourselves in the direction of complimentary liquor was made. He introduced us to his friends who all appeared to be corn-fed Midwesterners. There was another couple. The woman had big hair and a bigger body and her husband didn't even feign friendliness when introduced. There was a slender woman with blond hair sitting across the table. As Mr.Despicable made the introductions, I was the only one who heard him refer to the blond as his wife. Instantly repelled, I opted to stay on the perimeter of the table, looking like a snob and apathetic to what kind of an impression that might make. Meanwhile my friends chatted up our host if for no other reason than to kill time while downing one vodka cranberry and its impending refill.

"He's married," I said to Denise when she noticed my distant behavior and raised her eyebrows as if to say, "What's up?" I nodded in the direction of the blond. She gave a knowing look. "Yeah. She likes it," Denise said. I was perplexed and repulsed. Then he leaned over my friend and said to me, "You're stunning." Bourge laughed. "And she doesn't even know it." That's when I filled her in on our host. Moments later, he decided to come clean.

"I'm in the middle of a divorce and that's my soon-to-be ex-wife," he admitted. "This is our one last hurrah before we call it quits." We were stunned. What did that make us? At first I felt a tug of sympathy. Having been divorced, I know it's not easy. "Why Vegas?" I asked. "It's her 40th birthday and it's not mutual," he said. "But we planned it a while ago." Suddenly Bourge announced that she needed to go to the ladies room and since women do this in groups when out and about, Denise and I trailed behind her. "Now I've seen it ALL!" she yelled. Denise told us that she saw the blond wipe away a tear as her wayward husband was confessing their marital woes to three women he had just met in a Vegas nightclub.

So that's my first post back after a short hiatus. See? You weren't missing much.