In general, I like to talk about sex way more than I like to talk about politics. I always feel more satisfied after a good girl gab that has to do with our sex lives (or lack thereof) than one of those boring meetings about who is running for city council. So when Annabelle said she was getting a bunch of us together for Chinese I got very excited. First of all, we all find Chinese kind of an aphrodisiac. (Annabelle says it’s the Five Spice Powder but my vote goes to the MSG.) Second, the delivery guy from California Wok has killer abs and wears skintight T-shirts that say things like, “Soy Boy” and “Stir Fry Guy.” Last but not least, I love Chinese food. I love the flavors, I love the way it fills me up fast and I love the way an hour or so later it leaves you wanting more. The way I see it, Chinese food is like sex, only better because you can get it any time you want. (Actually, if you are Jeffrey you can pick up the phone and call for sex and have it delivered just like Chinese food. But you sure can’t trust the egg rolls, if you know what I mean.)

I’ve never been that big on anniversaries. Well, let me put it another way. Jeffrey was never that big on anniversaries and so I guess I picked that little bad habit up from him. He said he didn’t want us to be like everybody else. That holidays of any kind were a Hallmark construct and that he sure as hell wasn’t buying in. He refused to get me flowers on Valentine’s day and when my birthday rolled around, if I wasn’t buying myself a piece of bling you could be damn sure no one else was either. As far as our wedding anniversary — well, it goes without saying.

So — imagine my surprise when I woke up this morning and realized that it was more or less one year ago that I found the “Bat Phone.” You remember don’t you? Innocent me, opening Jeffrey’s sock drawer, only to find the red iPhone with the Concubine’s number programmed in? (Lesson number one. Don’t get in the habit of putting away your husband’s clean socks and underwear. It can only lead to trouble.) Anyhoo, this morning I realized that through no fault of my own I was celebrating an anniversary. In fact, it was almost one year ago today that I started down the slippery slope to singledom. In honor of this momentous occasion, I stopped at Starbucks for a double soy milk no foam, grande latte, programmed my divorce attorney into my speed dial and drove Mr. Handsome up to school.

I am not one to hold a grudge. Okay, I am one to hold a grudge (see Jeffrey, see Jeffrey fucks Super Fan in my very own living room) but in honor of the Jewish Holidays, I had made a plan to get over that. Not to get over the Super Fan fucking, necessarily, but the holding a grudge part. Holding a grudge is not good for the mind or the body or the spirit (I read this somewhere, or perhaps I heard it on Oprah) but with that in mind I set out to embrace the New Year.

Now, as I may have mentioned, I am half Jewish. The Jewish half is actually my father, which technically doesn’t make me Jewish I suppose, but I was raised a nominal Jew (going to temple twice a year, eating borscht) and that was enough for me to pass it on to my children. Jeffrey is Jewish too, and despite my misgivings we joined one of those temples that have too many agents and managers and lawyers who go there to do business (kind of like choosing the right pre-school, choosing the right temple in Los Angeles is serious work) and we would go there pretty much never except for Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur. I’m not saying I’m proud of how we did things, but I’m not un-proud of it either, it’s just the way it was.

As I may have implied, it’s been a long, not so hot summer. And though I won’t get into it now, I needed a bit of cheering up recently which had less to do with Jeffrey and his exploits (more on that later) than it did with me and my not so sordid past. Taking this into consideration, Annabelle, she of the George Hamilton tan and the Eres bikini (thank you rich boyfriend with a house on St. Barts) came by on Saturday night, scooped me out of my Waterworks bathrobe (a fine investment if you want to spend the day in bed with a supersize bag of Fritos) and insisted I accompany her to a party.

Now I may or may not have mentioned that in my tender youth I aspired to be a groupie. I sucked at it actually, because aside from sticking out my thumb to hitchhike now and again, and taking an occasional puff off someone else’s joint, I was pretty tame in my approach to living. I aspired to be the girl who followed the band, and I once did sleep outside the New Haven Coliseum to get tickets to see Bruce Springsteen, but my first concert ever was John Denver and for a hideously long time that set the tone for my entire way of being. By the way, who is “Annie” and why did she get her own song? My guess is she gave Mr. Denver his first Rocky Mountain high.

Still, Annabelle was well aware that for many years I was madly in love with this musician/guitar player who did session work with Dan Fogelberg (yes, I was that predictable) and when I met Jeffrey I have to admit that the fact that he played the drums totally turned me on. (In retrospect, all that incessant banging should have been a clue.) Regardless, I still really dig musicians. Which for anyone under the age of eighteen who is reading right now, is not necessarily to be recommended.