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Not Dancing on Tables … Yet

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With Mom on Smith St!

It’s officially been a month since I became a full-time New Yorker, and I have to confess that the experience has borne an uncanny resemblance to the film, “Coyote Ugly.” (Yes, I just used the term ‘film’ facetiously for dramatic effect and a second time for the sake of alliteration.)

From the time the cab driver tossed my suitcases into the middle of the street in front of the apartment in Brooklyn, to my new best friends, the Jake Walk bartenders, to the shelf of glass kitchenware that collapsed on top of me and sent me to the emergency room where I sobbed alone as my left foot was stitched up (while lying in a gurney next to a 17-year-old handcuffed to his parole officer) — it’s been nothing short of Tyra Branks-worthy. I even uploaded the “Coyote Ugly” soundtrack to iTunes (because, let’s face it, I already owned the CD) and have been belting “Can’t Fight the Moonlight” in moments of awkwardness.

The whole bicoastal thing Jacqueline and I have been doing these last six months was supposed to make the transition less awkward. In some ways it has: I have an arsenal of pals, a regular circuit of events and panels to attend, and a solid understanding of the subway system (which works great when I’m NOT reading “Twilight,” missing stops, and finding myself hobbling on my cane in Harlem). Additionally, I had a lovely visit with my parents, who reunited me with Scarlett O’Hara, who has been living with them in San Diego since Thanksgiving after an unfortunate incident in which Shannon’s and my dog, Ramsey, mistook her for the turkey. She’s taken to her role as a hipster cat quite nicely, settling into an antique, thrift-shop acquired, wildly upholstered chair and breaking into the organic treats Auntie Jax recommended.

Still, I haven’t been able to escape the moving blues. I miss singing Taylor Swift while driving with the top down on the 134 fwy, and I miss the view of Mt. Washington on the porch at my house. Shannon finally moved out last week, and it marked the end of a wonderful era. I am remembering other times of transition like this (after Medill, leaving Chicago, leaving the Huffington Post) and I know it won’t be long before the fabulousness of a new era sets in. It just requires a sense of adventure and curiosity, and a commitment to the rebuilding of one’s life. I’m sure I’ll have more zeal for it after I get my stitches out on Monday. It is hard to explore the country’s most exhilerating city when you can’t walk!

Likewise, we have entered the summer of my 29 birthday. While there’s still a couple months to go until the big day (which I will celebrate amongst my fellow progressive bloggers at Netroots Nation in Pittsburg), I have naturally convinced myself that I am already 30 and begun the judgmental process of evaluating whether I accomplished enough in my 20s. Obviously, I had hoped to be a New York Times columnist and headline a show on CNN by this age, so I consider myself a massive failure. I’ve been forced to up the deadline to 33, which leaves me two years to dominate political media before I have to adopt my Chinese baby at 35 and focus on single-motherhood.

In the event that I am able to do something notable in the next 14 months (such as sell my TV pilot, rock the charts with my best-selling “Manners 2.0″ book, etc.) I’ll be sure to Twitter the shit out of it so you’ll be the first to know.

If I like you, please come and visit me this summer!!

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