Comin’ at ya live from underneath a puking baby. 

Tap…tap…can you hear me?

Is anyone out there?

Oh, there you are, one person, who still reads this blog.

How are you?

Long time, huh.

I fell off the blogging bandwagon a long time ago. Sure, I posted every few months for a while, because I still loved this space, but I’d sort of lost my passion for the medium. I felt like I’d already shared so much of myself in my books that there just wasn’t much left to give.

And, well, also, I felt kind of boring. After all, when I started this blog, I was 25. I was single. I was an actress and a writer, navigating the work and dating world of NYC, and happily obsessing about everything I ate and how many spin classes I managed to hit a week. It was fun and dramatic. And nothing like my life is these days.

If I can be candid, and that’s kind of my thing, I’m happier now in the small simplicity of my grown-up life than I ever was with my moderately cool youth. We traded in the city for the suburbs, our late nights out for early mornings in with our two little humans (oh, yeah, I had a second baby a few weeks ago!). While it’s been years since I stood in line at a cattle call, I still spend time on stage speaking about hoarding and disordered eating all over the country, but acting is no longer a part of my life—something that feels at once very strange and completely natural. For the most part, I’ve traded the stage for the page. After two memoirs I’m trying to figure out how to write a book that doesn’t include my friends and family