There’s a man in my apartment, and in between not-so-subtle innuendo, he’s telling me, “Write, woman. Write.â€ù

So, here’s what you get when I am slightly intoxicated and on the ugly side of strung out: I’ve missed phone calls, deleted texts without actually reading them and kept a few dozen conversations to less than thirty words all in the name of just getting through today.

But here we are. Welcome to my new home on iVillage. Love it, hate it – frankly, it’s sort of irrelevant as this point. I was going to give it up entirely, and now these fine are folks are fitting the bill.

This is home now. Take off your shoes and make yourselves comfortable.

I try not to keep alcohol in the house. If I have it, chances are I will drink it and that’s where we begin to have problems.

Several months ago, I noticed that every time I came home from a long day and poured myself a glass of wine with the purpose of relaxing, without fail and within the hour I was crying. Things were all around more complicated then. Love was tricky, life was confusing and drinking alone became an invitation to a pity party.

Things are decidedly less complicated now, so when I dropped my purse on the ottoman this evening, I made a beeline for the bottle of Syrah that was decorating my kitchen counter. A birthday gift from Jen, it had been biding its time waiting for a dinner party or some other event because, well, I don’t drink at home alone. But tonight, I decided I was well and whole and so very even keel that not only was there not a thing in the world that could bring me to tears, a glass of wine might even send me to sleep a little bit early.

Boy howdy, was I wrong.

I poured some wine, took a swallow and made that “ahhh” sound you make when you kick off a pair of uncomfortable shoes or take a sip of really good coffee in the morning. Then I ran a bath. When I got out and dried off, I poured myself another glass and retired to the bedroom. I lit some candles, crawled into bed and entertained some remarkably profound thoughts like, Oooh, my toenails match my sheets.

So far, so good.

Then I switched on my computer. I read a few emails, dallied with the idea of paying a few bills and clicked over to CNN to catch up on the day’s news. Now, some people may not consider a mother cat nursing a baby squirrel to be news, but I am not some people, and had to watch the news clip immediately.

I made it nearly halfway through the clip before the waterworks started. It was not a sobfest by any means, but I did feel a tear forming in the corner of my eye. I put an immediate halt to it.

Come on! I mean, crying from cuteness is a vast improvement, but I have to admit that melancholy seemed a much more respectable reason for tears. And what’s more, I’m not in bed asleep; I’m wide awake and blogging about what a ridiculous sap I am.

I really should learn to stick to my own policies. Or at the very least, learn to like whiskey. Because tears or no, after two glasses, I’d be out cold.

I know, I know. I’m such a launch tease.

But I swear it’s not my fault. I almost don’t dare tell you the new date for the Big Change, because it’s not likely you’ll believe me after all this crying wolf. Let’s just leave it at this: It’s like, falling in love. It’ll happen when you least expect it.

There, don’t you feel better?

I’m wearing a suit today, which means that something else big is up. Please to do the crossing of fingers. Fueled by anticipation of the something else big, I spent last night in a flurry of nervous energy, tearing my apartment to little bits. It started out as simple straightening, but then, hey, what’s this in the cupboard? And before I knew it, I was in the middle of a massive reorganization.

Somewhere between rediscovering my Belgian waffle maker and adios-ing my ten year old, hardly used spice rack, I missed the movie I’d bought a ticket for. That’s when I knew I’d gone too far. Though, it still did take all my power to stop myself from taking down the curtains and washing them (probably ironing them, as well, if I am being honest about my own sickness).

I do that sometimes. I also get worked up and clean fixtures with Q-tips. So on the Neurotic Cleaning Scale, last night’s binge wasn’t so bad.

Except for the part when I actually vacuumed the cat.

The Sunday Times crossword is lying in my hallway, next to my overnight bag which, if history is any indicator, just may get unpacked before it’s time to go out of town again. I have a sunburn, a sliver in my tush, and mysteriously, a rogue grain of sand in my bellybutton.

“Let’s not go back to New York,” I told the driver of the rent-a-Kia this afternoon. I’d started seeing signs for the City and hit panic mode. Having been in charge of the music, the climate control and the Q&A, I didn’t see any reason I shouldn’t get to pick our destination.

“Where do you want to go instead?”

“Mexico.”

A car passes us and I see a souvenir in the back window — a hat with a band that reads, Puerto Vallarta. This was a sign. But still, we ended up back in the city, and I’m back in my apartment where the fridge is empty, the laundry basket is full and I have zero inclination to remedy either situation.

God, what a rebel I am.

When things have been feeling just so wrong for long enough, a touch of just so right can be a bit of a system shock. A weekend away, free of complication (the Times puzzle aside) and filled with mac n’ cheese, pink fruity cocktails and puppy piles on the sofa watching My Big Fat Greek Wedding make the idea of getting up for work in the morning a new brand of torture.

I mean, even the sliver in my butt is charming in comparison. A totally different kind of pain in the ass.

The only thing that will make this work week bearable will be the pictures that should begin circulating soon – images of dancing to Michael Jackson’s Sweet Young Thing with spoons on our noses and other proof of having spent two solid days doing absolutely nothing and having done it really, really well. You know, like it was my job.

Actually, I think I’m going to go on Monster.com now and see if someone needs me to do that full time. I’d be a pro.

(PS. The whole, butt sliver thing, you think that will just go away on its own?)

It felt sort of like being at girls’ camp. It was dark. There were candles on the tables flickering in a way that reminded me of campfire, and a girl with a guitar singing over chitchat and laughter.

But we were in a West Village bar. I’d come with Tanya to hear Josey Miller play, and when I leaned across the table to say it felt like camp, Tanya said, “Intimate. I think because it’s an intimate setting.” Maybe. But maybe it was more about something comfortable. Josey sang a few songs I knew (I particularly liked her Joni Mitchell cover) and a bunch I didn’t, and the ones I didn’t were just as appealing. My favorite songs are the ones that tell stories. I like wondering what really happened – what got ommitted and condensed to fit into a few lines that rhyme, and what my imagination does with those lines – what pictures it paints trying to fill in the holes. The bar was more chaotic than girls’ camp, but Josey was a voice to be reckoned with and I didn’t much notice the noisy patrons or the Mets game playing in the corner.

Last week, I had the pleasure of catching Jaymay’s CMJ show at the Living Room. She too was absolutely captivating, but in a completely different way. There was something so quirky and so foreign about her music, that as I listened, I couldn’t help but think, “What kind of person writes songs like this?” I have to assume that if her music is any reflection, she’s a bit of a handful. Her songs can be unsettling, evocative and sad. But simultaneously wry and funny. And very worth staying out too late on a school night.

I’m still waiting for Hillary Huffard to come out with a CD. A few months back, her cover of a Cake song surprised the hell out of me when I found myself blinking back tears. Another surprise was that she didn’t have to fight to be heard in the small, noisy Saturday night bar. When she took the stage, she looked quiet and unassuming, but the moment she started singing, some quality in her voice – one I can’t find words to name – silenced the crowd. Reverence, I suppose. More than once I had to reach for a cocktail napkin to wipe my eyes — more than a little overwhelmed. You go to church for the kind of edification I felt like I got that night. Perhaps it’s a good thing Hilarly doesn’t have a CD; if she were readily available for my consumption, I might not know when to stop. Being moved, even toward melancholy, can be addictive.

It’s no secret that I have a history of falling for musicians. There has been a drummer, a guitarist, a singer-songwriter. Actually, make that two drummers. And I think there may also be a high school band trumpet player in there somewhere. I can’t really tell you what the attraction is. But after writing the above, it’s pretty clear that I feel a very similar sort of pull toward talented female artists. Which makes me think my amor has everything to do with loving being touched and nothing to do with actual love. Not much of a revelation, I know. But it does help to remember, when I’m sitting in an audience, melting over some new dreamy wounded heart with a guitar, that it’s just a show. I can love from the audience, or through my iPod earphones, and that’s where it stops.

I have decided that the next man I fall for will love calculus or golf or dead languages. And he will have some other way of moving me.