[redacted] FAQs

I know you all probably have some questions, as well you should. I figure we could either all go into an online chat room and sort this out 1998-style (Ok, who brought the pedophile!), or I could curate a sampling of the most common questions and concerns and preemptively address them here. So let's get down to it.

How was your Christmas?
It was lovely! Brooke got me an antique tie clip that everyone compliments me on. I know I'm a little late to the Mad Men fashion party, but if you ask me, not dipping your tie in your soup never goes out of style.

Where have you been, asshole?
Oh right. That. Well I guess we should just get this out of the way. I know I disappeared. And not like a magician, although if that's what you want to tell your friends I'll back you up. No, I disappeared more like a fun-loving though inherently flawed dad from a broken family who is either a loose-cannon police officer, semi-pro rock guitarist, or race car driver. And I promise it won't happen again. Until it does, and then we'll all officially be part of a "vicious cycle" just like those people on Intervention.

I've heard rumors that you are no longer living in Miami. Is that true?
Yes, the Internet got that one right.

Why did you leave?
There comes a time in every man's life when he has to decide if he's ready to get busy living or get busy drinking mojitos for lunch. Luckily that time never came for me, because my favorite flavor of mojito is Lunch Mojito. Instead, that decision was made for me when Brooke and I got the news in early December that we were being called back to the Big Apple for work reasons. We spent most of December in New York looking for an apartment and most of January packing up our place in Miami. We made the permanent move back to New York on January 24. Really the best time to be in New York. (Insert sound of head hitting wall.)

You know, I'm still mad at you.
I know. I feel like that prostitute who does everything but kiss, but only so she can put herself through law school. Then when she finally gets to law school, she finds herself sitting in the library yearning for the days when she anonymously approached strange men who wore pocket squares, not knowing whether this would be the go-around that netted her a book deal, or if it was just another run-of-the-mill spike-and-rob scenario.

What the hell does that even mean?
I'm sorry. It means I'm sorry.

You make it so hard to stay mad at you. Do you at least have a place to live?
Yes, I do. After an exhaustive search that involved at least ten real estate brokers, thirty-five apartment viewings, and over six hundred mini-strokes, Brooke and I found a great one-bedroom in Greenwich Village. I know what you're thinking. "Well hey, Richy Rich! Congratulations, Mr. Look At Me, I Get Extra Boosts At Jamba Juice." But that's not the case.

You know when you hear stories about people who have an unbelievable deal on an apartment? Like their elderly neighbor died and no one noticed until one day they caught a whiff of something awful? So they went in and disposed of the body, stole their identity, and have been living in a rent-controlled junior four ever since? Well now I'M THAT GUY. Except the previous tenant didn't die, she just moved to London, which is really more like a rebirth, especially if you love tea and watching great American TV shows on a one year delay.

How do you feel about being back in New York?
I know that when I left New York two years ago I was pretty excited to be leaving a place where I actually used a light therapy lamp to treat my Seasonal Affective Disorder. Just me, sitting in front of a fucking lamp for twenty minutes. I would have made fun of myself if I could have mustered a joke through all the tears.

But Miami is – god, it's so many things. Unfortunately one of them isn't "the perfect place to call home." And sure, no place is perfect. Just the other day I spent six dollars on a gallon of milk here in New York. I'm pretty sure at that cost it's economically feasible to invest in a cow. But at the end of the day, New York is home. It's a place where I have "guys." Like a shoe guy in Little Italy or a stand-up MRI guy in Queens. And that's good living by any standards.

How is Puppy handling the transition?
The beauty of Puppy is that he hates all seasons equally. He's neither a summer dog, nor a winter dog, so going from Miami to New York is a zero sum game for him. Plus, while we were looking for apartments and packing up our Miami place, Puppy stayed with my parents on Long Island. For over a month he ran around in the back yard, learned to use a doggie door, and ate wet food. It was like a doggie Sandals. And now he gets to come to work with us every day where he does funny things like poop under my boss's desk and try to jump on my HR manager's lap. I'm pretty sure he's fine.

So what now?
I guess we get back to this blogging thing. Sure, it's about as culturally relevant as the series finale of Arrested Development, what with all the Facebooking and Twittering and Apping (is that a thing?) going on these days. But like my high school girlfriend always said, "What are you doing? That feels weird. Stick to what you're good at."

Final thoughts?
The other night I was walking home from the gym at a pretty brisk pace when out of the corner of my eye I spotted what appeared to be a cat slowly ambling across the sidewalk towards a mound of trash bags. I didn't really slow down, because Hey, cat, learn your place. But as I got closer I noticed that it wasn't a cat at all. It was a possum.

Unfortunately at this point I was so close to the thing that I was committed to walking right past it, which WAS NOT an option because the thing's tail was probably a foot long and clearly if it touched me I would die. The only thing to do was vault it, which sounds athletic and cool but in practice looks more like a little girl skipping over a puddle. So there I was, a grown man covered in post-gym sweat dandily leaping over an enormous rodent who was on its way to a pile of garbage. Bottom line: It's nice to know that after all this time New York can still surprise me.