Over lunch, my friend tells me some important things about online dating.

First of all, I’m doing quite well. She can’t even get most of them off the computer.

Seriously? I say. What’s the point of that – to chat endlessly online and never meet someone?

Beats me, she says, but that’s how they work. They’re too afraid to do things in person, I think. Safer to be behind a keyboard. I have most of my relationships via keyboard these days.

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While I’m waiting for my friends to arrive, I call my father and bring him up to speed.

This is torture, I tell him. I rant and rave and laugh at my own jokes. I’m on a roll.

I cannot believe the absurdity of my life right now.

You sound great, he says. Energized!

I feel free! I tell him. I’ve just discovered a new restaurant! I just found out I’m the kind of person who people like enough to change their plans for! I feel like I’ve been sprung from jail!

Then why are you upset? he asks.

Because I have so much I want to say and I can’t say it!

Why can’t you say it? he asks.

Because the divorce lawyer told me, no blogging, no Twitter, no Facebook, keep your mouth shut until everything has been signed by the judge. I am mute for my own good.

Hah, says my father. You need a stealth blog. An anonymous blog.

Oh. That’s a good idea. Suddenly, my mind is full of possibilities.

I already have a blog, of course, and one with a lot of readers at that. Among those readers: The Departed, The Foreigner, my mom. Bachelor #3. I can see them all stop in and visit.

I could never really say what I wanted to say, I had to edit myself so carefully.

I’ve been in jail, and now I’m sprung – at last, I tell my father. An anonymous blog.

Finally, I feel free.

So while I meet my friends for pie (two kinds!), my father sets up my new blog for me.

Welcome, strangers.

I walk out onto the street. My friend and I are texting back and forth. She wants to know:

“Any other interesting matches?”

“No. Match is a bastion of the unemployed.”

I give up texting and call her. I storm up the street, venting my frustrations loudly, and then laughing. I bring her up to date on my first ex – who just brought a child support modification against me that resulted in him having to pay more money. I bring her up to speed on The Departed, and how having him  out of my life feels like storm clouds have passed over. We chat and chuckle. Then she has to go.

Where are you? I ask.

At a bar mitzvah, she says. Thanks for entertaining me. This is the most entertainment I’ve had all day.

At least you’re well fed, I say.

Speaking of which, I’m hungry. I wander up the street to the little French cafe where I was supposed to meet Mr. Unusual, take a seat at the bar, and order a baguette and a cup of coffee.

It tastes just like Paris.

The last time I was in Paris, I was with The Departed, and his two children, and their resentment, and in my longing for happiness, all I really wanted to do was  eat a baguette in peace.

And here I am, doing just that, not 15 minutes from my home in current traffic conditions.

Not only that, this place has wicked good pear jam.

I leave, and call my friends – the ones I’m supposed to meet in the afternoon. It’s 9:15, and I have some serious time to kill while The Child takes her exam, and I didn’t bring any entertainment because I didn’t think I needed to.

He did what? they say. Where are you? We’re on our way.

This morning isn’t turning out so badly after all.