Last night I was invited out to a dinner party with nine other women. These are women I work with, most of them I knew only in passing. But I needed a night out, so I went.

Halfway through the first bottle of wine, the power went out. We had planned to use a Raclette Grill to cook all the food on (potatoes, veggies, pancetta, etc), so we grabbed our glasses and bottles and moved into the dimly, candlelit sitting room and just talked, anxiously waiting the power to come back on. We ate way too much delicious basil and tomato hummus and laughed hysterically when one woman brushed her sleeve against a candle and the first person to notice the burning shirt said, in a discombobulated, calming way, “Oh, bummer. You are on fire.” (Maybe this is one of those “you had to be there!” type of moments, but really? I can’t stop laughing about it.)

Three bottles of wine later, we resigned ourselves to the fact that the power would NOT cooperate, so raw veggies and cold wine would be our meal. As the candles slowly melted into their pillar holders and we’d toasted our last round of ridiculously funny toasts, I looked around the table and smiled. I had come to the dinner, fully prepared to wallow in my singleness (all these women were married) and be the party pooper I have been lately. But these women, who slid with me across the kitchen floor in our socks, clutching my hands to keep from falling; whose heads fell on my shoulders during a gut-busting laugh; who told me that yes, I most certainly deserved another piece or five of bread; who offered their homes, their cars or their sons to help me get over him; who told me my hair looked great, even when it didn’t - these women made me forget that I arrived to the party not knowing them very well.

Six bottles of wine later, as the candles were being snuffed out by their own wax and as tears streamed down our faces, arms clutching our bellies in loud, enchanting laughter, I had this intense, mother-bear-esque love for each and every woman. I will admit that though it does not seem like it, I hold a lot of my emotions and my feelings inward. It’s hard for me to trust anyone, which makes blogging about my feelings so easy. The internet is still a stranger to me. I don’t know if it will email me porn spam or Borders coupons. I don’t know if it takes cigarette breaks whenever I receive the infamous “404 Error.” I can’t trust it to deliver new, delicious blogs to add to my Bloglines every day and I can’t always trust it to bring me good news about my credit card accounts. All of this makes it so much easier to reveal my self on this blog. Maybe that makes me a coward.

But after last night, I realized that I want to know the internet. Or, at least, I want to know my lurkers and my commenters. I want to know the person who googles “bible and warts” at three AM and lands here. I want to know the people who subscribe to my feed, the people who comment on my most boring blog posts and the people who email me instead of commenting.

This isn’t about de-lurking at all. It’s about me, wanting to know you. I want your blog address, so I can read what you write. I’d like your email address, so I can keep up regular correspondence with you (that reminded me of a stool softener commercial I just saw), but as many bloggers can attest to my extremely inconsistent email replies, please don’t hate me if it’s been four months with no reply. (WOAH. Can I just say: embarrassing? But also obnoxiously awful - and sadly, to me, funny?)

So email me or leave a comment. I want to know your story. I am continually fascinated by life stories and would be honored if you told me yours.

Plus, this is a perfect time to do so, as I am revamping my blog and finally adding that ubiquitous blogroll. I’d also like to add a “Blog Post of the Day/Week” Sidebar, so link me to posts of yours you especially love.

Your response: