Blogologues is like my third cat. But less furry. Like a creepy hairless Sphynx that always looks pissed. I mean that as a compliment.

A few stormy Sundays ago when my clock/radio went off at the crack of 2 p.m. because I didn’t want to waste the day, I was roused by the old-timey tune “Singin’ in the Rain.” Startled, Isabel rolled off the bed and tumbled to the floor. Rushing to her aid, I scooped Isabel up in my arms, tossed her over my shoulder and started singing and swaying along to Gene Kelly‘s serenade:

“I’m singing in the rain /Just singing in the rain / What a glorious feelin’ / I’m happy again.”

It wasn’t until the second time that I spun around and dipped my very tolerant 14-pound cat while gliding across my living room’s slick hardwood floors in my pajamas that I realized: I’m happy again.

It’s been kind of a weird few years of being at a crossroads geographically and professionally, failing spectacularly at online dating and spending a lot of time in solitude. Not that I’d been unhappy, per se. But subtracting the negative “un,” there’s really no prefix that I could add to make the word “happy” more positively describe how I’d felt. “Anti-happy” would give the impression that I’m a happiness hater. “Post-happy” sounds as if it would spew forth from underneath an ironically mustachioed lip of a douchey hipster who’s so over happiness. And “be-happy” is what Bobby McFerrin told us to do in the ’80s.

On this particular Sunday, I knew I’d soon be heading back to New York City to visit my new pals, the cast and crew of Blogologues. About nine months prior, I received an email out of the blue from ladies who ‘logue Alli Goldberg and Jen Jamula of Lively Productions, who had stumbled upon my blog through interweb magic and were seeking permission to stage one of my blog posts in their comedy show featuring material culled from the web and performed verbatim. I was sure it was just a one-time thing. But it has happened four times now, which means it’s probably not a fluke. It is the opposite of fluke. Flipper, I think.

If left to my own devices, I’ll sit in the back row, lurk in dark corners and sulk into my beer. I’m a people person. But these two social butterflies push me out of my crabby hermit shell. They introduce me to their friends and save a seat for me at the bar and have given me an open invitation to crash on their couches that they’ve probably already realized is a terrible mistake because I’m there all. the. time. Suckers.

In the most recent run of Blogologues, I traveled to New York City twice to lend a hand with publicity and folding programs and offering moral support when the projector decided to not project. By month’s end, I’d seen the show five times. Seriously, you’d think I was sleeping with one of the actors. Which is why I’ve asked Alli and Jen to cast a blond, 30-something lesbian who looks like a young Julie Andrews next time. I have the show’s best interest at heart. And by “the show” I mean “my vagina.”

(Related: I want to adopt a daschund and name her Fraulein.)

I saw the si-i-gn. (Sorry.)

The sort of happiness I’ve been feeling lately usually corresponds only with those rare, fleeting moments when I’m in love. It’s odd, then, that this wave of felicity has nothing to do with romance. Or sex. Or Keri Russell. I haven’t even kissed someone in six months, three weeks and five days — but who’s keeping track? I am keeping track. I’ve been leading such a chaste existence that I’m strongly considering starting a petition to legalize human-cat weddings. Now that President Obama has come out in support of same-sex marriage, conservatives say that people marrying animals is the next logical step. They’re absolutely right. The tides are turning.

But I can’t help but think that none of this would have ever happened if I hadn’t suffered a series of heartbreaks and started blogging to share my bizarre stories when I’d never felt more invisible and unheard. I’m not saying everything happens for a reason — I do not for one second buy into that namaste nonsense — but everything happens. We can drown in our sadness or say fuck it, let’s go swimming. Metaphorically. I don’t actually swim. Body issues.

I may not have found a partner yet, but Alli and Jen, to whom I affectionately refer as my “straight girlfriends,” found me. And it’s been wonderful to have new purpose, to be part of something I’m really proud of, and to be in a “we” again. It wasn’t the sort of love I’d been searching for online, but it is really, really awesome. Suck it, internet dating.

That last paragraph? It’s partly plagiarized from my bio on the Lively Productions web site. A few months ago, Alli and Jen made our relationship official and asked me to join their team. And that makes me super-happy.

P.S. Someone interviewed me about blogging and Blogologues. I’m just as surprised as you are.

P.P.S. Here’s a clip of the adorable Wendy Joy as me, Alli Goldberg as my mom, Jen Jamula, Dave Thomas Brown and Matthew Cox in my post about Passover and Easter from “Blogologues: Younger Than Springtime”: