The 30 Under 30

There's some minor drama happening in the background of my life right now that I haven't experienced since I was maybe 25 or so. I guess the 30's really are the new 20's.

Okay, so the link I highlighted earlier, "Things to do before you're 30" expired before I had a chance to read through them. I suppose I could pay to read the article, but since even I'm tired of listening to myself complain, I had already decided that tonight's post was going to highlight everything I have already accomplished in my short life. In other words, things I've done before I'm 30. In the blogging world, many people write what's known as "The 100" - a list of 100 things about them that they may or may not do at their 100th post. Since I passed my 100th post probably a year ago, I'll just call my list The 30 Under 30:

1. I moved across the country by myself. For fun. Or sanity.

2. I got both.
3. I have lived in three major cities: Boston, New York, and LA, and I have loved every one of them.
4. I have traveled to major cities across America and across Europe.
5. In total, I would guestimate that I have been to at least 10 countries in the world (America, Canada, Mexico, Jamaica, England, France, Switzerland, Italy, Greece, Turkey, and Germany. Maybe, kind of, Venezuela.)
6. I met Richard Simmons at the Roman Collosseum.
7. I have actually met a lot of celebrities, both randomly and as part of an ongoing series of interesting, challenging jobs I still feel lucky to have had.
8. My first job out of college was as an admin in the creative department of a major ad agency. The first time I was allowed to work on a campaign as a writer, paired with an art director and all, our ad was chosen and ran in national magazines. My annual salary was the same as my age, making me probably the lowest-paid copywriter in all of New York. But I was officially a copywriter.
9. I have since made a lot more than that.
10. I was also one of the youngest Directors at my old PR agency. But part of the PR was that titles were meaningless.
11. I've never gotten a speeding ticket.
12. I've never been arrested.
13. I was a Color War Captain - the highest honor one can get at camp. Well, at least during Color War.
14. I can run an 8:40 mile. A few of them, actually.
15. I still have a better body than most 25 year olds. Especially if those 25 year olds eat a lot of pizza.
16. I know a lot of people in high places.
17. But I also know that that doesn't mean much.
18. Although it has gotten me onto the pages of Harper's Bazaar, Self, and on the Today Show.
19. I have made more good friends in my life than any one person deserves. They wouldn't care if I couldn't get listed in the Sharon Advocate.
20. I have family members that would go out and buy every copy of the Sharon Advocate if I were.
21. I was actually in the Sharon Advocate in high school. See? They spelled my name wrong.
22. I was also in the Boston Globe a few years later. I actually gave the wrong name on purpose because I was at the Matzo Ball and didn't think my last name was Jewish enough.
23. I have since made peace with my lack of religious conviction.
24. And my last name. Mostly.
25. I can sing two songs in sign language. {Let There be Peace on Earth, and Next Time I Fall in Love (It Will be with You)}
26. I was the Social of my college sorority. That meant that I planned parties.
27. I somehow managed to parlay that into a career.
28. That I really enjoy.
29. And can support myself with.
30. Enough to host a party on Saturday night for roughly 20 people. And I don't skimp when it comes to parties. It's my job, after all.

Tuesday morning

I'm back at work (and back at blogging) after a long, fun, and interesting weekend. I wrote last year about how long weekends in the northeast are considered sacred and it is practically sacriligious to not have a trip planned; this year, I had not one, but many smaller things planned, and it turns out that that can be just as fun.

My uncle sent me this link to a story titled, "Things to do before you're 30." I'm still too hungover from last night's BBQ to decide how I feel about it, but maybe by the time I get home tonight I'll have some things of my own to contribute.

New birthday concept: Martinis and Metamucil

So, I'm putting together the evite for my upcoming birthday celebration, or, as I'm referring to it, the funeral, and I'm browsing old Evites for inspiration. Evite apparently keeps all of your past invitations on file, and I have nearly 100, dating all the way back to 2001. For my birthday this year, because I don't have a ton of people to invite and because I'm not in a huge celebratory mood, I've decided to stay low-key, hosting cupcakes and cocktails starting at the reasonable hour of 9 PM. At least it seemed reasonable, until I realized that only a year and a half ago I sent out an evite that asked people to "arrive by 11:30 for priority entry (no waiting on line)."

The party in question started at 10:30 PM, but almost no one starts partying at 10:30 in New York. Given that bars stay open until 4 AM, it was a completely reasonable request to ask people to please try and arrive before midnight as to ensure their entry. My own going-away party started at 11, and I remember having to rush just to make it by then. Even so, when we got there, the place was just picking up.

Granted, LA isn't that kind of town - people here go out at 9 and are home by 1; but, if I wasn't feeling old before, I sure am now.

Rewind and fast forward to disaster, or more likely, stagnant mediocracy

If you've already seen the movie, and not only know the ending, but hate the ending, why would you choose to watch things unfold all over again?

Maybe because despite everything, 90% of the action was good. And you hope against hopes that this time, things might end differently.

I, of course, know better. Or should, anyway. Maybe I just need some entertainment.

Sometimes once is just enough

For the most part, recycling is a good thing. Unless you're talking about relationships, in which case it's just a bunch of secondhand plastic.

Can you guess what I did all weekend?

Sometimes I'll look in my closet and wonder why I have nothing to wear. And then I'll go shopping and realize that's because I hate everything that's in style right now.

Seriously, though? Where do people shop if they don't want to dress like Lindsay Lohan? I can't be the only person laughing at leggings or cringing at the tapered torture suggested by slimfit jeans. Even if I had the size 0 body, I've already done that look, and you only have to flip through the pages of my seventh grade yearbook to see that it wasn't so great the first time around.

I get that fashion is cyclical, and I'm just as guilty as the next girl of reviving trends that my parents thought were better off dead; but I just can't wrap my arms around 80% of what I see in stores today. For instance:

A. Leggings and super-slim-fit jeans. See above.

B. This whole hippie/gypsy/bollywood thing: Tory Burch may have built an empire around tunics, but I can't pay $200 for what, to me, looks like a bathing suit cover-up. Even in a knock-off, I don't need an article of clothing that turns my torso into a tank engine. But apparently every store on the Third Street Promenade thinks I do. Even if I found one in a fit that somehow flattered, it would have to be in a solid color, not paisly or floral or any other pattern that makes my skin look washed out or like I've been suffering from a sort of fashion era dementia.

C. Belts: I like belts. Belts are good. But I don't like belts made of cheap leather or with cheap hardware. Like bags and shoes, I believe in spending money on quality belts. The problem is that the belts that are in style right now are so ginormous and so painfully trendy, it doesn't make any sense to spend a lot of money on something that won't be in vogue next year. Less expensive belts are visibly subpar, often made from off-color leather or metal that is just a bit too bright and shiny or dull and dirty. Then again, I don't have to worry too much about belts because the most popular reason for wearing one is as a cinch for your tunic when worn over leggings. See A and B.

D. Empire waist tops with too much material at the bottom. It just needs to skim over the not-so-firm parts; not hide a beach ball or get me through pregnancy. It's not like I'm Britney, or anything.

E. Bolero jackets: My shoulders may be my most favorite body part to show off. My waist is probably the least. This also goes for the similar poncho-inspired sweaters sold in stores now. (For the record, I never had a poncho, not even during the approximate eight seconds during which they were popular.)

F. Tube dresses: Okay, I actually love this look. Especially if it's by Ella Moss. I just think I'm too old to get away with it, and for that, I'm bitter.

So what's left to buy? Well, shoes, of course! I've been waiting since the late 90's for platforms and wedges to come back in style; now that they are, I've scooped up about three new pairs - and counting. More comfortable than pointed-toes and more practical than stilettos, these are two styles I welcome back with open arms. And pedicured feet. Even if that makes me, in the eyes of my parents, just another fashion victim.

It's like two pages of my freshman yearbook are stuck together, combining two stories that make absolutely no sense as one

If two past-their-prime, early-90's pop culture icons were to engage in a bar fight, wouldn't you think the rock star would get one in before the fashion designer?

(I use the term "fashion" loosely here.)

Questions without answers

Every once in a while I'll have a dream in which I'm being forced to move out of LA for some reason. Once it was because I was graduating from college, another time it was because my mom was sick, another time was something else that I can't just now remember. I've had versions of this dream a few times, but every time the same thing happens: once I've gotten it in my head that I have to move, I realize that I was mistaken and that I don't really have to leave LA at all. For instance, I could find a job here, or my mom would be okay, and then the choice to stay or go would be completely up to me, devoid of any outside factors. So what would I do with it?

Lately, in the dream, the choice has been made easily and with relief: I would stay here. But the dream haunts me nonetheless, because I honestly don't know what I would do if I were faced with that decision in real life.

I'm going to be spending a good amount of time in New York this summer for work, starting with about 2-3 weeks in June alone. And I'm wondering if I will even miss LA. Sure, I will miss my apartment and the nice weather and the driving and the quiet; but when I'm among my people - the people I still consider to be my people - will I miss it enough to want to come back? As much as I love my everyday life here, I still don't feel like I've set down any permanent roots. I'm scared that's once I'm back among my friends and the fast-paced world I was ironically dying to leave, I may not miss LA a bit.

And then where would that leave me?

Training

(Scene: Equinox, as I'm explaining to my trainer how I ran by the famous outdoor gym, Muscle Beach, and was equal parts appalled and fascinated by the act of public weightlifting.)

Trainer: So what did you think?

Me: I think you'd have to be a total narcissist to work out there.

Trainer (looking confused): Why?

Me: Because you'd have to be totally self-involved to want an entire beach staring at you as you exercise.

Trainer (looking even more confused): A client called me a narcissist the other day.

Me (incredulous): She did?

Trainer: Yes, but I think she meant it in a good way.

Me: Really? Well, do you know what it means?

Trainer: No.

(I explain the story of Narcissus who was so vain he drowned in his own reflection)

Trainer: Oh, then she must have meant something else.

Me: Why? What did she say?

Trainer: She said I was working her so hard that I must be a total narcissist.

Me (bursting out in laughter): I think the word she was looking for was masochist.

Happy Mother's Day

to all the great moms I know. Of course, the one that means the most to me isn't reading this because she's laying on the beach, halfway through a two week vacation in Aruba. I don't speak to my Mom every day, maybe only two or three times a week, but just knowing that she hasn't been within calling distance has made the last week kind of a lonely one. Maybe the holiday is hard for her, given that her only child lives across the country, and that's why she chose this time of year to go on vacation. Or maybe prices were just cheaper than going in the winter. That's what I tell myself to ease my guilty conscience. I inherited nothing from my mother if not the Jewish guilt.

The above picture was taken about four years ago, the last time my mom and I went on vacation together. It was also about a month after my boss left the company and I took over all of her responsibilities. I spent the first four days of the vacation on the phone with work, thinking about work, or stressing out over the fact that I wasn't at work. Oh, I may have inherited a slight work ethic from my mom as well. So she understood it to an extent, but I know for a long time she was wishing she had left me at home. Ultimately, something happened around day four or five - I don't remember exactly but I think enough tequila had settled in my system to relax me - and I was finally able to forget about work and enjoy the rest of the vacation. And let her enjoy the rest of the vacation. That she paid for. NICELY. She is a kind enough woman to every year still ask if I want to go on vacation with her, which I guess is what they call unconditional love. That, or insanity. But whatever it is, I hope I inherit that from her as well.

This is the first year that two of my girlfriends are celebrating as moms. Both Cheryl and Rebecca are childhood friends of mine who had kids last summer, within about a month of each other. They both sent me some recent pictures which I had hoped to post here, but they are sitting on the hard drive of my work computer, so, sorry. I recently found out that two others from my high school group are pregnant, and given all the trouble we used to get into together, I have a hard time picturing a future in which they are both moms. Then again, they are both married and live in the suburbs and probably stopped getting into trouble a lot sooner than I did (still trouble to cause here!), so I suppose I need to accept the fact that pregnant is the new single.

The most recent new mom I know is Val, my uncle's wife (yes, I suppose that makes her my aunt, but she's just so young and impossibly pretty that I can't help but think of her more like a hot cousin) who gave birth to twin boys last Sunday. Edward Scott and Phillip Duncan are the younger brothers of the equally impossibly attractive Russell.

Now THAT'S a Mother's Day Gift if I've ever seen one.

Brushing it off

Thanks again to everyone who gave their input this week, validating my theory that maybe it's just a tiny little bit NOT AT ALL APPROPRIATE for a dental hygienist to ask out his patient. Fueled with your support, I today wrote my dentist to tell her. This was her reply:

Lori,

Thank you for bringing this to my attention. I am dealing with the situation and disciplinary action will be taken. I am sorry for any inappopriate behavior on my employee's behalf, and promise you it will never happen again.

I hope I can continue serving your dental needs and once again apologize for any unprofessional conduct by my employees.

[Redacted], DDS

So, I feel better, although the paranoid part of me is thinking about the fact that if he could take my phone number out of my personal file, he could just as easily find my address and come to my apartment and get revenge for ratting him out. But that's just being paranoid, right? Or self-absorbed at the very least. Given that I barely even spoke to him at my appointment, he probably does this to every patient and I don't even register as a blip on the radar. I hope.

Isn't it ironic that by doing the right thing - reporting him - I ended up with something else to worry about? And here I thought that my biggest dental issue of the week was going to be something boring, like plaque.

Adventures in Blogging

So, here I was, this time last night, internalizing a myriad of feelings that ranged from humbled to embarrassed to, okay, slightly bitter, that only two people wanted to comment on my creepy dentist story. (Thanks Dustin and Blaugustine!) I mean, here I was, asking for real feedback on something I thought was fairly serious, and all anyone stops by for is an update on Jaime Jack and Stench. (They're back on, by the way. You can stop searching now.)

Then, today, LA Observed picked up on the dentist story and sent lots of traffic my way, many of whom were happy to validate my concerns that the hygienist was out of line. (Although not as out of line as Bonnie's, whose dentist took the Creep of the Year prize when he sent her porn.) Among my new readers I met Jennifer, who was happy to walk me through a step-by-step tutorial on how to set up an RSS Feed. And the fact that total strangers can take the time and expend the energy to share their voices (and often, their faces) has reaffirmed my enthusiasm for writing and gives me one more thing to like about blogging.

I've said before that when I first started this, I saw blogging primarily as a way of keeping in touch with my friends and family back east. It has served that purpose well, keeping open lines of communications that otherwise might be spotty at best. But recently I have come to see another benefit, in that it has exposed me to so many new people - strangers with whom I may have a lot or very little in common with, but no matter where we live geographically or what we do professionally, we are all somewhat connected through this powerful medium.

Over the past year I've wasted countless hours reading personal blogs. Hours. Per day. Once in a while, I'll leave comments. But only recently have people outside of my immediate circle started leaving comments for me, and what can I say? It's gratifying. It's nice to know that someone besides my mother, who I think is contractually obligated, checks in every once in a while. So, thank you to everyone who has stopped by and made your voices heard. Know that I am listening. And now that I have met you, I'm probably also reading.

Flossing the line

Okay, so, on a scale of 1 to 10, 1 being that I am totally overreacting and 10 being that this is entirely creepy and inappropriate, tell me how you think this rates:

I went to the dentist this morning for my 6-month cleaning and checkup. The appointment was at 9 AM, and I figured I would wait until after my teeth were cleaned to go re-stain them with my daily Starbucks. So by the time I sat down in the chair at 9:15 all I wanted to do was nap. No small talk, no polite chit chat, just let me recline, close my eyes, open my mouth and tell me when it's over.

The hygienist was a nice enough man who insisted on keeping me awake, peppering the hour-long cleaning with polite questions about my life, my job, my flossing habits. I gave him one word answers only when it was truly necessary to respond, and spent the hour in silent prayer wishing that he would just stop talking. At one point it occured to me that my closed-eye silence (read: ignorning) could be misconstrued as rude, but frankly, I was too tired to care. Much. By 10 AM I was out the door, teeth cleaned and cavity-free, thinking about the day ahead.

Two hours later my cell phone rings. It's the dental hygienist. It took me a minute to figure out who it was, because he announced himself by his first name, which I hadn't bothered to pick up when he introduced himself that morning. Once that awkwardness was out of the way, I decided he must be calling because I had left the office without the referral I had requested. But no. He was calling to see if I'd like to go for lunch sometime.

Um, what?

Aside from the fact that he's probably ten years older than me, has a child, and that I was ignoring him all morning, there's the slight ick factor which is that HE IS MY DENTAL HYGIENIST. It's not that he's a dental hygienist - I'm not discriminating against the profession; but isn't there some unwritten (and possibly written) code somewhere that specifies that it is in no way kosher to date your patients? Ever? Doesn't he watch Grey's Anatomy? Regardless, let's back up for a second...

I hadn't given him my number. At least, I hadn't given it to him for that purpose. The office obviously has it for contact information, but I certainly didn't expect it would be used for anything other than an appointment confirmation. So he pulled my cell phone number out of my private file. For what, exactly? Did he think my pre-coffee coma was really my way of playing hard to get? When I thanked him for the free toothbrush did he think I was picturing it at his place? Or does this happen to other people all the time and I should take my head out of my ass and get over myself?

I told him that because I work in Pasadena, I'm not usually in his neighborhood for lunch, but I took his number to call him in case I ever was. Not that I will. If this were a different situation, had I met him in a bar, per se, I would have blown this off and immediately forgotton about it. But now I may have to see him again in six months. And I'll have to trust him with sharp dental objects and also to not look up my shirt when I am negative 45 degrees in the reclining chair. The whole thing just makes me very uncomfortable.

What do you think? Am I overreacting or was he out of line? And can you recommend a new dentist on the west side?

Please don't trip on all the metaphors

If a girl turns 30 and no one comes to her birthday party, does she really age?

For the past few months I have been riding unstrapped from the seats of a mental rollercoaster, fluctuating between being manically high on life and on top of my game, yet chronically anxious about leaving my 20's. The ride up is exhilarating; but the free falls, life-sucking. At the top I literally want to shout for joy, or at least sing out loud with the radio; on the way down I want to puke my guts out. And then maybe some other organs so I can at least look more like I did five years ago. Welcome to Six Flags: Bipolar Circle.

When I'm not talking myself into believing that gray is the new blond or welcoming the bags that have unpacked themselves for a permanent vacation under my eyes, I'm thinking about what would happen if I planned a birthday party and only four people came. Because while I have a great number of friends here in LA, I'm worried that only a fraction of that number constitutes a great friend. By "great friend" I mean someone who would know what to do when I, for no visible reason, start crying into my beer glass. (Hint: get me something stronger.)

Am I being needlessly insecure? Yes, probably. But it's an unfamiliar feeling that I don't know what to do with, other than numb with leftover vicodin. If it weren't such a milestone, I wouldn't give it a second thought. But 30 was always considered some far-off, phantom, random age - one my former sorority sisters and I could surely not relate to or ever grow to be; yet one by one we have all succombed, and we have all faced the same nagging question: what do we have to show for it?

Quite a lot, of course. My friends all work interesting, important jobs in major cities, have supportive families, and, in general, live thriving lives. I'm not questioning the lack of goodness in my own life or doubting that I, myself, am responsible for making good happen. I just can't help but wonder, at what point will "good" ever be good enough?

Maybe by 40 I'll start seeing the green in my own backyard. That is, if I can get off the rollercoaster long enough to plant some roots.

Tengo sed

Hola! Hoy es el Cinco de Mayo, my favorite holiday.

(Four years of Spanish and I couldn't even write that sentence without looking up how to say "today", let alone finish the thought in anything but English. And I haven't even had a margarita yet.)

I wrote last year that Cinco de Mayo has always been one of my favorite holidays. I mean, you're not expected to spend money on requisite gifts, eat fattening food, or travel to see relatives you hardly know. Plus, most years the weather is pretty darn good. And, really, what's not to like about a holiday that, for all present-day intents and purposes, revolves around drinking? For a religion-confused fence-sitter like myself, Cinco de Mayo is the perfect excuse to reflect on my life and give thanks to whatever higher power might be listening that I am lucky enough to have the trifecta perfecta of fun friends, warm air, and cold beer.

Or, in this year's case, sangria.

I suppose I have to give a little

This is going to be a short post because I'm exhausted. And because I've spent the last four days stuffing, folding, sealing, and stamping close to 6500 luncheon invitations to an event I'm volunteering for, so my hands have very little strength left to type. I can beerly hold up my beer. Ha. See? I wrote "beerly" when I meant to write "barely". I'm tired.

For the last few years I have wanted to give back to my community a bit, felt the urge to donate my time to a worthy cause, and now that I have some free time on my hands (again with the hands) I am. The work is easy, fairly enjoyable, and I don't really mind the time commitment since the event will be over in June. But the company with which I've been keeping is lessening my feelings of goodwill. Everyone is super nice, super committed - but straight out of the casting office for Revenge of the Nerds, Part Infinity.

Sorry - was that mean? I didn't intend it to be. It's just that they never, ever stop talking, all seemingly finding each other endlessly fascinating. I find them irritating. And feel like crap for it, but you know, there's a reason it's taken me this long to volunteer for something like this.

Perhaps next year, instead of a luncheon, I can find a cocktail hour in need of volunteers. I think that's much more my speed.