On the road again

Tomorrow I leave for my third (and hopefully last, for a while) marathon trip to New York. Remember the story of the old woman who lived in a shoe? Well, this is the summer that I have lived out of a suitcase.

I did a few loads of laundry on Friday, most of which were clothes from the last trip. When I was done, though, rather than hang things up, I pretty much just folded everything and put them right back in my suitcase. I thought that was kind of sad, but hey - I guess I've gotten the hang of this packing thing.

The good news is that I'll be going home next weekend, in between the two work weeks, so I'll be able to do my laundry there, and therefore can pack a bit lighter than I have been. Also, thank goodness it's summer, as clothes are all lightweight and it's easy to fit more into my suitcase.

After 9/11, I went about a year and half without getting on an airplane. I didn't travel much for work then, and consciously didn't plan any vacations beyond driving distance. The first few times, after that, I was admittably nervous, but then I started traveling all the time and unless there was a bad bout of turbulence or a few too many turbans in the terminal, flying became as routine and mundane as anything else I might do on a daily basis. Now, though, with everything going on in Israel, Lebanon, the Middle East, I really wouldn't have minded staying grounded for a while.

On that note, is the Mel Gibson thing as big of a news item in the rest of the country as it is here in LA? It's all anyone has talked about all day.

On Friday, I met a friend of mine out for drinks who does PR for random TV shows, cable channels, actors, and the occasional restaurant or club. She was telling me that she had just gotten a new client - a famous and outrageously expensive rehab center in Malibu. (I'm not going to name it, but if you read the celeb weeklies or gossip blogs, you'll know which one I'm talking about.)

I was asking her how she garners publicity for that kind of client - I mean, it's not like you can just send out a press release or host a press party on the premises. She said that, among other strategies, she offers her client as a resource for stories on addiction, treatment, recovery, and that sort of thing. I can only imagine that she had a field day today, pimping her client out to maximize the media opportunities available from this kind of news story.

Sometimes I am so glad I only work in beauty.

At least I think I'm funny

Doing errands today, I walked into a furniture store I've never noticed before.

Male sales clerk: "Hi there! Are you looking for your husband?"

Me: "Not just this second, but if you know someone...."

Male sales clerk, stammering: "Oh, uh, I just meant there was a guy in here a few minutes ago who was looking..."

Me, cutting him off to spare his further embarrassment: "Yeah, yeah, I know what you meant."

My other name is Debbie Downer

I hate writing serious things on my blog, probably because I am such a serious person in real life and like to use the blog as an outlet for all my superficial, non-serious interests. You know, like Jack Tripper, flip-flops, Jet Blue.

But I'm sad tonight because a close friend told me earlier that his dad was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. And this friend is actually somewhat more than a friend, a relationship that carries baggage all on its own, no cancer necessary.

It just sucks. Getting older, I mean. I've (finally!) gone more than month feeling really happy and settled and at peace with being 30 years old - and I'm not just saying that. With work being so good and friendships growing and thriving on both coasts, I've felt really comfortable lately with who I am and where I am in my life. But the older I get, the more people I know are affected by something.

I never really knew death growing up. I had all four grandparents until I was 22, and now, eight years later, I still have two. My aunt had a bout with breast cancer a few years ago, and come to think of it, her husband, my uncle, had a brain tumor the year before, but both of them tackled each with the same efficiency they use in their everyday life, brushing the disease aside and living their lives, dammit!; not once did it occur to me I might lose them.

Another uncle this year had skin cancer, but it was caught early and is treatable. All around me are friends and co-workers, fellow-bloggers, even, who have parents, aunts, in-laws recently diagnosed with something relatively traumatic. And what can we do? It's not going to stop. It's just going to continue, until we get even older and then people younger than us start getting sick.

I don't mean to sound hopeless - I'm not; I'm just a bit melancholy. And, I know, I know, feel lucky for what you have - trust me, I do, you have no idea how much I do. I guess it's just having that little bit of realism forcibly injected into my happily superficial world bringing me back down to earth.

Procrastinating

I am completely and utterly burned out.

My to-do list isn't outrageous, but it's not light, either. But all I can do is stare at my computer screen and check my favorite blogs for updates.

In my browsing, I found the new Justin Timberlake video, and I am going on the record to say that I am mildly obsessed with his new single. But why does the voice sound nothing like him? Of all the NSYNC members, he was the one who could sing.

Apparently the way to my heart is through the kitchen

Okay, so that last post was kind of bratty and annoying. Sorry. I just took a (cold) shower and think I have washed away much of the negativity. What didn't wash away has been melt away in this heat by now, so all that's left is some observations about my dating habits which I will now share.

New reader Joe recently demonstrated an uncanny psychic ability when he somehow (correctly) intuited that the man of my dreams was none other than the fictional Jack Tripper. Before I was old enough to even understand the premise of the show, I was drawn to Three's Company and it's cast of crazy characters. A brunette, I understood that I most resembled sensible Janet, but I longed to be the bubbling blond Chrissy and even more so, the sexy Terri, who were obviously the objects of Jack's affection. As for Jack himself, I thought his goofy grins and physical comedy resembled my dad's, so you can take that to your therapist and have a field day.

Ten days after I turned 8 years old I played Three's Company at the town lake with my second-grade crush and my blond-haired best girl friend. How do three 8 year olds "play" a television show whose plots revolved around sexual innuendo? I don't know, but it seemed like a good idea at the time.

The show was always one of my favorite reruns growing up, and I had a (bizaare?) special thing for John Ritter. Then, after college, I lived with a guy and another blond girl, and I finally got to live the Janet role I felt destined to play.

I guess the man of my dreams isn't so much Jack as the wacky character and wild lifestyle he embodied (he could never even make the rent, for gosh sakes), but when I moved to California last year I half-expected to meet a real life version. I named my blog after the Regal Beagle for a while, still sport the Janet picture on the sidebar, but I guess that's more of a reflection of my pop-culture passion than a desire to meet a cooking student. (Although wouldn't that be appropriate given my culinary incompetance...)

Because I'm pretty sure that the real man of my dreams is none other than Carson Daly. Not THIS skinny, scary Carson Daly, but the slightly-more-beefed-up-frat-boy-version of Carson Daly who ruled MTV in the late 1990's and early 2000's. Not that I watched TRL, or even knew he was, really, other than that he was engaged to Tara Reid. But then I dated a guy who looked exactly like Carson Daly. And then I dated another one who looked not exactly like him, but a lot like him. And then I realized that one of my first and longest boyfriends ever looked a lot like him too.

So then I started to see Carson around the streets of New York. I even met him (and danced with him!) when I came to LA two summers ago. As with Three's Company, it just seemed fated. My most recent boyfriend didn't look Carson, per se, but fit the same mold (5'10, dark hair, square angular face) of all the others.

My mom knows about my Carson crush and called me the other night to tell me that she knows the perfect guy for me. Only, the thing is, see, she doesn't really know him. He has a show on the Food Network and he is just so adorable and nice and, oh, he happens to be Jewish, too. My mom also knows that I don't typically go for the nice Jewish boys, but since he has the Carson Daly thing going on, maybe I want to check out his show on The Food Network's website, and maybe just send him an email.

And so, of course, I'm all like, Mom, you're crazy! And the second we got off the phone I went and looked up Dave Lieberman on Food Network's website. And while he doesn't look exactly like Carson Daly, he does look EXACTLY like that last guy I dated. So much so that I shrieked out loud and clicked off the site before calling my mom back and commending her on her impeccable taste.

Reading this over, it just hit me that - both professional cooks - Dave Lieberman may quite possibly BE Jack Tripper. Only instead of a bistro, he has a reality show. Maybe I have found my chef after all.

So how can I get him to come and knock on my door?

Goodbye Summer

Well! Now that was a long trip!

It was also the longest I think I have ever gone without blogging. I was aware of the break but couldn't think of anything I really wanted to blog about. I could have told you about the stifling, record-breaking heat in New York, but I've done that already, and I hear that LA had much of the same weather we did. Judging by the temperature in my apartment right now, I believe it. I could have written about work politics and personalities that made this trip a bit more challenging than the last, but that probably wouldn't be very smart. I could have also expressed my frustration at a number of things in my everyday environment, but there was enough negative energy floating around; I didn't see the need to generate any more.

I guess that's why they call it work, though. I wasn't there to have fun, although I certainly managed to fit that in, too. That must explain why I'm so exhausted.

I had a brief opportunity to go to Park City, Utah next weekend, but my plans changed, and frankly, I'm kind of relieved. As much as I would love to go, I am leaving that following Tuesday for yet another marathon trip to the east coast. I leave on the 1st of August for NYC, for more spa-related work, then will spend the weekend in Boston visiting my Mom. I'll head back to the city on Sunday or Monday to start yet another work-week, and stay in the city that next weekend for a friend's birthday. If New York hasn't completely chewed me up and spit me out by that point, I would like to maybe start thinking about planning some sort of summer vacation for myself.

Like, before it gets to be October.

Killing me softly

Longest. Event. Ever.

Middle seat blues

One of the best things about Jet Blue is that they offer 36 channels of Direct TV on individual seat-back screens. Not only does having a TV to watch make the time go by faster, but it shuts everyone else the hell up too, making the flying experience infinitely more enjoyable.

Every time I fly Jet Blue, I look forward to catching up on my favorite Bravo shows. Wouldn't you know it, the bizaare cable package that I have at home gives me 7 HBO’s but no Bravo. God may hate me, but Jet Blue loves me. I once spent an entire flight watching a Project Runway marathon, catching up on Season 2 from about epsidode 8 until the semi-finals.

More recently, I've looked forward to Kathy Griffin:My Life on The D List. I've always thought she was funny, but this show is nothing short of brilliant. I laugh out loud every 5 or 10 minutes or so. My neighbors probably hate me.

Another thing I like about Jet Blue is that they offer more leg room than any other airline. (No, they’re not paying me to write this). So having a middle seat isn’t any worse than an aisle seat on say, Delta or United. In fact, I don’t usually mind taking the middle seat because the truth is, I’m smaller than the average adult and once spent an entire cross country flight feeling guilty about lounging in an aisle seat while a 6’4 man scrunched himself into the middle. Since then, I’ve had no problem taking one for the team. Plus, it doubles my chances of sitting next to an attractive guy.

Of course, the flip side is that is also doubles my chances of sitting next to a freak, and this trip I happened to sit next to two freaks.

One was a girl younger than I, an actress who wanted me to know so by the amount of times she thumbed through her script, and at one point, alerted me to the fact that her sister was in a movie on the screen right in front of us. What annoyed me, though, is that she insisted on taking off her shoes, and hooking her oddly large size 9 bare feet into the seat back pocket in front her. You know, where you might store a magazine or your icy cold bottle of water you bought just for the flight. I looked at her in digust. People actually put their hands there, I tried to convey. But she was an oblivious teenager more focused on her script, and probably hooked her feet into the seat for no other reason than to garner attention. As if I'm somebody, sweetheart. Sorry.

On my other side was an Asian guy who I actually thought was a woman for the first hour of the flight. He was on the aisle, and when I got up to go to the bathroom, preferred to not stand but let me decide whether it was better to shove my ass or crotch in his skinny frowning face. Seriously, though? We're on a five and a half hour flight. Would you really not want to use this opportunity to stand up and stretch?

He also smelled like ginger. I hate ginger.

Like Meatloaf said, two out of three ain't bad

A few years ago, there was an episode of Sex and the City that started with Carrie saying something to the effect of "New York women are always looking for a great job, a great apartment, or a great boyfriend; yet it never seems possible to have all three at the same time." I'm know I'm not the first pop-culture princess to compare herself to Carrie Bradshaw, but this particular line has always resonated with me.

Right now, professionally, I feel on top of my game. My employers basically give me free reign, and I have the knowledge and confidence to know what to do with it. My office environment is the best I've ever had, and I feel like I have room to grow within the company and within the industry.

My apartment isn't any Gehry wonder, but it's cute and spacious, and if I really applied myself, I could make it into something quite wonderful. It's large enough to entertain more than 25 of my closest friends, and close enough to everything I could ever want, including a Starbucks practically spitting distance from my door. (But not that close. That would make my block commercial, and it is so deliciously residential.)

Overall, my life is pretty damn good. So why is it so hard to find someone to share it with?

I dont know where I'm going, but I sure know where I've been

Two summers ago I thought I was setting records by the amount of time I spent away from home. More than a few work trips to LA, Minneapolis, Chicago, and the Hamptons, punctuated in between with three-day weekends at the Jersey shore, ensured that I was never in New York City longer than five days at a given time. Since I hated my workspace and lived in an apartment the size of a shoebox, I was, for the most part, okay with that.

As it turns out, however, this summer is looking like it will go down in history as the most traveled summer of my professional career. I spent nine days in New York last month. Nine hot, humid, exhausting, mice-infested days. This Saturday I am headed back for another eight days. I'll come back to LA for one more week, and then turn right back around and spend a record two weeks on the east coast. Ten days or so will be in NYC, broken up by a weekend trip to Boston to see family that threatens to disown me if I head east one more time without seeing them.

And then? After I get back? It's looking like a second annual trip to Hotlanta is in the works! Ruby Tuesdays, here I come! When that's over, it will be nearly Fashion Week in New York and possibly another reason to go back for a day or ten.

Don't get me wrong - I'm not complaining. Not one bit. (Well, maybe just one little tiny bit - but only the size of a small mouse-dropping bit). I just find it funny that I felt so destined to find a future in LA, and all I keep doing is heading back east.

Less a pirate of the Caribbean, more a casualty of the Pacific

So, I went sailing today!

Only by sailing, I mean that I dressed really cute and preppy only to spend two hours of the afternoon lying in the fetal position on the edge of the boat, trying not to throw up from sea sickness. Gosh, I'm fun! What are you doing next weekend? Let's hang out!

This was actually one of the best weekends I've had in a long time, and not just because I purged more calories than I consumed. (Yay, bathing suit season!) My friend Miya came to town this weekend for work, but also with the prospect of moving here when her lease is up in November. She's been thinking about moving to LA for a long time, but circumstances have kept her in New York.

When I met up with her last night, I immediately recognized her energy and excitement for the city as my own, a year and two ago, when all I needed was a night out among palm trees to feel like I had the world at my fingertips. Her energy was contagious, and of course because there was so much energy in the air, we ended up running into a third person from our high school at the restaurant - one neither of us have seen since we all lived in NYC together a few years ago. Karma, coincidence, Mercury in retrograde, perhaps, but it was just one of those nights when everything seems to want to fall into place and we were more than happy to let it.

Miya's business partner is a member of a sailing club in Marina Del Rey, and suggested that would be a nice activity for today. I haven't been on a boat in years and couldn't think of a better way to spend the day. I was picturing a quaint little sail boat on the water; however we ended up in a 35-foot, two-bedroom, fully-stocked lifestyle. It was beautiful and huge - unlike anything I've ever been on.

I was fine as we navigated out of the Marina, into the Pacific along the Venice and Santa Monica beaches. As the water became choppy I grew even more excited - this was a real adventure! And you know what an adventure calls for? Beer! I headed downstairs to get our second round, and the second I hit the below-sea level, the first wave of nausea crashed over me harder than any actual waves could have. I came back up the steps and tried to shake it off. Well, not literally shake it off. I sat very still and looked at the horizon and concentrated real hard on not throwing up all over this six million dollar boat. I knew that if I needed to throw up I should face downwind, but crossing over to the starboard side just seemed too ambitious for the time being.

When the feeling didn't get any better, I decided to swallow my pride and just see what the other side of the ship felt like; that's when I discovered that maybe all I needed was to just lay down for a bit. I found that if I lay alongside the edge of the boat with my face nearly in the water and my legs wrapped under me in a little fetal ball, things were actually peaceful. Instead of feeling like my insides were being put through the Cuisinart, I actually felt as calm and serene as a baby being rocked to sleep in the warmth of the late afternoon sun. And as long as I didn't open my eyes, I could imagine that I actually was that baby, and started feeling better.

Eventually, around the time my legs started falling asleep, I was able to upgrade to the cushioned seats above so I could actually stretch out and not hold on to the masthead rope for my life.

Now that's what I call sailing.

Hey, um, Johnny Depp, I'm available for that third movie. Call me!?

Observation

Is there no louder, more painfully obvious sound than the phone that doesn't ring?

Patch and Freaking Kayla!!!

I haven't been shy about admitting my soap-watching history, at least when it comes to my guiltiest daytime pleasure, General Hospital. What you might not know is that from about 1987 to about 1994, I also kept up with The Young and the Restless, One Life to Live, and Days of our Lives. So you can imagine my surprise when I turned the channel on Jet Blue the other day to find that Patch and freaking Kayla are back in Salem! When did that happen?

I'm guessing recently, since Patch doesn't exactly remember Kayla or his life in Salem. Not that that should be an issue though, since the original Jack, Jennifer, and FRANKIE are also back to remind him! Frankie, though! Billy "AJ" "Baywatch" Warlock! I'm sorry, is it 1988?

Apparently, it is! In my days off this week, I have also managed to catch GH, and to my utter delight, Robert, Anna, and Robin are all sharing screen time again, as if Robert and Anna never died overseas and I didn't bawl my eyes out 15 years ago at the thought of Robin growing up an orphan. I haven't caught on to any explanation as to how exactly they survived the accident (or faked their deaths) but just watching the on-screen chemistry between Tristan Rogers and Finola Hughes has given me joy beyond anything to which my 30 year old self should feel comfortable admitting.

When I was 11, I read in Soap Opera Digest that Finola Hughes (Anna) and Ian Buchanan (Duke) would be making a personal appearance at a nearby high school. I asked my dad to drive me, not realizing that the autograph signing would be an all-day affair. While he wasted his sunny Sunday sitting in the car, I sat in the audience watching two of my favorite soap stars answer questions, perform skits, and finally, sign their headshots with a Sharpie.

It was one of the best days of my short life. And I still owe my dad a huge thank you for sitting in his car for four hours when I told him I'd be back in just a few. Sorry about that, Dad. But it was awesome.

I met Finola Hughes (again) a few years ago, back when she resurrected her character Anna Devane on All my Children. I did PR for one of the actors on AMC for about five minutes, and so spent a lot of time at the set, ogling the NY-based soap stars, including a pre-Tad Hamilton/Fergie-fiancee Josh Duhmel. The entire cast was very friendly and not at all Hollywood, but I remember standing speechless in front of Finola because I just held her in such high regard. Susan Lucci, pish tosh! Finola Hughes, my hero!

People who don't watch soaps just don't get the connection the rest of us have with this medium. There's something about relating to these characters day after day, week after week, year after year that makes them seem like family. Only better looking, more fun, and intensely more dramatic. But they are nothing if not consistent. They make me feel 12 years old again, eager to buy into true love, adventure, and a sense of security - that even if I change the channel, they will still be there in some form or another.

"My feet are still on the ground. I'm just wearing better shoes." - Oprah

I have to say, I like when things are easy.

In the 10 days I spent in New York, I managed to ruin 3 pairs of shoes. One was on its (forgive the pun) last legs already, but the other two were new this season. Back in March, I was on the hunt for the perfect summer shoe, specifically eyeing black espedrilles and wedges. I almost spent $200 on a pair by Michael Kors (which Steve Madden has since knocked off) when I saw a pair at Banana Republic for only $68. With skinny leather straps and a cushioned heel, they were prettier, more practical, and more comfortable than Kors, not to mention lighter on the wallet.

I started wearing them two or three times per week; I mean, they go with everything. They quickly became the unofficial shoe of my office: at least three other people have purchased them since me. Stylish, versatile, and comfortable, they were the only heeled shoe I brought with me to New York. And then halfway through my trip, one of the straps broke. Sucks, right?

Not in the least.

I brought the shoes back to Banana Republic today, and was able to exchange them for a BRAND NEW PAIR!!! They still had the style in the right color and size, and happily gave me a replacement. No questions asked. How great is that? Other than the broken strap, the shoes were in good shape, if not a little dirty from frequent wear. But now, half way through the season, I got a sparkling new pair, all for the bargain price of $68. I love you, Banana Republic!

While we are on the subject of shoes, can we talk about flip flops for a minute? There has been a lot in the news recently about the "appropriateness" of flip flops: in the workplace, in the White House, in the fashion food chain. I feel the need to tell you that, in my closet, I currently have 8 pairs of flip flops. Four are the rubber beach kind (to match different bathing suits), but four are leather-soled "dress-up" kind, and by "dress-up", I mean I wear them to work and pretend I look professional. And I just bought a fifth pair online today. (I had to. I ruined their predecessor in New York).

Three years ago, I never would have worn flip flops to work. (Even the nice kind). I used to associate flip flops with my 68 year old grandmother, whose bunions forced her to compile an entire shoe wardrobe of flip flops in every color under the sun. Now I am becoming my grandmother. Only instead of stocking up on primary colors that match Golden Girl garments, I have silver, gold, charcoal, and black. Flip flops for the 21st Century. Bunions have nothing to do with it.

I realize that the backlash has begun and this will probably be my last summer relying on flip flops to finish my outfit. But what do I have to look forward to? Crocs?

I'm already on it. Our new Spa sells them, and I got my first pair free.