Pale January lay in its cradle day by day; dead or living, hard to say - Alfred Austin

Is it me, or has January been the Longest. Month. Ever. Honestly, I can't believe New Year's Eve was only a month ago. It feels like it should have happened back around Thanksgiving. And Thanksgiving? I think that happened sometime over the summer. No? Who knew that even in sunny LA , January still had a way of sludging along?

I am very excited for February, as just the first ten days alone bring action and adventure. First, on the 1st, I am going on somewhat of a blogging blind date, meeting the LA crew: Hilary, Nicole, Amy, and Randi, in person for the first time. (I hope it's a good hair day.)

Second, on the 2nd, I am flying back out to New York, landing the morning of the 3rd, for my friend Kristin's engagement party. There are about 90 people on the RSVP list, almost half of which are former Syracuse alums and former sorority sisters, which should make for an interesting night. Some are my best friends; some are people I really hoped I'd never see again. I'll be the one by the bar, requesting trance music from the DJ. You'll have no trouble spotting me because I'll be one of only four single people there. I only wish I was exaggerating.

I'm staying in New York next week for a work trip I planned when I was still dating John. Awfully crafty of me to use work to enhance my personal life; it serves me right that I now face three more nights in the mouse house. The good news is that I will use the spare time to catch up with friends I haven't seen in a while. And possibly go on yet another blogging blind date with Jill!

I started noticing last week that I don't have as many friends in New York as I used to. My best friends still live there, but a lot of my peripheral friends have either fallen out of touch or moved elsewhere. The irony is that more and more people seem to have followed my lead to LA. By the time I get back from my trip, my east coast friend Miya will have moved here. She's not to be confused with my college friend Mia who moved here over the summer. Kind of funny that two years ago I only knew a handful of people here; now, it seems like every other month someone else is looking for apartments, inquiring about rental cars, asking me for advice.

The following Saturday night is my friend Dana's birthday which has just slightly less than 90 people on the invite list. Fortunately, for me, a lot more than four of us will be single.

Better off, maybe, but never alone

I know there's a saying about how whenever God closes a door, he opens a window, but is there a law of ex-boyfriends or something that says when one guy exits the building another one drops by to say hello? Like the house can only handle so much testosterone at once?

Copywriter found my blog today and, even though we haven't talked in more than 6 years, emailed me to say hello. He is still copywriting, living in NYC, and is engaged - so I didn't mean to imply that he was literally my open window (although he did hang my window treatments, once), only back in my stream of consciousness. But what's funny is that he was already there.

Last week I mentioned my former days as a glow-stick twirling, trance-music dancing, card-carrying member of the cheesiest clubs in New York. That all started immediately after we broke up. We started dating my first year out of college; at 22, I was a small fish in a very large pond and he was my older, wiser knight in shining armor. I found that I preferred going to dinner with him and his friends rather than spending Saturday nights at the dive bar, spending twice on alcohol what we had paid a year before and staying out until 4AM doing it. Maybe I was afraid, maybe I was prematurely mature, but whatever it was, it worked for me. It worked for both of us.

We spent about fourteen months together when I started feeling that I was growing out of the relationship. I don't know if I've ever even told him that; I'm not sure I knew it at the time, only something I was able to identify later on. After a year and a half in the city, I got a new job, a new roommate, and suddenly wasn't as scared to try new things. It was like I had growing pains, and the relationship just didn't seem to fit anymore.

Fast forward to two months later, I found myself in the Hamptons with Kristin, dancing on a pedestal to Alice Deejay's Better Off Alone, singing out loud to the seemingly-appropriate lyrics. While I may have grown out of my relationship, I apparently regressed into a crazy club kid who spent the next year rebelling against her former self. It became our anthem of that summer and a statement of my independence. Every time I have broken up with a boyfriend since, I think of that song and how much I believed, then, that I was better off alone. Not because Copywriter was a bad boyfriend - quite the contrary - just that I needed to be on my own for a while in order to grow up. Even if I did my growing up somewhat out of order.

A few weeks ago, I got a message from Kris saying something about hearing our song and thinking of me. I responded by playing it in her voice mail the next night. Then, with it on my mind and all, I downloaded all of those songs last week. In the back of my mind, I thought about whether the song would have significance this weekend. And on Thursday night, when my plans fell apart, Kristin was there in my hotel room reminding me of our anthem. Her, Cara and I reminisced about our club days and how I had gone from being the first one married off to the last one out of the bar, and reminded me that all these years later, I will never be truly alone.

Of course, as I've gotten older and relationships have soured, the song has taken on a more bitter, taunting tone, whereas I sometimes think to myself, (sniffle) Maybe I am better off alone. But that's a pity party for another time and one I'm not having right now, so please don't even worry. I have spoken to John and I am fine. Seriously. I'm not going to get into specifics or anything, but please know that I am completely okay with this whole thing, and probably won't even start feeling sorry for myself until March 2nd, when I realize that 31 is only 3 months away and I am no longer "newly 30" as I write in my profile. Oh crap, that's soon, isn't it?

Anyway, always a witty writer, Copywriter's message was a few short paragraphs that had me in stitches laughing over their simple truths. Namely, that I still wore the same ski hat from 7 years ago: "You always were thrifty for an heiress."

It was a breath of fresh air and I am glad the window was open. Even though I think my house is big enough for everyone.

Happy birthday, Maria!

I could totally give Alanis Morrisette a run for her money

If irony is dating someone in New York only after I move to LA, having to walk a bridal show for work the day after we break up is just plain bad timing.

Zombie Nation

In four hours and fifteen minutes, my alarm is going to ring, waking me up in time to catch my 7:00 AM flight to New York. Why am I still up? Oh, I don't know. I was too busy at work today to check all my favorite internet sites, so I spent a good amount of time catching up before moving over to iTunes and downloading a number of my favorite club songs from the late 90's. Trance music is now in my apartment and in my head, bringing me back to the days when my biggest concern was where to score ecstasy that weekend. Bed, what's that? Those are ships sailing outside of my apartment!

This isn't the first time this week I've felt high while being, in fact, completely sober. I mentioned on Sunday that my bathroom needed a good cleaning. I went out and bought Clorox Disinfecting Bathroom Cleaner, since I had finished my old bottle of Lysol something or other. When I moved into this apartment, I was told that the bathroom was clean, just old. As such, I've always been a diligent tub scrubber but never worried about the remaining soap scum because, hey, it was supposed to be there, the landlord told me so. But then, Sunday, after one application of the new Clorox, I noticed a new, brighter pattern forming at the bottom of my tub.

I reapplied, re-scrubbed, and saw even more white than the first time. This motivated me. I don't know whether it was the fumes taking over in my small bathroom or the Grande coffee I had ordered that morning, but I became fully focused and obsessed with getting my tub cleaner than I had ever seen it. In two hours I learned the meaning of elbow grease - I applied the Clorox four times and applied a bit of effort every time. And I don't know if I should be embarrassed by or proud about this, but my tub is now cleaner than it has been since I moved in.

Later that day, I went to the gym and ran like I was on speed. Or maybe just Starbucks and ammonia. Whatever it was, I'd like to patent it and press repeat. Although tonight, I think I inadvertantly have.

Will try and write from the big apple.

Well, I can't say there aren't any nice Jewish boys left in LA

I had a fun celebrity sighting last night. My friends Julia and John were in from out of town, and I wanted to take them somewhere fun but pretty low key. I decided on Saddle Ranch, the Sunset Strip steak joint best known for it's mechanical bull, basically because it's an LA institution and, until now, I had never been!

We got there pretty early, before 8 PM, so no one was drunkenly riding the bull yet or even considering it. About an hour into our meal, though, the restaurant collectively gasped, and I turned around to see Ron Jeremy. I don't think the restaurant gasped because of his fame, per se; rather, he seemed like a regular there. While there were some frat-looking boys who cheered, I think most of the staff knew him personally. Hopefully not too personally.

He was with another guy and two girls, and as soon as they sat down, the frat boys went over and asked for autographs. Then they took pictures. Then RJ autographed a random girl's breast. And they took more pictures. Of all the celebrities I've seen in LA, this is the first time I've ever seen one being approached for an autograph or pictures. (I use the term "celebrity" loosely here.) Ron Jeremy was great about it all, very gracious and friendly. I am a bit remorseful that I didn't get a picture myself. Although I could probably do without the autograph.

Weekend update

What, am I supposed to write on thing every day? Sheesh, you people are demanding.

No, it has just been a busy week and weekend. And some of you may have noticed the skitzophrenic disappearance and reappearance and re-disappearance of my Grey's post from Thursday night and wondered whether I am okay. I am fine; the truth is that it was very personal and frankly, the post just wasn't saying what I wanted it to say. If I am going to put myself out there to the blogasphere, I at least want to do so articulately. I didn't feel I was, in this case, and it meant too much to me for it to go misunderstood.

Friday night I went to my friend's birthday party. It was fun. I, apparently, have turned into an old person, because I had to call it quits before 11 and go home and go to bed. Saturday, I woke up at 8 AM, begrudgingly, and started my day, only to get so tired in the afternoon that I napped from 2:30 to 4. I never nap! It is not in my blood. Type A, people, type A here. I think Starbucks is, for some reason, substituting my morning coffee with decaf. Although I hit Coffee Bean at 5 PM for a second helping, and that didn't do much either.

Last night I saw Dreamgirls. I can't say it is AMAZING, as many others have, but I will say that it is worth seeing for Jennifer Hudson's voice alone. How did this girl not win American Idol? I got chills listening to her sing, she was that good.

When I got home, I checked my email, and I had a message from someone who found my blog through searching the phrase "how to move to LA". Apparently, he is thinking quite seriously about doing so, and wondered what it was like when I first arrived. What did I fail to prepare for? I plan to write him back with my own experiences and advice in the next day or so, but since many of you are also recent (or not-so-recent) transplants, I'd love to include your thoughts and experiences as well. What did you think was the hardest thing about moving out here? What advice would you give others? Please share in the comment section.

Tonight, my friend Julia and her husband are coming to crash at my place. They're in LA for the week and spending two nights with me, so after this post, I am off to scrub my bathroom floor. And if my coffee ever decides to kick in, maybe the kitchen floor as well.

Life support

I'm sorry - is the text blurry on your screen too, or is only my face leaking uncontrollably in response to tonight's Grey's Anatomy?

I swear, that show gets me in the weirdest places, for the oddest things. If you haven't watched it yet and you plan to, don't read any further, because I'm about to spoil it for you.

So, after 6 or 8 episodes, George's father finally dies. While that in itself was emotional, what broke my heart was the way all three brothers and the mom have come to develop as their own cast-within-a-cast, a flawlessly functioning and yet ultimately flawed family that truly loves and supports each other through the worst of times.

I am an only child, and only recently have I started thinking about what if? What if something happens to one of my parents? If I'm older, I will be by myself in the hospital room, most likely, or sharing the moment with someone close to one of them but not part of my genetic makeup, the tightly-knit unit full of private jokes and a lifetime full of private moments that George and his family share. I know that really, the question is not what if, but when, and for that, I am simply glad I do not have the answer.

My uncle lost his father this week. Huck was 93. And while my uncle (who is my uncle through marriage to my father's sister) appears to be an only child like me, no less than 25 people from our family alone will be attending the funeral tomorrow. And that's the other issue tugging at my heart strings: what's just as unfair as not having any siblings is that I might not have that "marriage" side either, and thus another generation of kids and grandkids that they are so lucky to have. Marriage seems so far off to me, and with that, kids seem like something I will only be lucky to have in my future.

This is something I have struggled with a lot since I have turned 30. Weirdly, in the same birthday that it took for me to fully appreciate being single, I also developed a sensitivity to that proverbial biological clock I had always heard about but never thought would tick loudly enough in my direction.

There are situations we are born into and situations that we create. Choices we can make and choices that are made for us. Being an only child was a situation that was created for me. I can't blame my parents; to do so would be be to ignore the bigger issue that their marriage wasn't working, and they were rather selfless as not to bring a second child into their confusion.

Having kids or not having kids, at this point, is increasingly seeming like a choice that is going to be made for me. The more years I go without getting married, the less likely I will be to have a child. To do so without a spouse - I don't think I would. I wouldn't intentionally inflict on a child what I feel has been put upon me - the responsibilty to take care of a parent 30, 50, 65 years down the road - not without a partner as support system. Nevertheless, I don't like having decisions made for me, and I feel like this one is happening while I watch, helplessly, from the sidelines.

Any show that takes place in a hospital is obviously going to focus on life and death. I guess what I am mourning right now is not George's father, but what I view as the death of my own options, slowly taking place without my consent.

Deal, or no deal?

Here's a question for anyone who works in entertainment, or who is just as obsessed with pop culture as I am: What is up with the overly-gratuitous promotion of Fox's American Idol on NBC's Today Show?

There's the obvious question in my mind - why is NBC promoting a show on Fox? Don't they have shows of their own to promote? Aren't they, in a sense, driving viewers away from NBC programming over to Fox, at least on Tuesdays and Wednesdays? I checked the NBC schedule for both those days, and while I suppose I can see them skipping over promotions for Tuesday's Dateline and Deal or No Deal, it boggles my mind why they'd prefer to drive viewers away from the critically-acclaimed but ratings-challenged Friday Night Lights on Wednesday.

When the Today Show's Idol coverage started in excess last season, I thought maybe they were just trying to position themselves as frontrunners in pop culture. After all, they had started doing weekly segments with VH1/Viacom's Best Week Ever, so I thought they were trying to develop favor among a more youthful market. But BWE, which runs all weekend on cable, isn't a direct competitor or a threat to NBC. Fox, as the number four network, isn't exactly a threat, but I thought this kind of promotion was a basic no-no in the business.

Even if I could understand NBC promoting another network's show, I really don't understand the AMOUNT of promotion they are doing for it. I only heard bits and pieces in the background yesterday, but this morning, as they spent never-ending minutes "dogging" Randy Jackson and recapping last night's rejects butchering ballads, I got so annoyed I had to put the television on mute until the commercial break. While I did tune out towards the end, I would estimate that the entire segment lasted at least 7 minutes - which is huge. The average segment runs 4 to 6 minutes, and I don't think they even spend that long on The Apprentice. (Although they have certainly covered the Rosie and Donald war to death.)

I assume an exchange of money must have taken place for such superfluous coverage; however I am confused as to how that works with journalistic integrity and pay for play and all that. And if money isn't the issue, what on earth is NBC getting out of this deal?

On my drive to work this morning, I was turned to Ryan Seacrest, and who was he interviewing? Matt Lauer! What on earth does Matt have to offer KIIS listeners? Those of us who listen to the radio on our morning drive certainly aren't the audience for the upcoming fourth hour of Today. And a radio interview doesn't seem like a fair trade for two days of excessive coverage on the number one morning TV show.

What am I missing, people? (Besides a life...)

I moved to Southern California for this?

If I were sitting any closer to my space heater I think it would be required to buy me dinner.

Happy birthday, Tracy!

(I said I wasn't going to do this anymore except for 30th birthdays, or else I'd never write about anything else, but since Tracy wasn't a reader last year, Happy 31st!)

I met Tracy more than five years ago in New York, kind of by chance, but it's funny, because of everyone in the world, she has probably made the biggest impact on my life as I know it.

In the fall of 2001, I was 25 years old and wrapping up my first three post-college years in New York. I lived with two guys in a huge apartment on 86th street, and while it had been fun for a long time, I had gradually come to resent sharing my apartment with a fraternity house. (My two roommates were wonderful and I am still friends with them - it was their friends that they continually invited over for post-parties at 4 AM, when my 25 year old self started calling it a night at 2.) Our lease was up in November, and we had all agreed it was time to go our separate ways.

I wasn't ready to live on my own yet, and didn't know anyone else who was looking to share an apartment; so, I started looking on Craig's List for someone who already had an apartment, had furniture, and in fact, just had an available bedroom for me to move into. Tracy's ad offered exactly that. I spoke to her on the phone, and she sounded perfectly normal, but this was back in the day before EVERYONE used Craig's List and I was a little bit wary of who, exactly, I would be meeting on there. I had already ruled out anyone in the East Village, or truthfully, below 14th street, so when I saw that she lived on 44th in a doorman building, I figured she was pretty safe.

I showed up and we hit it off immediately. It was a Sunday, and we had both blown our curly hair straight because we both had dates that night with guys who were both coincidentally named Mike (and who would later, coincidentally, come to screw us over). It was love at first sight. I left feeling happy and hopeful, and only slightly worried that Tracy would find someone else that she liked better than me. But I worried for nothing. I hadn't even made it home when she called to tell me that she really liked me and that she wanted me to be her roommate. YAY!

We had a lot in common, but because we each had our own group of friends, we didn't immediately spend boatloads of time together. Weeknights we'd spend on the couch watching TV, but most of our weekends we'd spend separately with our own friends, mine from Syracuse, hers from the University of Wisconsin. One thing that has always touched me was her first birthday party after I moved in, when she started introducing me to her other friends as her roommate, and then backtracked, and said, "Wait, but I mean, my friend, too." I would never have even noticed the difference, but because she thought to clarify, I began thinking of her as my friend and how lucky I had gotten through the powers of Craig's List.

Less than two years later, though, her life started moving in a different direction, and Tracy decided it was time to move back home, to LA. Other friends of hers had started moving back and her older sister had just had a baby, so she felt that the time was right to make a move. Tracy was the first person I knew in LA, and when I took my first work trip, in Feb 2004, she let me stay with her for a weekend to see how I'd like it. I loved it.

Coincidentally (or not) three other people I knew from New York (two were my roommates from 86th Street) moved to LA that year, and, sure enough, barely a year from that first work trip, I was here as well. While the other people I knew here were all guys, Tracy made it her job to take me under her wing and invite me out and call me three times a week and make sure that I wasn't getting homesick. When I started getting homesick, she'd invite me out more; and, when a guy I was dating broke it off after five months, she knew exactly what to say and what to do to make me feel better. Through her, I met other friends, and gradually came to make my own life here in Los Angeles, if not only from the people that she knew but from the confidence she gave me to get off my ass and out of my apartment and do something.

I honestly don't think I would have moved here without her, and I can't even imagine my life now without her in it. I wrote before about my bus theory and how there are people that are meant to get off and there are people that are meant to stay on, and if you told me back in 2001 that I was about to meet a lifer on Craig's List, I would have been surprised.

Now, because she has led me so well for so long, I am putting her in the driver's seat.

Never leaving my house again

I don't know if it's that bad service follows me around, or if I just have incredibly high expectations, but I'm just ready to throw the towel in at this point and never leave my house again.

First, there's that whole gym thing that I've written about ad nausem: if I'm willing to shell out $80 an hour for training, I would think the gym might value that and not completely alienate me as a client. But, no, fine, I'm moving on.

The other night some friends and I went to a trendy Hollywood restaurant and got served by a waiter with the biggest attitude I have seen in a while. Not only did he have an attitude, but he actually pretended not to see us at a few points, even though our glasses had been empty so long that we could have ordered two more rounds of $12 drinks in that time frame. He did manage to get our orders right, but I'm sure that was only because he spit into all of our dishes and wanted to make sure we enjoyed them, bonus and all.

Then, today, I go to get my eyebrows waxed by the same woman I have gone to for nearly two years now. I've had my doubts about her a few times, but she usually does a great job and I've developed kind of a weird relationship with her so I've always been loyal. But today, I don't know what happened except that my brows are now completely uneven. After I complained the first time, she went back with the tweezer, and my second look was worse than the first. So I said thank you and that we were done for the day, and she then had the audacity to blame me, for letting them grow in too much! (It had been three weeks, the average amount of time one waits between waxing.) I said, Do NOT blame me, brows grow, and that was her job to fix them! I said I know she always does a great job and I don't know what happened now, but this was not MY fault!

She said, You're right, you're right, I'm sorry. But that's it. I'm done. I am so done. With everything.

(Edited to add: I don't mean I am never leaving my house again because of my eyebrows. I'm not that vain. Also, I have a brow pencil. I just can't deal with people anymore. People suck.)

Honk if you're embarrassed for me

If there was ever a project tailor-made for me, it's got to be this one.

I have kept journals since I got one for my 8th birthday, and while I don't really write too much anymore (I have a blog, thank you!) they serve as a wonderfully detailed reminder of my awkward teenage years and the horrible boys that comprised them.

I have spent the last three nights re-reading my old diaries, flagging for possible submissions, and tonight started the scanning and sending process in the hopes that this book will help to fulfill my dream of one day being published. Even if I am mortified by what I wrote.

Because the object is to only submit writings that, to this day, still make the author cringe, I honestly can't even bring myself to share with you entire entries. No really, I can't. I am now permanently hunched over and tense with shame, unable to stop cringing at my embarrassingly unsophisticated junior high school self. (And I haven't even scanned in high school yet!) So instead I will just share with you this excerpt, taken from the seventh grade, when I boy I liked didn't want to "go out" with me.

I don't know whats worse - the Groovy Kind of Love reference (we slow-danced to it at a Bat Mitzvah) or his name in puffy paint on my, um, Keds. And toothbrush.

I need to stop now. I have officially shared too much.

Casualties of gym warfare

Yesterday I opened my inbox and saw an email from my old trainer, Kevin, offering his entire client list one last chance to purchase a training package before rates went up on Tuesday. I thought it was strange that I was still on his email list, but didn't think too much of it. Until later that night, when one of the people on Kevin's list replied to all: "Why would I buy more sessions now when I can't work out with my trainer?"

Ooh! I thought. He must be having problems with Kevin, too, and how ballsy of him to write that, especially for the whole client list to read! I must find out what happened!

So I emailed Jason directly: "Have you been having problems with Equinox trainers too? I LOVE that you wrote that email!"

He responded: "Thanks, but I was actually complaining because Kevin was suspended for some reason and I was showing support. But I am always happy to stir the pot a little. Thanks for the back-up!"

Crap. Kevin was suspended, maybe because I stirred the pot a little too much a few months ago. Oops. Thank goodness I didn't volunteer any more information to Jason. But now I fear bad gym karma is definitely coming my way.

Take, for instance, what happened to this poor girl tonight. I was just getting onto a treadmill when I heard a loud THUMP from the end of the row. I looked over and sure enough, two legs were sprawled off the moving end of a treadmill further down the line, no doubt a novice runner literally falling victim to the machine. I tried not to stare, and instead watched the rest of the onlookers gasp in horror, and only turned my head when I saw that she had caught my gaze.

I'm totally screwed.

TGIF

I love to brag that I hardly ever get sick, but I think my 10 day tour of the Northeast in which I spent time in 4 airports, 5 residences, one hospital, and among too many children under the age 8 as well as too many adults who consider 8 the perfect amount of Jello shots with which to begin an evening, has suddenly caught up with me.

I woke up yesterday with a sore throat. Today the throat is less sore than scratchy, but my whole head feels like it is under a cloud of said Jello. (Actually, that might be nice right now.) My eyes are heavy and my brain is still on vacation, possibly left somewhere up in Vermont, or maybe just not unpacked yet from the contents of my three suitcases, still strewn hapharzardly through the center of my living room.

I have been drinking EmergenC-laced water all day, as well as tea. It hasn't helped my throat at all, but I have gotten more exercise walking back and forth to the bathroom than I have gotten in the last two weeks. So that's a plus. In a few minutes, I will leave the office, sit in traffic for a good hour or so (if I'm lucky), and then curl up on the couch in sweatpants for a cozy evening of New York magazine and Law and Order. The bar will be serving my feel-better cocktail of choice: Tylenol PM over Ketel One, Tonic, and EmergenC.

Missing a shoulder to lean on

Wow. Have I been gone a long time! So much to catch up on! Oh, and happy new year!

I can't believe that I was gone for ten days. I walked back into my apartment today and it felt a little surreal, like I was on a studio television set. I had cleaned before I left, so everything was picture-perfect, in the right place, but the apartment wasn't lived in. That was made obvious when I went to grab a water from the fridge, and only a lone carton of orange juice and some condiments stared back at me.

Where to begin? I suppose the beginning:

Sunday morning I woke up bright and early for my flight out of Burbank. I had been worried about my layover in Denver but everything was smooth sailing, and I landed in Boston surprisingly on time. I spent Christmas Eve at my dad and stepmom's house, and Christmas Day with 25 of our closest family members. It was great to see everyone, meet my two new cousins (twins) and catch up. Faithful blog readers, they all asked me endless questions about the boy in New York and I was happy to oblige with answers.

Tuesday my friend Maria came over to visit, and we spend a good few hours catching up. She's one of those friends you can just sit and talk to for hours without getting bored or running out of conversation. Wednesday, my friend Rebecca picked me up from my mom's house and drove me and my three huge bags into Stamford, where she lives, and where I could catch the train into the city that night. Me and my three bags made it onto MetroNorth just before rush hour, and into a cab across town where we sat, gridlocked, for 45 minutes. Two cross-town blocks from his apartment, I gave up, got out, and walked the rest of the way. Holidays in New York? Bah humbug.

John had to work on Thursday, but let me stay and play in his apartment all day. A while back, I had lost my mind and offered to cook him dinner, so I knew that I would need a good portion of the afternoon to take care of any disasters that were likely to ensue. I met my friend Lauren for brunch around 11:30, and we spent a good hour and a half just catching up, and then another half hour walking uptown together continuing our chat. Lauren is my former assistant and now makes a hell of a lot money more than I do, at the same place we used to work together. I'm generally happy with all the career choices that I've made, but a few extra tens of thousands of dollars wouldn't hurt.

By the time I got back uptown, I needed to go food shopping, only I couldn't remember exactly where the supermarkets were. I didn't want to bother John at work, so I figured I'd just keep walking and I'd be sure to pass by one. Um, not so much. He lives in Hell's Kitchen, which is still rather "up and coming", and while his apartment is amazing and there are plenty of bars and restaurants, other things like supermarkets are a bit more scarce. Finally, after walking in concentric circles so many times that even my Uggs were starting to hurt, I found D'Agostino's a street over from where I had walked the last two times around the block.

My mom had given me a fail-safe recipe for chicken parm, and I had also planned to bake Toll House cookies for the Vermont house. I should tell you that while I'm terrified of cooking, I am actually an excellent baker, and figured that if I ruined dinner at least my cookies would prove that I had some talent. I got back to the apartment, unpacked all the condiments, and stared at the unopened chicken breasts with disdain. I have a slight phobia of raw meat. Possibly the only thing grosser, in my mind, than raw meat is fish, and that's when I looked at John's goldfish bowl on the kitchen counter, and noticed Bob floating belly up in the tank. Then I started to cry.

Remind me to tell you about my fear of fish another time - this post is too long already. The goldfish bowl was situated on the counter directly in front of where I'd be chopping, kneading, mixing. I considered moving the bowl, but didn't want to risk the water sloshing and me being infected with fish-tainted water, or having to look at the thing any longer than necessary. Instead, I grabbed the D'Agostino's bag and tried to position it over the bowl, like a shroud or something. As I adjusted it, Bob the fish sprang to life and started swimming as if his life depended on it. I guess it kind of did.

With the fish drama settled, it was back to the chicken. The recipe called for boneless, skinless breasts, but since I have never actually bought raw chicken before, I made the mistake of buying the breasts with bones. I wouldn't have minded throwing away the $8, except that I had to touch all the slimy parts before I figured it out. Tears reappeared, and I called every female in my phone book until I confirmed that I had, indeed, bought the wrong chicken. I was physically and emotionally spent by this point, and for a minute considered just calling for takeout, but I gathered myself together and went to the Amish market where boneless, skinless breasts were there for my choosing. Turns out, these were not at all slimy or gross and I barely had to touch them before dipping them in breadcrumbs. Dare I say that I rather enjoyed the challenge?

It was all uphill from there. I prepared the chicken and let it cool before baking. Then I made the cookies which I knew would come out well. While those batches were in, I chopped and prepared the salad. Then, I boiled water for the pasta, put the chicken back in, and the meal miraculously came together at the quite appropriate dining hour of 7:30 PM. My work there was done.

Friday was the big day! John's friend Ryan and his wife Dina were picking us up for Vermont at 10 AM sharp that morning. We piled into the car and it was exactly like going to a formal, only instead of packing dresses and tuxedos, we had ski pants and parkas. It was clear and sunny in the low 40's - a beautiful day for sightseeing through picturesque upstate New York and Vermont, but the further we got out of the city, the more worried we became about the lack of snow.

After a stop at Walmart to get food and drinks for the weekend, we arrived at the house around 3:30. The house was great - a ski lodge with a rustic look but completely modern technology and fixtures. There were 10 people in the house - 7 of them had gone to Syracuse. We spent the night playing poker (or, in my case, watching poker) and other games, ordered pizza for dinner, and went to bed at a relatively early hour to prepare for our big day ahead. The weather was calling for snow flurries that night, so it looked like skiing was a viable option.

Saturday morning we were out the door at 8 AM, and skiing on the freshly powdered mountain by 9. The first run was an easy green that everyone skied down together, but the second one was a more challenging blue so John let the group go on ahead to make sure I could take my time with it. He'd ski down a few hills, wait for me as I tried to snowplow, and then we'd go on again. I was just getting my ski legs back after two years away from the slopes, starting to feel really confident, and then he went down.

I skied down to him, and he said, "I think I broke my collarbone." I guess some people's instinct might be to panic; I think mine was just disbelief. He's such a strong guy and I've never seen him in pain, so I didn't know if he was serious or exaggerating or what. I mean, if I broke something or even just thought I did, I'd be crying and carrying on so that the whole mountain would know. He just kind of sat there, stoic and matter-of-fact about the whole thing. I asked if I should ski down and get a snowmobile sent up, but he said that he thought he could ski down the rest of the way, but that something was wrong.

He did ski down the whole way, in pain, and we went right into the first aid station. They diagnosed him as having a dislocated shoulder, but the ski lodge wasn't legally allowed to fix it. They referred us to a hospital about 20 minutes away, and Dina and Ryan came in off the mountain to drive us. By this time, the snow had really started to come down, and the 20 minute drive took more than half an hour.

Long story short, it wasn't a dislocated shoulder or a broken collabone, but a separated shoulder, which is an injury to the AC joint that connects the shoulder to the clavicle. They gave him a sling to wear for the next 6 weeks and a prescription for Vicodin to manage the pain. According to the doctor, surgery is almost never required in these cases, but it's a serious enough issue that we're all looking forward to a second opinion from a NYC doctor. Either way, he's spending 6 weeks in a sling, on his dominant (left) arm/hand, and I can't even imagine.

The rest of the weekend was a bit mellow. John was okay to hang out on Sat night, but Sunday the Vicodin made his stomach queasy on and off for the whole day. Since he couldn't ski, we went outlet shopping, but in a group of five people, even that was exhausting. Thankfully, we both had time to rest before going out for New Years Eve. The night started with dinner at a local restaurant, which was pretty decent. Then, we headed across the street to Christopher's, a local tavern with live music, emphasis on "local". The band was surprisingly good but the crowd was a mixed bag, and John's medicine was starting to bother him again. We did a champagne toast at midnight, and our whole crowd was out the door at 12:05, ready to head back to bed. Just like a formal, only ten years later and two hours earlier. You can see my pictures here.

Monday morning we repacked the car, went out for a goodbye breakfast, and settled in for the drive, which, with sleet and holiday traffic, took a seemingly endless five hours. I always find it interesting how different the car rides UP to a trip are versus the car rides BACK from a trip. Not only were we tired and deflated, it was like the weather agreed, trading in Friday's sunny optimism for Monday's cloudy grayness.

I spent one last night in John's apartment, and woke up early this morning for my return to LA. I traveled a lot this summer, for long periods of time, but usually I was anxious to return. Today, while it was nice to come home to my own computer, my own shower, my apartment is lonely, empty, void of the energy I've gotten used to. If my apartment is a sound stage, the quiet is deafening.