Top 10 signs it's time to get a new eyebrow lady

10. You know more about her sex life than her training

9. She asks you repeatedly about your sex life even though you've made it clear you aren't having any. And probably wouldn't talk about it with her if you were.

8. She excuses herself in the middle of a session to throw up last night's tequila shots

7. She burns your skin in two places

6. Excitedly says, "Want to see what the guy downstairs gave me for Christmas?" And pulls out the biggest bag of marijuana I have ever seen.

5. Offers a free Brazilian as a Christmas present

4. She makes your eyebrows completely uneven

3. And blames you for letting them grow in too long

2. After admitting she took a few Vicodin that morning

1. You come across an old Daily Candy which highlights a place only 10 minutes away that specializes in brow services and only costs a few dollars more than you are paying now. The staff seems somewhat professional and probably won't bother you with their dating or drug issues. They sound extremely busy on the phone on Saturday morning but manage to squeeze you in for a last-minute appointment. And when you hesitate to explain why you had to find a new place, the technician simply laughs and said, "I get it all the time."

Every moment I'm awake, the further I'm away

I woke up from the most horrible dream this morning.

It started as I walked by my aunt's apartment on 86th street. New York City was under attack. I watched as the first two planes circled each other like birds and eventually lined up, adjacent, nose to tail above Madison Avenue, their wing span inches from the nearest windows. When I looked up, I realized that the entire skyline was covered by planes of every size and purpose, in position like puzzle pieces fitting perfectly together under the Manhattan sky, waiting for direction to strike. And, while I wanted to believe otherwise, I knew without a doubt what was about to happen.

Suddenly, the scene shifted to Queens, where I was staying in a hotel for business, and could see the entire skyline from my window. The planes having already demolished much of the city, we were held captive by an alien-type of robot, a hundred-story terrorist that would break down buildings at will, if only he could decide which building to strike next.

I called my mom, but she was drunk. "Are you watching the news?" I asked. "No," she said. "But you know that New York is under attack?" I questioned. "Yes," she answered. "But I can't deal with it now." And I heard her talking to a friend in the background, asking about the cookie recipe in front of them. "Well, I just wanted to call and say goodbye," I said, bitterly and confused about what to do. "Just in case I couldn't."

Then I found my friend Rebecca, who was getting dressed for a night out. She was quiet, then stubborn, then crying. "Are you okay?" I asked. "No," she said. "Because after this you get to go back and I have to stay here." And it was true, I thought. I don't live here anymore and I don't have to worry about buildings falling on my head in LA. And I had been so close to avoiding this attack, if only I had planned my trip for last week, or next week. And this was such a big part of the reason of why I left, so what a great freaking joke on me that it actually happened while I was back in town.

I left Rebecca and watched with old friends and former coworkers as the alien stood outside our building, swung his robot arms and took down the skyscraper next to us. Ducked as debris flew in the balcony window and glass shattered above my head. I woke up in a cold sweat and crying; at first, not knowing what was wrong. Why my pillow was soaked with tears. And it all came flooding back, in that first half second of opening my eyes, and I stayed in bed for a while wondering how, exactly, that got in there.

But then I caught the early morning light streaming throught my window, gradually caught my breathing - inhaling my freshly laundered sheets - and moved on. I'm not there anymore. It's time to move on.

Gym miscellanea

I run anywhere from 7 to 20 miles per week. Hard. I have done this for the last 10 years. I have worked out, in a gym, for the purpose of sweating and endurance training and weight-loss and muscle-building, for at least the last 12. So how come whenever I get on the StepMill, I'm huffing and puffing and panting and gasping as if I've never exercised a day in my life?

........................................................................................................................

Isn't there always at least one guy in every gym that has to walk around a million times just to make sure he's seen? You know what? I see you. You are annoying. Now go away.

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I suppose the gym isn't the most unusual place in the world to find inspiration, but the gym parking lot? My gym's garage always has a framed notice at the gate, with quirky and sometimes completely nonsensical advice. Today's adage: Never be afraid to try new things. The Ark was built by an amateur, while professionals built the Titanic.

Am I the only one who thinks it's not so Fabulous?

There's a scene from one of my favorite movies EVER, Clueless, in which Alicia Silverstone's Cher is explaining why their acquaintance is a full-on Monet: "From far away [she looks] okay; but up close, [she's] a big old mess." That pretty much sums up how I felt about Vegas this weekend.

What is it about Las Vegas that gives everyone the illusion of grandeur? The flashing lights and pulsing energy? The possibility of money won or inhibitions lost? The promise of a night that never ends in a city that doesn't sleep? Whatever it is, I fell under the city's spell on my first trip six years ago, but, for better or for worse, just saw a bunch of messy spackled dots this weekend.

How can you see the enchanted forest through the trees when each tree is it's own crazy sideshow? I'm curious to know the history of the city, like, at what point did someone decide to construct a circus in the middle of the desert? Who thought that building a mini-replica of New York City, or the Eiffel Tower, or any of the Seven Wonders, for that matter, would make good architecture juxtaposed against the vast, dry brown landscape? I suppose I could look this information up, but I'd much prefer not knowing for now, keeping in my head some illusion of fantasy.

A few months ago, John and I stayed overnight at a casino resort, basically because it was the only hotel that didn't require a two-night stay. We went to check it out after our wine-tasting, and instead of feeling excited or adventurous in this anything-can-happen atmosphere, I suddenly got very sad and panicky and overwhelmed at the bad energy that surrounded me. Instead of noticing wild and crazy kids out for a night on the town, all I could see were unfortunate townies down on their luck, playing the penny slots in the hopes that something, anything, would make that night special for them. I attributed it to the location in central California, that the clientele was different than the citified high rollers and risk takers in Vegas. But really, I saw those same people again this weekend. Wearing less clothing, perhaps, but there were few differences between the two groups.

Maybe I went to the wrong places. Maybe it was an unusual weekend, as the general consensus seems to suggest. Maybe I am just not a gambler at heart, and therefore don't relate to the city's central offering. Or maybe Las Vegas just looks better from a distance. After all, most people there are viewing it from behind the foggy haze of beer goggles. To the sober eye, one that sees clearly through the dim casino lights, that catches the stains on the walls in the hotel and the day-old, smudgy eye makeup on too many women - the optical illusion is revealed to be, quite literally, a Mirage.

Are we there yet? Are we there yet? When can we go home?

In the 12-plus hours of sleep I got last night, I had a slew of really weird dreams. Among them, that Planters was looking for a new brand icon to replace Mr. Peanut (hmm, fly much?), and that Britney Spears donned a Marie Antoinette wig to divert attention away from her bald head.

What's weirder is that I even needed 12 hours of sleep, as I got a full 8 in Vegas. Yes, I believe I may be the first person on earth to actually get a restful night sleep there. Let's just say that we didn't make it to any parties worth staying out past our bedtimes for.

As I mentioned, my friend Mia was going to meet up with some of her friends in town for the NBA All Star game and weekend attractions. As of Friday, we were planning to go to one event for Dwyane Wade Saturday evening, and then for dinner with other friends later that night. But Saturday morning she found out that we would be getting tickets for the super exclusive party hosted by Jay-Z and LeBron James at Tao at the Venetian! Now, I barely know more than the basics about either of these two, but I had read in Page Six that it was supposed to be the hottest, most exclusive party of the weekend. Sign me up!

We arrived in Las Vegas around 4PM and hopped in a shuttle to the Bellagio, where we were to pick up the tickets from her friend, who happens to be in Jay-Z's inner circle. The tickets invited us to both the dinner and the after-party, but the friend warned us that dinner was already full and that we should only attend the party which was to start around 10. We had heard that the dinner was only for about 300 people, mostly celebrities, so even though it was a bummer, I know we probably would have stuck out had we shown up. I think I'm pretty good in a crowd and can make conversation with almost anyone, but I do have my limits. Sports and rap music are two subjects I know absolutely nothing about, and have even less interest in.

With our tickets safely tucked away, it was time to check in at the Luxor. Problem was, the city was gridlocked: the influx of people in for the holiday weekend and NBA game brought traffic to a total standstill and taxi lines up to two hours long. We ended up walking the 3/4 of a mile to our hotel, roller bags and all, navigating the narrow sidewalks among swarms of drunken afternoon partygoers. And that's when we began to rethink our decision to come that weekend. But maybe we were just too sober.

Given the traffic situation, we decided to head over to the Venetian early - that it would be better to kill time in the casino rather than wait in a taxi line and traffic for two hours. The hotel had warned us that it could take an hour and a half just to get there, and that we'd be better off directing the taxi off the strip. And that we might be able to catch a cab in the back of the hotel, where they dropped off, rather than wait up front in the neverending line. We did just that, and found ourselves at the Venetian with plenty of time to spare.

Perhaps too much time. For an hour and a half, we sat at the casino bar, mostly in silence, gapemouthed at the visions of plenty in front of us. Now, I know that "the bruthas" like a little booty on their "sistas", but there was nothing little about anyone we saw. Except for the clothes, which left "little" to the imagination. I'm no prude, and it's not like I was dressed for church, but I saw more cellulite bursting through spandex dresses and muffin tops rising over waistbands than even Las Vegas considers to be in good taste. (Sorry, was that an oxymoron?)

By 11, we grew weary of the bar scene and eagerly headed up to Tao. A quick but thorough walk-through revealed no one famous or even famous-looking. No worries, we thought, they must all still be at dinner. But as the place quickly filled up with every common hoochie in Vegas, it became increasingly clear that there was nothing remotely exclusive about the party we were at. Had I taken a scissor to my dress and stuffed a pillow in the back of my bloomers, I could have gotten in with little more than a gold-plated smile - never mind the custom-printed, personally autographed invitation which I came to notice had spelled "Venetian" wrong. (They spelled it "Venitian".)

I will say that the music, performed by Funk Master Flex, was fantastic, but even if there had been room to dance, we weren't so much expecting the high energy "club-kid" scene as an intimate evening of "who's who". Then again, it was a humbling way of reminding us that we are still just two "nobodies". After only a sighting or two (no one from this list) and getting pushed and shoved and staring at way too many exposed body parts, we gave up around 1 AM and headed back to the hotel.

It was a fun enough trip, but a little exhausting, 8 hours of sleep and all. The traffic, the people, elusive celebrities, the expensive drinks and cheap women - it was just like LA only not nearly as cool.

PS: Check out Mia's account of things here.

PPS: Here are some other accounts from people who write much better than me. (I?)

- "Thugs are people too"

- "On the bright side, now that every female in Vegas dresses like a hooker, it's impossible to tell the real hookers from the fake ones, which means we'll probably have a Vegas-themed game show called "Hooker or Looker" some day"

And I'm off

I am leaving for Vegas in just a few hours, but it's so gorgeous here today I almost don't want to go. Today seems like the quintessential southern California day which, in reality, you might only see in the movies or on 90210. At 10:00 AM, it was already 80 degrees, and I could see the San Bernadino mountains, 100 miles away, clearly from my block. Unfortunately, I think Vegas is a little bit cooler, so I'm not sure my plans for laying out by the pool will be realized.

I'll be back in 24 hours and will write more then. Have a good weekend!

Cocktails first, questions later

I'm sorry - was I just saying that I needed an airport detox? Well, I guess my detox requirements are akin to Lindsay Lohan's in Wonderland, because I am headed to Las Vegas this weekend!

My friend Mia is a huge sports fan and so had planned to go for the hoopla surrounding the All Star game. She asked me if I wanted to join her, and I thought of a million reasons why I shouldn't go: trying to save money, tired of traveling, I hate sports, etc. But then I thought about it and how I was just saying to myself that I need to get out more, do more stuff that I wouldn't normally do, live a little. In fact, I had just paid off all of my bills and credit cards Saturday morning, so, much as I would like to have some money in the bank, what's the point if I can't spend it every once in a while? I don't know if it's the Jewish guilt or my Protestant puritanism that keeps me from splurging, but I decided to suck it up and get over myself for once.

I've only been to Vegas once in my life, and it will be a hard trip to beat. I was 25 on a summer Saturday in August, alone in my apartment because my roommates were both away for the weekend. Everyone was away that weekend, it seemed, and I was having quite the pity party for myself, feeling alone and lonely in the Big Apple. I returned from rollerblading to a voice mail asking me to cover for an event happening Monday night in Las Vegas. The woman whose account it was threw out her back that day, and they needed someone with TV experience (me) to manage the camera crews that were set to cover the party.

Less than 24 hours later I was on a flight. It happened so quickly I wasn't even able to reach my parents to tell them. The party was being held at the Hard Rock, so I took a shuttle directly there and met up with Jason, the Fabulous Gay Guy in my office that was managing the talent and the event-planning aspects of the party. This being the summer of "Hit em up style", Blu Cantrell was our opening act, and I watched in awe as Jason troubleshooted for hours between our client and the record label.

When everything was mostly settled, we went downstairs to dinner at Nobu, as Jason was friends with the manager. I don't even eat sushi but I tried everything and actually didn't mind it, as it all tasted so good with the many client-bought drinks that were accompanying it. When the bill came, the waiter leaned over and said to me, "Didn't you go to Syracuse?" I looked up and sure enough, it was this guy that I had seen in the bars for years but had never known. I gave him my number and an invitation for the party the next night, and laughed at my luck at having a run-in so far from home.

I woke up Monday, party day, at 7AM. Hit the breakfast buffet at 8, the pool at 9. Since it was Vegas in August, I think I left the pool at 9:30 - way too hot. Nevermind the leisure, though; our job was to distribute invitations to the press staying at all the different hotels around the city. In four hours we hit every major hotel, and I got my crash course in Vegas. It felt like anything but work.

My job for the night was to get the camera crews upstairs to the VIP room and coordinate any interviews with the client and the headlining performer, Wyclef Jean. Now, I had coordinated TV segments before, but I had never managed celebrity interviews. Fortunately, Wyclef was the most chill man imaginable, and he didn't even notice how nervous or tongue-tied I was. The only celebrity to show was Gary Coleman, and it tickled me to be in a room with such vastly different characters.

My post ended around 11PM, and I went to find my new friend, who had brought some of his friends to the party. We stayed at the Hard Rock for a bit, although ultimately ended up at some club at the Venetian, which was the only club open on a Monday night. More people met us out, and the next thing I knew, they were dropping me off at 5 AM. Exhausted, I (of course) slept through my 7 AM wake-up call, and missed my 9 AM flight back to the New York. I ended up catching the next one, and only partly worried about what I was going to tell my boss. It was Vegas, after all, I couldn't stress too much.

Turned out, I didn't need to stress at all. The next day I was given a $250 bonus and an extra day off as a "thank you" for jumping in and being such a team player. Of course, I had the time of my life and felt like I should have been paying them. Or at least paying someone to ensure that what really happened there, stayed there.

Love is

Knowing that every year, without fail, I will always receive at least two Valentines.

One from Mom. One from Dad.

What a difference a week makes

I thought to myself, as I sat at brunch with my friends, discussing our wearing tank tops and flip flops in February and how one of us (not me) had a sleepover with a former Apprentice cast member.

It's a jump to the left, and then a step to the right

The literal time warp started with my red eye on Friday night. The concept of red eyes always freaks me out - that you get on a plane, close your eyes for a few hours, and suddenly it's a brand new day? That's a little Twilight Zone-ish, if you ask me.

I was hardly able to sleep and arrived in New York groggy and exhausted at 6 AM Saturday. Fortunately, I was able to make up for lost sleep at my friend Cara's, who is training for a marathon (support here here!) and so left me to nap while she went off to run 13 miles through Central Park. Fair trade off, yes. It couldn't have worked out any better.

Cara returned just as I started waking up around 12:30. That left us a little more than four hours to eat lunch, buy our friend Kristin gifts for the engagement party, and get ready for the party that evening. Since it was being held up in Westchester, we were hitching a ride with another friend in the city, but had to meet her on the other side of town to do so.

The engagement party was fun - having the celebratory feel of a wedding without the formality and stress. There were about 75 people there - college friends, family, and friends from the new life she shares with her fiancee. Of the 75 people, I was one of five single people at the entire party. Five. Seven if you count her brothers who are in their young twenties. Of course I had a million friends to talk to, but the loneliness hit the next day when I went to take the train back to the city, knowing everyone else was waking up with their significant other and would be gossipping about the party, sharing laughs, having breakfast in bed. I just lugged my overnight bag to the MetroNorth station, thinking about who might be worth text-messaging, just so I could say hello. Have someone to check in with.

That person turned out to be Hilary who was in town for the weekend with her four year old, Sophie. I can't remember the last time I had seen either of them, and we had made plans for brunch with our other friend Nick. If I haven't seen Hilary in two years, then I probably haven't seen Nick for three or four. But we all have a tremendous history together.

I met them both first semester Freshman year and became close with both rather quickly. Nick was my platonic guy friend, and Hilary was my best girlfriend. After graduation, we all moved to the city within a few months of each other. When September came and I was ready to look for my own place, it turned out that Nick was also ready to get an apartment. It was an easy decision to become roommates, and he brought in a third friend, who I also knew, to make rent more manageable. Hilary, who had been staying in her grandmother's guest bedroom while she looked for work, ended up living in that apartment for years. Since it was a large, three-bedroom, rent-controlled apartment, our group of friends often met there to hang out - at least when the grandmother was out of town.

By the end of the first year, Nick and I weren't getting along. I thought he was an inconsiderate slob, and I found out that he was taking the money we gave him for the phone and, well, not using it to pay the phone bill. I kicked him out of the apartment (and asked Kristin to move in) and we avoided each other for a few years, eventually patching things up sometime later when neither of could remember what we were mad about.

In 2002, Hilary got pregnant, then married, and then moved back to Boston where rent was more affordable. I get holiday cards every year but have only seen her and her daughter a handful of times since the move. So I was eager to see both of them and catch up on lost time.

Brunch turned into an all-day affair, and Nick and I found ourselves back at Hilary's grandmother's entertaining Sophie while Hilary packed up the car to go back to Boston. Nick read the paper as I gave horsie rides around the living room, the same room I had been in so many times with these same people. And that's when the deja vu hit. I have been here before. But in a different life.

That life was before babies and husbands and engagement parties. The same apartment, the same people, but now there was a baby. Excuse me, not a baby - a child. A four year old child that my friend had practically in the blink of an eye.

Coming off of the night I had had prior, it was a weird and kind of sad feeling. Nick and I walked out together and he commented, "I really miss the good old days." I swallowed the lump in my throat and agreed.

What made that reunion even more intense was that the last few weeks have brought reconnections with some other people from my past, namely Copywriter, who was in my life during the same exact period I lived with Nick and hung out with Hilary. He talked me down the day our phone was turned off, tried to set Hilary up with one of his friends, and painted our kitchen the day Kristin moved in. He knew me at a very distinctive time in my life, when I was basically still a college kid - utterly green and unsure of myself in the big city. We didn't talk after the breakup, save for a few run-ins, and all of my memories of him are tied into that unique, year and a half window of my life.

So it was fitting that I met him for coffee this week.

I wasn't nervous, exactly, even though it had been six-plus years; although I wasn't quite sure what to expect, either. But he walked in, looking exactly the same if not better, and we just fell into our natural banter and spent a good hour and a half laughing and reminiscing. It was comfortable and nostalgic and fun. Also a nice ending to a trip I hadn't really wanted to take. Again, I felt that there was no way seven years could have passed. Oh, except for that he is engaged and I live in LA, and that, despite my best efforts, time still finds a way of passing, after all.

Nothing had changed, yet everything had changed.

And such is the figurative time warp this trip became. In between my social calls, I was actually there to work, visiting the various magazines to introduce new products. This is something I do occasionally - schedule appointments with beauty editors at their offices to show them my goods. The last time I went was about a year and a half ago; since then, offices have been upgraded, the Hearst tower was constructed, and security was at such a maximum I actually had my bags X-rayed at Time Life. The Hearst tower was straight out of the Jetsons; everything else was just a reminder of the world we live in, post-9/11. When I started doing these appointments, back in the days when I dated a copywriter and lived with college friends, you could just saunter right up to each floor and do what you wish. Now, I had identification ready at a moment's notice and spent my time before appointments locked inside the sealed glass doors of the elevator banks, lobbies and reception areas having been sacrificed for safety.

The continuous juxtaposition of the past with the present (and future) has now left this time traveler exhausted. It also makes me laugh. In a week where all I want to do is look toward the future, I can't seem to stop partying like it's 1999.

Back to the future

New York is generally regarded as a city full of energy. Hordes of people flood the streets, noises intrude at all hours, a sense of importance underlies every step, every breath.

My week in New York felt like an experiment in energies colliding - people and memories from my past were continually juxtaposed against the reality of the present and future, resulting in a strange trip seemingly straight out of a time warp. I was just along for the ride.

Bitter, cold

There's absolutely nothing better than running around New York City on the coldest day of the year. Especially when you learn that Los Angeles, on the same day, was a balmy 81.

I, apparently, had forgotten what "cold" felt like. I didn't bring a hat with me because, well, none of them matched my scarf and gloves. I did wear a sweater today but thoughtlessly paired it with a thin camisole underneath, to protect my delicate skin from the itchy wool. The wind gusted straight up under my wool winter jacket because I left the sash at home, fogetting it served a purpose other than "fashion accessory".

After my first appointment I stopped at the Gap and bought a long sleeve shirt to pair under my sweater. After my second appointment I bought a hat. I'm still kicking myself over the coat, though. Seriously? Did I not live in this for 28 years? What is wrong with me?

I'm just so excited for tomorrow's high of 23.

Rinse, repeat

The first time I ever came to LA was in February 2004. Just under three years later, I am about to embark on my 19th cross-country trip. That's more than one trip every two months. One trip every two months between NYC and LA, that is; many more have been taken elsewhere for both business and pleasure.

What's with the math, you ask?I guess right now it’s just mind over matter, and I am exhausted. And I guess I find it ironic. (There’s that word again! Can I stop saying that?!)

I had never been to Los Angeles in my life until three years ago. And then, like magic, I just kept going. Work kept sending me, new friends kept popping up, and I came to believe that my stars were aligned on the left coast.

Once I moved, I found myself doing the reverse commute. My line of work keeps me traveling to New York quite frequently. I end up dating a guy in the city which keeps me interested in work. My friends continue to invite me to things I can’t turn down, like birthday parties, baby showers, engagement parties. I don’t want to turn them down. They are my friends, I miss them. I cherish continuing to be a part of their lives.

But then there is my life here that I feel like I am barely living. I know that I have held back a lot because a part of me is always wondering when I’m going to move back. What is going to bring me there? A new job? A guy? My parents getting sick and needing me to come home? In the back of my mind I have always thought that LA was a temporary thing - that I would move back eventually. What if it’s not? What if it doesn’t have to be? I could finally settle down and get TiVo, or a complete set of dishes and flatware. Look for a job in entertainment and not worry that I’m backing myself into a corner, a narrow box without an opening on the east coast.

Until then, I feel like I am only phoning it in. Living half heartedly. It’s hard not to when you spend half your life living out of a suitcase and the other half doing the laundry in it. It’s all kind of feeling like a big spin cycle, and I’m just watching it go round. Up and down. Back and forth. Every three weeks I take it out and do it again.

On the other hand, how freaking lucky am I that I get to have a job that sends me back so often?! And have so many friends that haven’t forgotten about me!?

I think I would just like to pick a city and stick with it for a little while.