Rosy vision of youth

I received my first birthday card yesterday, predictably from my mom, who included this picture along with the greeting:

What's funny, aside from my expression, is that I have no idea when this photograph was taken. Oh, by the looks of the season and my haircut and the length of my legs, I'm guessing it was the summer of 1979, which would make me about 3 years old. But I have never seen this picture before, have no memory or story associated with it, which is highly unusual for someone who has kept as many photo albums as I have; someone who has insisted Mommy tell her again about how I made the pig face or screamed in Grandma's ear after she drove four hours down to visit. Every photograph has a story, and I thought I knew them all by now.

But this was new to me, if only it weren't so familiar.

Isn't this just the picture of suburban life in the late 1970's? The pink and yellow chaise lounge, rust building at the hinges, positioned on the brick patio to get the last drop of sun as it set across the street. The birdfeeder in the background that would get uprooted ten years later for a deck extending from the back of the house. The narrow garden along the line of the basement, sprouting sparse but significant signs of life. I hold a wooden clothespin in my chubby hand.

This was the house I grew up in, the house my mom lived in until 2003, when she finally sold it and moved to something smaller in a neighboring town. But in 1979, we had lived there for less than two years. My parents were still married, and I'm guessing, fulfilling someone's dream of family life in suburbia. My mom was not even 29, and still five years away from starting her own business, but she was probably more of an adult then than I am now.

By the time I moved out for college, weeds obscured much of the brick in the patio. The deck had been instrumental in the tanning needs of my teenage years, but eventually required more upkeep than we could manage. The clothesline had been removed with the birdfeeder years before, and while we did keep a garden for many years, that, too demanded more attention than either of us wanted to give. Eventually, it was forgotton and left to grow in, just the way the rest of the memories have been clouded by age and change.

"I've been missing you a lot lately", my mom wrote in the card. She couldn't have known back then that her only child would one day move so far away. She couldn't have imagined anything except a rosy-hued future, what with everything one could want literally in her own back yard.

Or could she? Was she worried then about her marriage or about work or that she was subjected to the suburbs, defying the picture-perfect image of Pleasantville? Is it possible that not every picture is worth 1000 words, or tells the whole truth and nothing but the truth? I can't help but wonder about the story behind this photo.

I miss her greatly, of course, as well as the days when she was all I needed on a summer afternoon. Before the landscape of our lives changed and sent me down a different, so very distant path. Things seemed so much simpler then. Although I'm sure "simple" tells only half the story.

One of these days I may tire of posting photos of myself in front of the ocean

But today is not that day.

I guess I just still can't believe that I live here and that my Memorial Day weekend could be spent in Malibu and not, say, the Jersey shore. And that I could wake up to the sound of waves crashing against the shore, and not someone's snoring from the bottom bunk. The ease of driving up the PCH versus the planes, trains, and automobile schlep it used to take just to leave the city. None of it has gotten old. In fact, things just keep getting better.

Although, hello, I am getting old! My birthday is in five days! And, far from the anxiety-ridden basket case I was last year at this time, I am actually so excited! I mean, I'm not looking forward to seeing "31" next to my MySpace profile, but I can deal. Partly because I have something really fun planned for the big day, but more so because I really feel like I have just had the one of the best years of my life.

Looking back, that 30th birthday was a turning point for me. Aside from the mental anguish of leaving my 20's and entering an era that I thought surely would confirm me a spinster for life, I was also coming off a year in which I had to try extremely hard at EVERYTHING. Moving to LA, as fun as it was, was not easy. Making friends, while not difficult for me, per se, was a process of trial and error. Girls I thought I would be close with, I turned out never to see, while other people that I clicked with, I soon realized weren't really my type. My entire first year here I felt like I was "auditioning" friends, or auditioning for friends, and it was more exhausting than dating because I took rejections more personally.

And then there was dating. I dated a guy for a while my first year here, and we had just started to rekindle our romance before my birthday. I knew at the time, though, that it wasn't going anywhere, and the whole thing stressed me out so much, because I felt like the relationship stood for something bigger: did I want to start 30 making the same bad decisions I had made in my 20's?

Being in a new environment, in general, was just taxing. A new job, a new city, a new culture - when you live in one place for a long time you forget how hard it can be when you don't know the good dry cleaners, the good doctors, or how to parallel park. Just getting in the car everyday was a challenge, or at least whenever I'd have to drive somewhere new, and worry about getting lost or in an accident because I'm too busy trying to read the directions in a six-lane freeway.

But when my birthday rolled around, and everyone showed up and stayed the whole night, it was like something in me shifted. I realized that I had, in fact, made some great friends in LA, that I was among truly awesome peeps. And once I stared my biggest fear in the face - being 30 and single with no prospects - it suddenly didn't seem so bad. I was a long way from being the scary cat lady. My outlook on things changed. The guy and I stopped dating, and became friends. Work picked up and sent me to New York for half the summer, which let me do my job in the environment with which I am most familiar. I just remember waking up the morning after my 30th birthday party feeling satisfied in a way I hadn't remembered feeling in a long time.

So, while I'm not absolutely dying to turn 31 on Saturday, a lot of that is only because I'm sad to say goodbye to 30.

Sometimes I wonder how I ever worked in fashion

This morning, when I grabbed a light pink tank top to match the piping on my hot pink gym shorts, I thought the look I was going for was Coordinated. Even when I grabbed the ankle socks with the corresponding pink trim, I thought I'd still be in safe territory.

It wasn't until I got to the gym, however, when I paired the outfit with my pink and white sneakers and pink-skinned iPod, that I realized the look was less "coordinated" and more like the lesbian love child of Malibu Barbie and Strawberry Shortcake. With maybe a touch of Bobby Trendy thrown in.

Up to bat for Team Elizabeth

Because I have a lot of free time, I tend to do things like watching ten-minute clips of The View in which Rosie and Elizabeth have at it. I mean, have you seen this thing?

First, let me say that I have always been a fan of Rosie. When she joined The View, I was estatic. When she announced her departure, I was disappointed. During the eight months in between, I have loved listening to her voice her opinions, mud-sling with Donald Trump, and call Barbara Walters out on her bureaucratic bullshit. A liberal, I usually agree with what she's saying even if I don't agree with the way she says it.

Elizabeth Hasselback I have never given much thought to. She's on the show as the token Republican, offering a pretty, perky demeanor to soften her right-wing rhetoric. While I almost never agree with her views, I don't dislike her; I usually assume she must be spouting her nonsense from a script in her head, one in which she wonders how many years are left on her contract and she has keep up the conservative facade. She was on a reality show for goodness sakes. There was nothing conservative about her.

Over the past few weeks, Rosie and Elizabeth have been getting a lot of media attention for their on-air fueds, and Rosie typically gets positioned as the browbeating bully tormenting "poor little" Elizabeth. Even if you like Rosie, you have to admit she can talk anyone into the wall. And I guess that's why I like this clip. (All ten minutes of it). Because Elizabeth doesn't back down, and as the confrontation escalates, she only gets more focused and intent on making her point, while Rosie loses ground and basically gives up. I don't even remember how they got on the subject, and I probably don't agree with what Elizabeth said about it, but I sure like how she said it.

Pet Peeve

People who respond to evites under Maybe saying they have to "check with my other half."

I get that people are in couples now, I do. I'm not being bitter. I'm all for plus-1's and the "we have to see what our plans our" comments - I understand that you have to take your favorite person in the world or your baby daddy into consideration most of the time. However.

If you really consider yourself half a person and announce that you can't make a decision without the consent of another person who must only have half a brain, then I say, stay the f#@% home.

What TiVo gets me: Annoyed

I've had a TiVo box in my living room for the past two months, positioned nicely on my console under the TV and alongside the DVD player.

"Just plug it in!" my friends encouraged me. "That's all it takes!" they swore. One had kindly given me her TiVo box when she moved apartments and upgraded to her new cable company's DVR service. They couldn't understand how I had functioned for so long without it; no one can, really, which is something I kind of get but honestly don't miss. I really don't watch that much TV. "But you would," they assured, "if you can forward through commercials and watch what you want, when you want."

I guess, I thought, but should I really be aiming to watch more TV? Probably not, but I've started to think that maybe I'm spending too much time online these days, and getting lost in a series of bad programming might relax me. And really, I've just gotten tired of having to explain myself to people who don't understand why I don't have TiVo. You'd think I was telling them I don't own a television. Or shower.

So in the interest of peer pressure, I came home tonight, plugged the damn thing in, logged online to set up an account, and found myself staring at pages of set-up instructions that promptly told me what no one else had mentioned: I needed a home phone line to install it. I'm calling to cancel the service tomorrow.

Maybe by September I will get around looking into DVR. In the meantime, I happily skipped current episodes of Desperate Housewives and Brothers and Sisters to read Apprentice updates on Tim's blog. Which, in my eyes, was time better spent.

Should be posted on every treadmill

Surgeon General's Warning: Exercising while watching the Food Network may result in post-workout food shopping that renders said workout moot.

Catching up is hard to do

I don't know if it's because I am about to turn 31 that I am suddenly uber aware of my age, but I have noticed lately that my mind and body are much more sensitive to alcohol than they were just a year ago.

After my relaxing weekend by which, on Monday, I felt thoroughly detoxed and rejuvenated, I spent the last two nights out on the town. Actually "on the town" is overstating it. Monday I had two glasses of wine at a friend's house, and last night I met another friend for dinner and drinks, but it wasn't a late night by any means. Both mornings that followed, I have woken up feeling not hungover, but different, and my days have been sluggish and less than productive. A year ago, two glasses of wine was a nightly ritual; these days I just feel the effects so much more, it's enough to make me want to cut back considerably.

I'm about to embark on my third night out in a row; and while I know I will have a glass of wine with dinner, I'm legitimately not looking forward to it.

There's a reason I'm a writer

There's an episode of The Brady Bunch in which Cindy wins a spot on a popular game show for teens. She spends the week leading up to the taping bragging about being chosen, developing a swelled head, and basically alienating her friends and family with her overblown ego. Naturally, on the day of the show, as soon as the red light goes on signaling that cameras are rolling, Cindy develops a paralyzing stage fright that renders her mute and keeps her from answering a single question.

That's how I felt today, as I gave my first ever on-camera interview as a spokesperson for my company.

To be clear, I work in PR. That is, behind the scenes. I coordinate the interviews, prepare the message points, and make sure that someone else looks and sounds good on camera. Don't get me wrong - I communicate message points to the media everyday, but usually it is behind the comfort of my computer or with a well-rehearsed pitch that I have already perfected. But a call came this morning for an interview that was right up our alley, and anyone that we would normally put on camera was unreachable. So I studied my message points, practiced in front of my colleagues, and of course, clammed up with frogs in my throat the second the camera started rolling.

Keep in mind, I just spent three days in New York delivering these exact same messages. Messages that are the backbone of our company, that I can recite in my sleep, messages that I helped develop and have written as part of numerous marketing materials! I have no problem articulating these messages one-on-one or in front of a group of beauty editors. But put a camera in the room and I draw a total blank.

Fortunately, the taping was not live and my comments were edited down to sound somewhat intelligent. That, I guess, is what they call "the magic of television."

Missing Mom

This is the second year in a row my mom has gone on vacation over Mother's Day weekend. Perhaps I am being too sensitive, but I think she does it so she doesn't have to think about the fact that I can't be with her. Which is completely understandable, but it works both ways. I want to avoid doing anything today that brings me in front of happy mothers and daughters because it sucks that I can't be one of them.

For someone as social as me, I require an unusually large amount of alone time. Maybe because I am an only child and grew up happily entertaining myself, but there are times when I just crave the solitude. Traveling to New York and having to be "on" all last week for work really took a lot of out of me. In response, I have made this weekend All About Me (AAM), exercising and cleaning, reading fashion magazines and watching romantic comedies. It has been completely rejuvenating, but now, on Sunday, I think I am ready for a little interaction again.

Problem is, I'm not sure what to do. It's nice out today and I was thinking of going to the beach or for a hike in the hills; however, I treated myself to a facial with microdermabrasion yesterday, and now I am not supposed to get any sun for three days. Also, I haven't called any of my friends to let them know I am back, and I feel a bit sheepish now, like, Hi, I got back three days ago, want to hang out? And besides, I know that everyone is with their moms today, which brings me back to my first issue.

I constantly say that moving across the country was the best thing I ever did. I just sometimes wish I could have moved all of my friends and family with me.

Back in Cali

On Monday night, as I tossed and turned until almost 2 AM, unusually frightened by the unfamiliar shadows in my hotel room, I thought to myself that I couldn't wait to come home. Now that I am here, I'm wishing I'd had just one more night in New York.

It was a good trip. The work was good, the weather was gorgeous, and the time I spent with my friends was phenomenal. Unfortunately, it just wasn't enough time.

I can't describe how good it made me feel to be back among my college friends - the ones I've known since we were 19, the ones who moved to the city with me at 22, the ones who are still there now, living their city lives without me. When I first moved, we all talked weekly or every other week; now, phone calls are monthly or spread out over even more time, as our schedules conflict and we allow the time difference to get the better of us. I had worried that I would get there and our conversations would be shallow, filled with the banal details of work or home, maybe spiced up with a tale of a tryst or two, but barely scratching the surface of where we used to be. And it was a bit like that, at first, actually, when we first met up and I had so much I wanted to say, that the only way I could keep all my news and questions from spewing out of my mouth at once was to focus on the easy, the expected.

Fortunately, once the basic questions and catch-up were out of the way, we all got back in our groove and fell into the comfort zone that used to be my life: interaction so familiar and easy and enjoyable, and apparently something that I sorely missed.

That's not to take away from my friends here in LA; rather, there is simply something so wonderfully comforting about spending time with people from your past, the only way I can describe it is as a huge sigh of relief when you hadn't even realized that you were holding your breath. I am so proud of the friends I have made in LA and constantly marvel at my luck at having found so many amazing people here; however they are all still new, and I guess I am still holding my breath a little.

As I waited in the airport taxi line on Sunday, and as I ran errands through the city streets on Monday, it occurred to me that for the first time since I had moved, I no longer felt like a New Yorker. My wardrobe screamed "LA", I was entirely too relaxed to be walking through rush hour, and I was there strictly for business - not a boyfriend or baby shower or other social call. While that partly filled me with pride, I worried that this trip was going to be a turning point - one in which the New York part of my life suddenly seemed less relevant. But, if anything, the nights with my friends this week convinced me that a very big part of who I am is based on that coast, and it's not going anywhere, no matter where I live.

East coast - west coast limbo

So, I'm writing from New York, where I am on yet another work trip. Another day, another dollar, no Rash Face to speak of. Not sure how I beat that one yesterday, but I am very thankful.

I had set my alarm for 8 AM this morning; so, naturally, I woke up at 6. Then 6:30, then 7, until finally, at 7:30, I just got out of bed already and finished packing, cleaning, and took my time getting ready until it was time to leave. The flight left on time, but because we were "overloaded" we had to make a pit stop in Salt Lake City for gas. This annoyed most of my fellow passengers, but I hadn't made any plans for tonight and was really in no rush to get to New York, so it didn't bother me at all.

Utah is one state I have never been, and, even though I wasn't going to be leaving the plane, I was kind of looking forward to touching down in a new city. I watched in awe as we came in for the landing against the great Salt Lake; I literally gasped in amazement when the plane turned and we were suddenly surrounded by snow-capped mountains on every side. From the air, the Lake had looked like the picture of summer; from the ground, it was a completely different scene, a different season.

We were grounded for less than an hour, but it was enough to make the rest of the day feel exhausting. We landed at JFK at 8, I didn't get a cab until 9, and I didn't reach my hotel until almost 10. I stay at the same hotel every time I come for business, and am treated like a VIP. So when the first room didn't have a full-length mirror, I had no problem going back downstairs and requesting a new room. Graciously, I was given another room, but that room was also lacking a mirror, and, I'm sorry, I just can't get dressed without one. Call me vain, call me whatever you want, just don't ever call me uncoordinated. So I went BACK downstairs, and got my choice of two rooms, and now I am set up in something in between a junior suite and a palace, and oh, it has an extra bed if anyone wants to have a sleepover.

Once I was happy with my room, I went down to the restaurant/bar in the hotel in which I am also a regular. By the time I made it though, they were just closing the kitchen, and I had to practically beg them for something to eat. The quickest thing on the menu, I scarfed down a huge order of edame as my dinner, along with a glass of wine. Because I had eaten so little all day, one of the two made me nauseaus, and I took a second glass "to go" up to my room, where I sit now, partly exhausted from sitting on a plane all day, but partly wired having done nothing of substance and knowing that it is only 9PM in LA.

And another work trip begins.

Seven year(s since the) itch

Shortly after I graduated from college and moved to New York, I developed a sporadic allergy whose cause eluded me for over a year. I have never been allergic to anything in my life - not pets, not pollen, not any food I had ever tried. But every few weeks or so, starting when I was 22, I would wake up in the morning with my eyelids swollen and patches on my jawline red and itchy.

This would happen for a few days in a row, in which the redness and tenderness would be puffy and swollen in the mornings, but throughout the day gradually decrease into dry, scaly skin. Sometimes the allergy would be noticeable only to me; other times I would have to stay home from work, embarrassed by the red patches and eyelids that drooped like the saggy baggy elephant. Some days it was merely frustrating; other days it was horrifying. I not-so-lovingly referred to my condition as "rash face," as in, "I can't leave the house today, I have rash face."

I went to my primary care physician about it, but he was of little help, suggesting I start taking certain items out of my diet to see if we could figure out what caused it. Having lived with the condition for a few months, at that point, though, I was pretty sure it wasn't food-related. That wouldn't have explained why the condition only presented itself in the mornings, and anyway, I hadn't changed my diet in years.

Finally, after one particularly bad episode, I made an appointment with a dermatologist. I didn't even have Rash Face by the time I went to see him, but he asked me a few questions and within five minutes of being in the office, he had correctly diagnosed the problem: nail polish.

Apparently after I moved to New York, I had switched top coats, to one with a particularly potent chemical. Also, apparently, I slept with my hands by my face at night, irritating the very sensitive skin around the eyes and neck. This perfectly explained not only why I would have problems in the mornings (and not during the day when my hands were away from my face) but also why the problem would come and go so seemingly randomly. After all, I didn't polish my nails every week - only when the mood struck, which could have been twice a week or twice a month.

Liberated by this knowledge, I went home, threw out all of my nail polishes, and, sure enough, never had the allergy again.

Until now.

Two weeks ago, I woke up in the morning with swollen, itchy eyes. The swelling went down by that night, but for the next three days, I recognized the familiar peeling, dryness, and sagging that meant the allergy was over and the skin was in the process of healing. A bit freaked out, because I haven't worn polish on my fingers in years, nor could I recall dipping my hands in chemicals before I went to sleep, I tried to monitor everything I put on my face and hands for the next few days. Nothing. Nothing new that I bought at the drugstore, no makep or face products I hadn't used before. I hadn't changed detergents or eaten anything exotic. After a week or so, I decided it must have been a one-time thing, and became more lax about monitoring my routine.

So of course when I woke up this morning and felt the corners of my eyes itching, it didn't surprise me to see that they were on the verge of getting puffy. I raced to the bathroom to wash off anything I might have put on the night before, but, if history is repeating itself and this was caused by my hands, then I know that most likely, the damage has already been done. Five hours later I sit here, wondering if the itch on my eyelids is real or psychosomatic, trying to remember if my lids were dry yesterday or if this is a new development.

Clearly, since I can't even decide whether my symptoms are real, the allergy isn't as dramatic as the one I had before. But it is just as frustrating. I use only skin care products from the company I work for, which are all natural; and while I know that people can be allergic to natural things, they are the same products I have used for months. (Well, I don't mean the exact same products, like from the same jar - that would be gross, and yes, likely irritating if dirt gets in there. Like normal, sanitary people, I use up one jar and buy another. And sometimes, even if the jar isn't done, I get another, because stuff just goes bad after a while.)

I don't think I touched any chemicals before I went to bed. I didn't scrub the bathtub or anything, although by the looks of it today, I'm thinking that's long overdue. In fact, all I really did yesterday evening was celebrate Quatro de Mayo at El Guapo for Happy Hour, came home and checked my email, and then went to bed at the embarrassingly early hour of 9:30 PM. I washed my hands and face before getting into bed, and had a very sound sleep until I woke up to the familar itch.

I'm praying I don't have to go through this process again. Although I will tell you two things I learned from the experience the first time. One, my fingernails have never looked better since I gave up polish and manicures seven years ago. Seriously, people think that polish strengthens the nails, but all those chemicals actually weakens them. My nails are harder, stronger, and longer than anyone else's I know. Two, I have the name of a GREAT dermatologist in New York. Not that that helps me now.

Probably just adding to the ex files

Upon request, here is the ex-boyfriend post I started on Sunday. And revisited Monday. And gave up on Tuesday:

One of the benefits of dating me is that the relationship probably won't last but I'll never begrudge you for it later. Unlike many people, I find that I have remained friends with almost all of my exes from my adult/post-college life. Maybe this is a testament to the fact that I generally go out with pretty decent guys and have healthy, if passionless relationships, or maybe it's a sign that I am much more comfortable living in the past than looking towards the future, but it works for me and is something I am fairly proud of.

Recently, two exes have made their way back into my life. Nothing romantic is happening with either - not that I would want there to be - but I find it interesting that they both came back into my life at the same time. Especially since both of them are officially "off the market."

Maybe because I know nothing can happen with them, but I allow myself a kind of a guilty thrill whenever I hear from each. There's something comfortable and familiar about ex-boyfriends, where I can relax and be completely myself, seeing as they already know me so well - and still want to talk to me. There's also something validating about the connection, as if, in spite of all my failed relationships, I have tangible proof that actual guys have, in fact, liked me.

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This is where the post stopped, because after those thoughts, I couldn't think of where I really wanted to go with the story. There IS no story, I guess is the problem. I am not having an illicit affair with anyone, nor do I want one. I had just come off a long, comfortably fun day with Copywriter, and I wanted to write about it, but there wasn't really anything to write. What stuck out in my mind most that evening was how nice it was to be back in touch with him, and, even though it doesn't technically mean anything, the fact that I have his friendship means a lot.

And I guess that has been happening a bit lately. Exes getting in touch with me for no reason, really, other than to say hi, to reminisce. I'm smart enough to know that such correspondance isn't always innocent, but, like I said, I have dated pretty decent guys and if I thought any had insincere motives, I wouldn't encourage the friendship. I have been the other woman, once in my life, and while I am still friends with him too, I know better than to ever do it again. No one needs that kind of karma.

And in the name of karma, I figured that this sudden influx of exes might be a sign for me to balance out my boy energy. If I'm going to have all these guys from my past, then maybe it's time to find some for my future.

Late Sunday night, after I gave up on the blog, I signed myself up for Match.

Much ado about nothing

I know I haven't been doing much writing. It's not that I have nothing going on, in fact, I couldn't be busier! Although it's not like some people, who get too busy to blog; rather, I find that the busier I am, the more time I find to write. I don't know what my problem is, whether it is a shortage of subjects or just a persistant case of writer's block.

Actually, I think part of the problem is my preference for writing. As many things as I've had going on over the past few weeks, I'm not one to blog my to-do list or weekend recap. I don't know why, I certainly am addicted to enough other blogs that do that. I guess I just get greater joy at writing anecdotally, finding meaning in singular exchange, or a story to tell through a few mundane details. It's more of a challenge for me, and until now, one I think I have, for the most part, met.

I've started two posts over the past five days. One was about seeing photos of people I grew up with and finding that they looked disappointingly middle-aged; the other was about ex-boyfriends, the fact that I typically stay friends with them, and that two have recently made their way back into my life. But neither of the posts went anywhere. Once I began writing and got the initial thoughts out of my head, I found that I really had very little to say. The thoughts just kind of died off in cyberspace, or got distracted by Grey's Anatomy, or something.

And then there is the fact that more people are reading this thing these days, and I feel like there is less I can write. Not about me, because I am pretty comfortable with what I write about myself, but about my friends. Three people have said to me in the last few weeks alone, "Don't blog about this, okay?" Of course, I could use synonyms so their names would never be traced, but they would see their story on here and feel self-conscious or exposed, and I don't want that.

Nor do I not want my friends to read! The whole point of this thing was to have a showcase where everyone could catch up with me despite a three-hour time difference or my aversion to the telephone in any time zone, and I still feel that the more people that find this the better.

I just need to start finding new material.