And now for the interactive portion of the blog

I got the following email on Match today:

Did we ever meet? I know we wrote but I think things got too busy? Read up and see if anything rings a bell.

Background: we never wrote. He "winked" at me about a week ago, but I didn't respond because I never respond to winks and state so specifically in my profile. (About 2/3 of the way down, to see if they are still reading. This one clearly wasn't.) (Oh, and I never respond to winks because I view them as the lazy man's escape and if a guy can't make some effort at the beginning, why should I? Grow a pair and write a sentence already.) Anyway.

Do I:

A. Ignore him and not write back

B. Write back with one of those generic let downs ("Thanks, but no thanks!")

C. Write back saying, "Sorry, you must have me confused with someone else" and leave it at that

D. Write back and point out that while I did receive a wink from him, we never corresponded because I, as I wrote in my profile, don't respond to winks (subtext: you arrogant retard)

I have no interest in dating him because, while his picture is attractive, it is a headshot, as are half of the other 20 pictures he has posted. Also, I think he might be an arrogant retard. So I would respond only to have a bit of fun while implying that he can not follow directions nor find his way through a "sent" folder; however I'm really not as much of a bitch as I sound here and would feel slightly bad doing anything besides ignoring it.

What would you do?

Contributing to the demise of our nation's priorities

Without a doubt, the best part of the Larry King/Paris Hilton interview was the juxtaposition of the Anderson Cooper commentary directly following it.

I've never actually watched a full episode of Larry King before. It's always on at the gym as I'm running on the treadmill, but I'm never home in time for it, and if I am, I've never thought to watch it. But today I attended a trade show for work and found myself at home by the late afternoon. I skipped the gym in favor of a quick neighborhood run, specifically so I could be exercised and showered in time for the 6 PM broadcast.

My first thoughts were that her hair was the wrong shade of blond and her makeup was too much. Remember when Barbara Walters interviewed Monica Lewinsky, and she looked immaculately virtuous yet desirably gorgeous with a single Club Monaco lipstick? Paris had so much going on above the neck I couldn't help but compare her to when Britney talked to Matt Lauer for an entire afternoon with a fake eyelash dangling from the ledge. I would even swear that Paris' makeup was smudged in the same place.

I thought Larry, and CNN in general, let us down with trite softball questions, until Anderson swooped in at 7 PM to call attention to her thinly veiled "rehabilitation," holes in her stories, and general lack of connection she seemed to spark with America, lest any of us wonder for half a second if possibly she was a new woman after all.

It's that lack of connection with the world that I think is the biggest problem here. Nicole Richie has also made a career of little more than acting like a spoiled dumb blond, but she has a likability about her that people are drawn to. I've heard her in interviews, and she is genuinely funny and sassy and smartly sarcastic - the kind of girl I would love to be friends with if only I thought she would go out for dinner. She just seems a little more down to earth. Paris would do well to take a lesson or two from her lower-profile friend.

Well, as long as it's not a driving lesson.

Let's play A Year Ago Today (with lots of link love)

I think it's kind of funny that a year to the day since I opened our spa in New York, I'm hosting a closing party for our store in Pasadena. No worries - it's just a moving party - we're opening in a new location down the block in September. Hilary is catering the event and it is already shaping up to be brighter than my life at this time last year, what when I was staying in the Mouse House (Hi Maria!) and sampling skin care in the rain. Next to the Hepatitis Vaccine tent.

Life is good.

Playing hooky, Golden Girl style

In what must be a nod to Mercury being in retrograde, I came into work this morning to find that my computer was having a meltdown. I could open documents with my touch pad, but none of the buttons on my keyboard worked. I spent an hour on the phone with our tech support, then our admin spent an hour on the phone with Dell, and around noon I finally gave up and decided to work from home for the rest of the day.

I was actually very excited about this plan, as leaving early meant that I could likely escape sitting in the dreaded Friday afternoon traffic; and besides, I was exhausted. Last night I went to see my friend's friend perform at this club in Hollywood. She was supposed to go on at 9:30, but didn't actually start til 10. We left at 10:45, I got home at 11:30, and woke up this morning feeling like my body was stapled to the bed. (Minus any lacerations, but you get the point.) I had ordered an extra large Starbucks before work (thanks again, Noj!) but it only did so much.

So I got home around 1:00, worked for a good two hours, and then around 3:00, the wave of exhaustion washed over me. I suddenly felt incapable of sitting up in my chair. Since I actually had the luxury of taking it easy, I did just that. I crawled into bed in the middle of the afternoon and slept for almost three hours. I woke up to the phone ringing, slightly confused as to where I was. It was that kind of sleep.

I had made tentative plans with a friend of mine tonight, but now I think I am just going to stay in and take it easy. For the first time in three weeks, it seems my body might finally be acting it's age.

In which I continue to annoyingly name-drop

In continuation of my Entourage-themed week, tonight I went to the preview of Wolfgang Puck's new restaurant in the Pacific Design Center. Wolfgang himself was there for the event, billed as his homecoming "to the city that made him a star;" and, fittingly, so was Rex Lee, of Entourage, naturally. I may also have seen Kelly, the season two winner of the Apprentice, but since that show is barely relevant anymore, I have to imagine he was among the commoners, and not the red carpet walkers. Nevertheless, he was looking yummy as ever.

The food was fabulous. The crowd was interesting. And I was reminded, once again, that people-watching here is literally a spectator sport. I've commented on this before - that, unlike in New York, there is absolutely no shame in looking people over, in plain view of other guests; that it is not rude, but expected, part of the social dance. Everyone is someone in this town, and we're all trying to figure out who each of us are. I may actually be a nobody; but nobody else is as certain of that as me. They have to look twice just to make sure.

My friend and I grabbed a seat on one of the many sofas, relaxed with our drinks and Wolfgang specials, and said little to each other as we watched the crowd drift by. It was our own private theater production, choreographed with an endless stream of comedic outfits and tragic missteps. No judgments, as Crunch would say, just observations of the crowd courting each other from above the collarbone; grown-ups glancing over and up and down and over again until they either found what they were looking for or decided it wasn't going to be found there that night after all.

"This is what we do to convince ourselves we are happy," my friend said. But I am happy, I thought. It only takes a handful of D-listers and some free food and drink to get on my good side.

But I knew what she meant. We should be doing something more meaningful with our time, like falling in love, decorating a house, raising children. We shouldn't be taking pride in our game of Who's Who, simply to boost our own sense of self-worth.

Isn't that why we live here, though? Not for the celebrities, per se, but for the importance we feel when we have plans on the calendar, friends with whom to meet up, and gossip to share? Until I find something else with which to occupy my time, this suits me just fine. I could do a lot worse than having Wolfgang Puck cook me dinner.

Still in no rush to grow up

Yesterday morning I woke up, walked into the kitchen, and noticed a large puddle on the floor coming from my water heater. Uh oh, I thought, that can't be good. It being Sunday, I couldn't get a hold of my landlord, so I called the emergency number printed on the heater. They came right over, which was impressive for a Sunday morning, took a look at the 18 year old heater, and told me that I needed a new one. Since I am in a rental, they would need my landlord's permission to do anything, so I basically wrote them a $70 check for the visit and sent them back on their way.

I called my landlord this morning to take care of it, and while I should have a new water heater tomorrow, there's a possibility I may be without hot water tonight. That's not the worst thing in the world - I can shower at my gym tonight, which I do anyway, and tomorrow morning (which might actually motivate me towards an AM workout) - but the timing of this whole thing is a bit unfortunate. For the last two years, a girl I knew from college has lived next door to me. We weren't particularly close, but, more than my neighbor she was my friend, and I wouldn't have thought twice about asking to just pop next door to use her shower. Of course, she moved out on Saturday.

She and her husband and their dog moved to a house with a pool in the Valley. The irony is that as they moved out, I thought wistfully of a day when I might finally own a home; after hearing the estimate for a new water heater, I was again thankful I was only renting.

My weekend was fun, albeit seemingly pulled from an episode of Entourage. Friday night I went to a house party which was thrown by a fun bunch of guys, one of whom won an Oscar this year and wanted to make sure the entire party knew it. It was all industry people - either actors or agents or managers or lawyers, and while I usually think of myself as being able to talk my way out of a paper bag, I didn't have a whole lot to chat about. Nevertheless, my girlfriends and I left at 3 AM, which I believe is the latest I've stayed out since I moved to LA. I have to say, in the two weeks since I have been 31, I really haven't acted it.

I stayed in on Saturday night, partly to catch up from the night before but also rest up for Sunday, in which I had plans to lay by the pool at the Standard on Sunset. The Standard was a scene and a half, and not really my ideal scene - again with The Industry and 24 year olds in teeny bikini's - but, to my surprise, I had a blast. Jesse Metcalfe from Desperate Housewives was there with his friends; and while gossip sites may claim that he is gay or pulling a page from the Lohan book of rehab, I am happy to report that he seemed fully straight smooching a wannabe starlet and drinking only water. Or, at least out of a water bottle. Oh, and he is entirely adorable.

There was a DJ playing all day, the sun was out and the pool was warm, and I drank my weight in Bloody Mary's. Not the worst way to spend a Sunday. It reminded me of the year before I moved here and stayed at The Mondrian for work, spying on all the pretty people from my balcony and feeling like one later at the SkyBar. Despite the 24 year olds, it was easy to feel like a pretty person yesterday, like the magic of LA had washed over us, making all of us young and fun for one glorious afternoon. Or weekend, for that matter.

Celebrating 58 years of having the best hair in the family

Happy Birthday, Dad!

The last post in which I ever mention weight (well, this week)

About two years ago, I passed a couple that appeared to be praying over slices of pizza. Mid-day, on the street in Pasadena, it caught me off-guard, and I wrote a post gently mocking what I imagined they might be thinking.

Now, it turns out that I might not have been so far off the mark.

Thanks to everyone who responded to my post on Sunday with helpful suggestions and genuine support. It was a long-winded rant that really could have been summarized quite simply: Aging. Freaking. Sucks.

I think most women have issues with their weight at one time or another, and I am no exception. I am also not much of a wallower, so today at lunch I bought two new bathing suits that are so adorable and flattering I absolutely can not wait to wear them. Quick - someone invite me to a pool party before I change my mind!

From whining to wining

Why am I wearing two sweatshirts and sheepskin boots inside my 70 degree apartment?

Well, because even I get tired of hearing myself complain, I took a break from whining yesterday to go to the gym. There I did more lunges, squats, and dead lifts than I have done in a while, with more weight than I had ever done before. I stretched before and after, warmed up with a run and cooled down with a walk, but none of my diligence prevented my muscles from rebelling in shock today, stiffening up against my joints so that merely walking was a chore.

It actually wasn't bad when I woke up; the worst of it came at the end of the workday, after I had been seated for the greater part of eight hours, and after my drive home, when my body was again, at rest. Finally, after dinner, I hopped into a long-awaited hot shower, hoping to loosen up the muscles and joints and relieve the tension I had felt all day.

One of the benefits of my job is that my company actually makes a product that is ideal for sore muscles. Somewhat like a Ben-Gay, it uses cold and heat therapy to reduce pain - essentially, camphor and menthol cool the area and desensitize nerves, then another ingredient warms the skin, stimulating blood flow. I've used it before, and while it's not a magic cure-all, it works well enough for me to at least walk across the kitchen towards an open bottle of wine. (The only magic cure-all I know.)

So after my shower, I scooped out the product and applied it liberally over my quads and hamstrings. Then I put on my pajamas - drawstring pants and a tank top. Then I grabbed a hoodie from my closet. My Uggs, for good measure. And then things got out of control. I started shivering. Not just quivering, but I was shaking, my teeth chattering. My legs became so damn cold, they literally felt numb. I grabbed the throw blanket from my couch, and dove under my covers - Uggs on and all. I've never taken an ice bath, but suddenly I knew what one felt like. This is ridiculous, I thought. Like a horror movie when a temperature drop indicates the presence of an evil spirit. Don't think I didn't check my room for ghosts. It was bone-chilling enough.

I considered my options: shower, and try to get every ounce of this stuff off me, or layer up and wait for the cold to pass. Hoping to brave it, I bounded out of bed and into my closet, where I grabbed the heaviest sweatpants I own. I shimmied them up over my boots, over my pajama bottoms, thinking they might provide some insulation. No luck. I dove back under the covers, laughing out loud at the craziness, wondering if maybe I was possessed after all.

Finally I couldn't take it anymore. I ran into the bathroom, peeled off the clothes, and stood under another steaming shower for ten more minutes. Sorry, LA. Eventually I climbed out, put new pajamas on, but the cold was still there. Sweatpants went back on, then the hoodie, then an old college sweatshirt that was intentionally bought a size too large, to insulate myself from the blustery days at Syracuse.

When I sat down to write this, I was still visibly shivering. Since that first sentence, however, the heating properties kicked in - I shed the two sweatshirt layers and am genuinely toasty from head to toe. Of course, that may just as easily be attributed to the wine.

Edited to add: And now this is front page news. How bizarre. I am nothing if not on-trend. As I mentioned to Anonymous in the comments, though, our product does not contain this ingredient. Hey - I spot a PR opportunity here!

Weighing on my mind

There are few things in life that make me happier than a good workout. Exercising is such an integral part of my life, that when I go without, I feel it in every part of my body - from a literal looseness in my skin to the change in my appetite to a dip in my disposition. Nothing makes me feel more powerful than a long distance run or being the only girl on the weight floor, lifting weights that more men than women use.

What doesn't make me happy is that for the last five months, I have consistently worked out harder, longer, and more frequently than I have in years, and yet I am still the heaviest I have ever been. Muscle may weigh more than fat, but that means nothing when clothes I wore last summer are tight or bulge in the wrong places; it doesn't explain why I've gone up a cup size or gained an hourglass figure. I can run farther and more often than I could in New York, yet my thighs sit next to me the rare times I find myself on the sofa. It's the driving, I think, almost two hours in the car every day, versus my former life when I walked to work.

I eat the same, if not better. I drink less, which also helps minimize drunken binges or hangover breakfasts that were a real part of my recent past. I am doing everything right, so far as I can tell, and yet it is not enough.

I know that it is enough just to be healthy, and my body is healthy. But is my mind? I am at the gym five days per week. I pass on plans with friends, dates, networking opportunities, because I would rather work out and work towards my goal than spend a night in some restaurant or bar. I know that I am not "fat". But for the amount of work I put into this, I should be getting something more out. I should look the way I did at 22, 25, when I was ahead of the game, not just struggling to keep up.

What does it take? What more can I do? I'm not a crazy person who is going to exercise twice a day, nor would I ever stop eating. It's not the emaciated look I want, it's the tight, toned, cut look I used to have, before gravity started putting up such a fight.

I don't think it's just about exercising. I went to a pool party yesterday, and as I sat on the deck in my tank top and shorts, a girl at least 10 pounds heavier than me was having the time of her life, swimming unselfconsciously in her teeny bikini, cellulite exposed and rolls akimbo. She's a marathon runner. The girl can run 26 miles at a given time and she looks worse than I do, albeit happier. What, exactly, am I supposed to aim for? Fat and happy? I'll take thin and bitter for $100, Alex.

Maybe if I still lived in Boston I would be more content with my body, and accept the weight gain for what it is - age related. But here in LA, bodies defy age, and I refuse to succumb to the masses so easily. Besides, isn't complacency the reason more people are obese now than ever before? At what point does buying a larger size go from being a healthy acceptance to blind denial? There has to be a line between being satisfied and being lazy, and I don't think I will be satisfied until I look like Jennifer Aniston. Well, at least Jennifer Garner.

It's not just celebrities I'm comparing myself to, it's my friends. It's those other people at the pool party who were my age, and had half the tush I do, without the work, or at least the worry that they were missing that day's workout. They drank the same calorie-laden punch I did, didn't pass on the potato chips, and probably didn't even run the night before - as I did. It's the people I see on the streets all the time, eating dinner at the same restaurants, working out at the same gym, that I want to know, what is their secret? Why don't their thighs touch, why is their stomach still taught and flat, when we seem to have so much else in common?

I'm not fishing for compliments here, I am simply frustrated. Frustrated that I spend so much time and effort and mental energy on something that is not giving me what it used to. By no means am I ashamed of, or embarrassed of my body; it's just that my pride is taking a beating. For years, working out, being fit, was such a part of my identity - I took a lot of pride in my appearance, in my body, in my strength. I may never be the prettiest girl in the room, but for a long time, I was the fittest. And now, I don't even have that. So what's left?

The joy of working out, I suppose. The strength I have gained, the habit I have formed. The knowledge that if I didn't exercise, I'd be a lot worse off. But sometimes, when all I want to do is wear a bathing suit or a little black dress, I need more than an endorphin high to keep me going.

Welcome to Hollywood

Last week, I took a chance and responded to an ad on Craig's List. No, not that kind of ad, you dirty birdies, although maybe I would have had better luck down that route.

This ad was posted under Writing Gigs, placed by a boutique fashion PR firm looking for a freelance press release writer. That's right up my alley, I thought. I could whip those out in a few nights, make some quick money, and possibly some contacts in the fashion world. I sent off my resume and some writing samples, and received a call back yesterday.

The guy was eager to get me started, so he asked if I could come by their office after work tonight. They would pay me 50% up front, so, sure. I copied down the address and phone numbers for both the office and my contact's cell phone, and that was that. Shortly after, I received a confirmation email from him, and I wrote back inquiring about parking, since I could tell it was in a sketchy neighborhood and wanted to be sure there was a lot or garage nearby. I never got a response, and while that probably should have been my first sign that something was amiss, I thought, Oh, Lori, grow up - figure out the parking on your own. He has bigger things to do than spoon-feed you information, you big baby.

So I skip the gym tonight to head to the fashion office, and when I talk about a sketchy part of town, remember that scene in Pretty Woman where Julia Roberts hung out, pre-Richard Gere? Well that area is all cleaned up now; I was in its modern day equivalent. Fortunately, it was still light out, so I wasn't scared, but there were no public parking lots in sight and street parking was out of the question. Even if I could have found a spot, you couldn't have paid me to leave my car there. After driving around the block a few times, I found an underground garage in the strip mall across the street. I parked there and walked back across the street to the office.

The office itself was on the second floor, the door of which was situated in between a Korean deli and a cell phone repair shop. There were a series of buzzers on the door; however a sign told me they all were broken. Nonetheless, I dialed the suite number, 204, and someone answered. That someone told me no one by my contact's name was there. I couldn't ask what company it was because yesterday, when the contact called, he sped through the name of the company so quickly, I missed it both times. Again, I thought I would be rude if I asked a third time, so I let it go thinking I had plenty of other information. Bad call. I dialed all of the other buzzers, but received either no answer or "no habla ingles".

That's fine, I thought, I'll just call him. Except I had accidentally left my cell phone in the car across the street. So I went into the cell phone shop next door, asked to use their phone, and dialed the number I had in front me. A woman answered. I asked for my contact. She hung up. I called back. Same woman answered. I again asked for my contact. She told me no one was there by that name. I repeated the number back to her. It was correct, but there was no contact there.

The other number I had copied down was in my cell phone, so I went back across the street to get it from my car. I dialed that number, which was saved in memory, so there was no possibility I could have had this number wrong. Because, you know, at this point I am still thinking that maybe I copied the address down wrong, the other phone number down wrong, even though I am one of the most conscientious, anal retentive, stickler for details like this, the confusion must be MY fault. The phone rings, but I get a voice mail. And not a "Hello, you've reached" voice mail or even just a recorded name, but the pre-recorded sample message that could have belonged to anyone or no one. "Please. Leave. A. Message," a robot instructed me.

This is when I started to think the whole thing was a scam, even though I wasn't sure what they could be scamming me out of. Some writing samples from three years ago? All yours. I left a tense voice mail, relaying the building number, the suite number, as well as the phone numbers I had tried, asking for a return call within the next few minutes or I'd be leaving.

By that point, I'm back across the street in front of the building. Since the buzzers were supposedly broken, I took a chance and tried the door, and sure enough, it swung wide open. Who needs locks in this part of town? Inside, I wasn't sure what to expect, since I had buzzed 204 originally and they told me I had the wrong number, but I headed up the stairs anyway. At the top of the stairs was a hallway that consisted only of a row of identical doors, 202, 203, 204, one after the other, looking all the same - lonely, uninhabited. And that's when I noticed that the walls had been freshly painted. Like that day. There was no signage for any of the other tenants, including suite 204; there were only wet paint signs to let me know not to get too close.

This is creepy, I thought. Like a horror movie in daylight, the crime scene literally whitewashed, or like in that Michael Douglas movie, The Game, where one day he visits an office but the next day, when he returns, the office is gone and no one has any idea what he is talking about. That's what I felt like. Nevertheless, I knocked on 204, and knocked, and knocked. And, shocklingly - are you ready for it - no one answered.

Suddenly very spooked, I hightailed it out of there, back to my car, and actually checked in the backseat to make sure this wasn't all an elaborate ploy to kidnap the rich white girl from the west side. Why else would every piece of information I copied down yesterday turn out to be wrong or go nowhere? What are the odds? It was like the Bermuda Triangle of information, if the Bermuda Triangle was located at Santa Monica and Western.

I drove home indignant, sure I would never get a return call or answers to my questions. At the same time, I was highly relieved, sure I had dodged a bullet by missing the assignment, whatever it was. (A relative bullet, not literal - it wasn't THAT dangerous Mom, I swear!) And then he called. I ignored it the first time, let it go to voice mail. Before I could listen to the voice mail, he called again. I answered, asked if I could call him back, and he - after a pleading apology for missing me - said sure.

Once at home, I turned on my computer, and opened the email he had sent me to double check the phone number. It was the one I had dialed. That the woman answered. And hung up from. Whatever he had to say, I decided, I didn't care, no amount of money was worth this. But I was interested in how he was going to explain away all of the inconsistencies, so I let him do most of the talking first.

He had stepped out to UPS, and had an awful experience (I didn't ask) so got caught up there. He didn't think I had his cell number, so didn't take it with him. Later, he changed his story saying that he had his cell but he didn't notice my number popped up. I asked him about the other number and the woman answering, an he had no explanation for this. I mentioned ringing the buzzer, asking for him, to find out no one worked there. I mentioned knocking on the door, it being locked, but of course, he was at UPS and the assistants were out running errands. I politely but firmly told him that I thought I should take this as a sign that it wasn't going to work out, and wished him luck in finding someone else. We parted amicably, and I hung up, shaken but relieved.

Then I called my spyware superhero, SuperJux, and we Googled him. Why I didn't do this as soon as I got his name yesterday, I don't know. I could have saved myself a lot of trouble and gotten in a good workout tonight. The guy and company is legit, at least if you believe his My Space profile, and he does have wardrobe styling credits on IMDB. Of course, many of those credits are in porn films, and I don't know how much wardrobe actually gets styled there. And I don't know what any of that has to do with PR.

I do still like to give people the benefit of the doubt; I don't know that he was actually trying to scam me, at least not before I wrote anything for him. But I am more than happy to never find out.

Thanks, Noj

Just when I think I couldn't be any luckier, that my friends couldn't be better, that I couldn't be more blessed, a Starbucks gift card shows up on my doorstep by way of a friend in Alaska, enclosed in a card with possibly the most eloquent birthday wish I have gotten in years.

A little something too much
For the person who needs nothing
And believes she has everything.

Like the giver, the gift was extremely generous, something way too much, and yet it was exactly the one thing I need every single day.

"Is he out of his mind?" I thought, repeatedly, out loud. "Who does this?!"

He who does this is a better friend to me than I am to him. My most loyal commenter, someone who actually quotes my old blog posts back to me in emails. He consistently encourages me with positive feedback on my writing, and reads between the lines of all my posts and calls me out on the crap.

Among all the correspondence we've shared this year, I know I could write more, share more with him, ask more questions about his life. There's no real reason I don't.

After my initial disbelief, this touching gesture left me speechless, at a loss, at least, for written words. I don't think you want to read a post that simply has "Wow" written over and over again. Although that's basically what I wrote to him in my first "thank you" email. Maybe now I should start working on a second.

I must have done something good

I've never liked using the word "blessed" before, as in, "I'm so blessed to have such-and-such in my life."

There's just something about the concept of "being blessed" that seems disingenuous to me; maybe because it implies a religious observance to which I don't relate, or maybe because a big part of me believes that no one is blessed or not blessed - we all make our own luck in this world for better or for worse. Maybe those are the same points. But I often think the word sounds forced or artificial, and I want the speaker to just take credit for the goodness that's in their lives instead of trying to assign it to a higher power.

So I became a bit annoyed with myself this weekend when all that kept running through my mind was how truly blessed I felt to have so many good people in my life.

Friday night, when I was looking for a photo to include with my birthday post, I found the stack of birthday cards from last year's big 30th birthday. It was a huge stack. I sat down on my floor and read through every one of them, and found myself in tears before I was even half finished. I don't know why they touched me so much; it wasn't like anyone wrote love poems or even much more than Happy Birthday, but the sheer number of them was overwhelming. And the few things that people did write were poignant and sincere, and I just started to feel unworthy of all the good wishes. "I'm so blessed", I thought, before I caught myself.

Saturday the phone rang all day, and I cherished the time spent catching up with friends and family on the east coast, some who I only talk to on birthdays and holidays, which makes our infrequent correspondence all the more important. Saturday night was the birthday party, and a big part of me was still insecure about friends showing up, staying, having a good time. Again, they all came, they all stayed, they all kind of made me wonder - today, when I was looking at the photos wondering just how drunk I must have been to barely remember them being taken - what on earth they possibly see in me. I'm not that cool. I don't deserve this kind of reception. I'm not being down on myself. I just don't understand how I could have gotten this lucky.

I think of all the ways I could be a better person, a better friend, and sometimes I wonder why karma hasn't kicked me in the ass already, paying me back for those times I ignore my cell phone or blame the time difference for my lack of communication. That's when I start thinking that my retribution is already being paid out through my perpetual state of singledom, that in exchange for bountiful friends, I will remain a spinster for life. Because there's just no way I deserve all of these amazing people and friendships in my life. Not without sacrificing something.

Sacrifice, retribution, blessed. These are words I don't use lightly, if at all. The irony is that, while I may not believe in "blessings", I chose the title for this post based on the lyrics of a nun. (Albeit, a renounced nun.)

Celebrating 31 years of always being ready to get the party started