Blue and White and red all over

I'll post "the truth" answer tomorrow, but I find it fitting that just when I am purging all of my sins (well, not all of them), I find myself dressed in head-to-toe white for a White Party I went to on Saturday night.

Okay, so it's not the most virginal outfit, but I would say we were some of the more virtuous there. I mean, this was more the standard fare:

If you watched Sunday night's episode of Entourage, you may recognize the cabana in back of me as belonging to the pool area of the W Hotel, which is by no means a low key place. So I had kind of expected a fashion show. I've also kind of done this before.

Back when I was 24, I tagged along with a friend to her Hamptons share for a weekend, and found myself having to get ready for a White Party - without a stitch of white in my overnight bag. Now, back in 2000, white wasn't as popular as it is today. Designer jeans were just starting to become the Saturday night staple, taking over the reign of black pants, but no one, at least not that I knew of, wore white. Yet, that evening, I was the only one at a party full of hundreds of people not wearing white, and I was extremely self-conscious the entire time. I refused to make the same mistake twice.

Searching for the perfect white outfit, even now though, was not easy. Dresses were either too dowdy and demure or too see-through and slutty. I own a lot of white separates, but none of them exactly matched each other, let alone looked good together, so I spent the better part of my Saturday shopping.

I ended up having to choose between two outfits. On on hand, I purchased a very pretty, very flattering cotton and linen Calvin Klein dress. It was lovely. But. I felt like a debutante in it, or maybe a wedding cake accoutrement. My other option was the sexy tank top that I felt much more at home in, although I wasn't loving how it looked with the white culottes from my closet. It wasn't the most flattering line around my hips and butt, but the shirt was low cut enough that I figured no one would be looking at my hips anyway.

I tried both outfits on twice. I couldn't decide. I wished I had a neighbor whose opinion I could solicit. (I do, but that would be weird. Really.) Then I remembered that I live in a world with awesome technology, and I used my cameraphone to photograph myself in both outfits, and send them to Laura for her near-instant opinion. She voted for the sexy shirt, and I'll be bringing the dress back to the mall next Saturday. What DID we do before the internet?!

Speaking of technology, I also purchased a Bluetooth this weekend. I set it up all by myself, and was so excited when my phone rang as I drove home from the gym tonight. I clicked the button, heard a voice, but could not figure out how to attach the damn thing to my ear. Baby steps, I suppose. Baby steps.

Thanks, everyone, for playing the meme game! Truth be told tomorrow!

What do you mean I have too much time on my hands?

Gawker posted a funny item today, titled, "Can You Tell a Woman is Single and Unlaid Just From Her Apartment?" As I read down the list and recognized nearly everything as my own, I decided that clearly, you can. Crap.

I've copied the full list below and added some commentary, but have also taken it a step further, and created a full-fledged Flickr album as evidence of my membership in this not so exclusive club. I think it would be fun if all my single girl readers, or anyone who might find themselves with stuff like this just lying around, wanted to take their own pictures and add them to this set. After all, we may be single, but we're certainly not alone.

• Piles of magazines everywhere, comprised of tons of pretentious ones that are clearly untouched and then severely thumbed-through Vogues and Luckys
• Overflowing shoe rack and nothing in the fridge
• Scented candles
• Slovenly heaps of little-used makeups in the bathroom
• Stuffed animals in the bed (No way, I swear!)
  
• Cat hair on the furniture (Definitely not!)
  
• Cat smell (Double definitely not!)
  
• Cabinets full of mugs featuring the likeness of lady who looks like those hypertrophically-limbed Daily Candy illustrations, bearing the legend "I Love Shopping" or whatnot (um, I only use plastic)
  
• Anything pink (My camera ran out of memory)
• Ornamental pillows
• Unedited bookshelves, esp. if they include He's Just Not That Into You or anything along those lines
• Nair
• Lite cottage cheese in the fridge (I have light string cheese)
• Anything lite or diet around. Cases of Diet Coke. Weight Watchers 'Just 2 Points' bars
• Inspirational or thinspirational things on the fridge (What about near the fridge?)
• Framed posters (doesn't everyone?)
  
• Handbag tree (um, no)
  

Weekend rewind

Question: Is it bad not to return a phone call from someone you haven't even met? I can't do Match anymore - I'm all out of steam.

Other things I am out of: energy. For the last few days, I have felt tired and lethargic, and oh, about 12 pounds heavier than this time last week, reminding me, yet again, that my body just does not recover from weekend benders nearly as well as it used to.

Not that this weekend would qualify as a bender, by any means, just a very busy two days in which I got to play Entertainment Director for one of my oldest and dearest and bestest friends, Maria, who came to visit on Friday. Maria and I went to college together, lived in New York together, and then moved out of New York, if not physically together, at the same time. I've seen her only a handful of times since then, mostly for a single afternoon or shared with a larger group; but this weekend, for probably the last time before she gets married this year, she was all mine.

I picked her up from the airport around 1:00 on Friday, and after she dropped off her bags at my place, we headed over for lunch at the Viceroy. Sat by the pool, had some wine, huge salads, and just talked the afternoon away. We came back to my place around 5:00, and just relaxed for a few hours before meeting up later with our friend Ryan at the Village Idiot. Ryan had been in our dorm Freshman year, in our lives all through college, and then in New York for five years until he moved out here.

Saturday was gorgeous, so we headed to the beach, and she reminded me how lucky I was to live here. Not that I forget, per se, but I admit that I have started taking certain things for granted. After a few hours sitting in the sun, we walked down the block to Baja Cantina, where we met our friend Seth for lunch. Seth had also gone to Syracuse, also lived in the City, and also moved out here around the same time as Ryan. (Clearly I followed a trend.) Margaritas and chips filled our afternoon, and we came back to my place and crashed for a few hours before having to get ready for dinner.

I had made reservations at Koi, hoping for a fun, scene-y atmosphere, and we went with our friend Lauren, one of our sorority sisters who just moved to LA this year. There were paparazzi outside, but if they were waiting for anyone in particular, we never saw who. The restaurant was okay. I don't eat sushi, but can usually find something on the menu; both Maria and Lauren agreed it was average at best. (Have I ever told the story about when I cried on a sushi date? I can't possibly understand how I'm single.)

After dinner, we picked up Ryan so he could take us to one of the night clubs he handles publicity for. Yes, a club. We were the oldest ones there by at least five years, and both Maria and I were stifling back yawns, but honestly, it was just so nice to all be together. Pretending we were 25 again. We left before 1:30, but by the time I dropped Ryan and then Lauren off and got back to my place, it was 2:00 AM. Crash.

Sunday morning we both woke up by 8:00, even though my body was screaming at me to stay in bed. We walked to get coffee, sat bleary eyed on the couch, and headed back to the airport shortly after 10:00. I was back at my place by 11:00, and while I couldn't go back to sleep, I also couldn't do anything productive. So I started a second blog.

The last two days have been busy at work, and focusing on my projects has drained me of what little energy I have. Now I sit again at the computer, procrastinating letting one Match guy down and blatantly ignoring another. I totally have a case of the Tuesdays.

Sunflowers and moonbeams

I know there's something to be said about looking at other people's vacation pictures - usually, that "they're so boring." But my friend Andra just got back from her honeymoon in Switzerland, and I find myself repeatedly browsing through her album, looking just one more time, until Snapfish decides I've overstayed my welcome.

I went to Switzerland during the summer of 1995 as part of a "teen tour" through Europe, in which we saw about six countries in four and a half weeks. Do I have stories from that trip! Remind me, one day when I have blogger's block, to tell you about meeting Richard Simmons at the top of the Roman Colosseum, missing our train from Venice to Munich (while our bags were already on it!), or how we made friends with a Tabasco sauce heiress who, at 19, had already been in and out of rehab more times than Lindsay Lohan. But anyway...

Of all the countries we saw, I have always remembered that Switzerland was my favorite. I had never seen mountains like that, as high and jagged and snow-capped, even in summer! Set against the lush green rolling hills, and architecture that continually made me feel like I was in a fairy tale, or The Sound of Music, I was smitten with Switzerland.

Browsing through Andra's album, I recognized a few sites, like the covered bridge in Lucerne, but mostly just marveled, nostalgic and envious, at the familiar-yet-forgotten landscape. Her pictures looked a lot like mine; yet, at the same time, they looked nothing like mine. Mine were taken with a teenage hand more than ten years ago, before digital cameras let us all delete and re-take anything that wasn't immediately album-worthy. Like her wedding photos, Andra's honeymoon pictures stirred something in me I wasn't totally prepared for and still can't explain.

And then I came to this:

You may recall that 1995 was also the year of the sunflower. I was in college then, and I think every girl had at least one sunflower poster on her dorm room wall, one shrunken t-shirt with a sunflower on the chest, and drew sunflower chains in the margins of her notebook during boring classroom lectures. Don't pretend you didn't.

That was also the summer that, when I wasn't on my trip, Andra and I spent quite a large amount of time together. We roller bladed around the town lake, drank fuzzy navels on the roof of her house, and even made a "Feel Good" mixed tape for all of our friends and decorated the cover with - can you guess? - sunflowers!

One of my favorite memories is a night that we drove down to hear her friend play at an 18+ club in Providence. It was a small little place and each band looked like they should be covering old Metallica songs, but there were a ton of kids from our graduating class there, so there was enough energy and drama in the room to keep my interest. Like most nights back then, word spread that one of the guys was having an after-party, so we drove back in anticipation of continuing the fun.

But, sometime in between the last set and our return home, the party got canceled, and we found ourselves with nothing else to do. Driving around aimlessly, we passed through a quiet street adjacent to a cornfield, and suddenly, I saw, high above the cornstalks, a whopping yellow full moon. Andra, who was driving, missed the vision before it passed behind the trees, so she put the car in reverse and drove like that, back a quarter mile, until it was again in plain sight. And then, as if the Iowa-like corn gave it a cue, the song "Footloose" came on the Feel Good Mix.

"Let's get out and dance!" I suggested, and we did just that. Ran through the cornfields, danced unselfconsciously to the song blaring out of the car windows, until it ended, and we got right back in. At 19, no cares in the world, except where the next party was and did you see that crazy full moon?!

Ultimately, we ended up just driving to the lake, sitting by the car, and listening to rest of the Feel Good Mix. I wrote, the next day in my journal, that "it was one of the best nights of the summer."

I know that we danced in a cornfield and not a sunflower field, but I have associated Andra with sunflowers ever since. Seeing that picture, at the end of a long roll of photos that already had me thinking of that summer, was like someone ripped into my subconscious and stole a memory I forgot I had. Presented it back to me in a way that, dream-like, wasn't exactly right, yet still made perfect sense.

When I shared this memory with Andra last week, she wrote back that, coincidentally, there had been a giant full moon at her wedding. And that just seems about right, considering that, for as long as I've known her, she's always brought a distinct light into my life.

Happy birthday, Andra, and congratulations again.

Back in the thick of it

Earlier this week, I was plagued with a mysterious lower back pain. It started mid-day on Sunday, well after I landed in LA; and while it didn't feel like a muscle pull, I thought maybe it had to do with being smushed on the plane or sleeping the night before in a strange bed. (A Heavenly bed, though, so, weird...)

It actually felt more like the aches I sometimes get with a fever, but other than the pain, I had no other symptoms. Monday it hurt the worst, but by yesterday, I was fine. Until now, that is, when suddenly my upper back is hurting, not from a mysterious ailment, but from the intense stress of learning about the water pipe bursting in New York yesterday, the knowledge that some of my best friends were right there in the thick of it, and the memories of living in that city through 9/11 and the Blackout of 03 that came rushing back with a force I haven't felt possibly since I lived there.

Everyone is fine. Two people I know are staying at home today - their (different) offices are on the exact block that it happened. "I am working from home today because the doors blew out and the electricity is down," one explained to me. Another one said, "It was a little fucked up looking out the window at the steam. And the roar. Like hell opened up. The office is closed and I have my clothes in a bag in case of asbestos."

"I seriously can't handle it anymore," my friend Kristin wrote in a group email to a few of us this morning. "Last night I did an urban hike from Canal Street to 30th and Lex. It was 95 degrees, the subways were closed, I couldn't get a cab, and the buses were packed." Kristin was with me on September 11, as well as in the Blackout of 2003, and I know that urban hike up the avenues all too well. We've all done it, too many times now in our short adult lives.

Did you know that, at one time, I lived right there? I lived on 44th and Second Ave from 2001 to 2003, and worked on Madison and 45th from 1999 to 2003. My gym was the New York Sports Club on 41st and Third. Governor Pataki's office was just above the gym, and every time there was so much of a suggestion of raising the terror level, armed security came out in droves, protecting us from, well, ourselves.

Which was what this was, after all. A "faulty infrastructure" according to Bloomberg. No terrorism today. What keeps running through my mind, though, is how scared everyone must have been, during that period of time from the initial blast until safety was assured, because in those moments, it's easy to expect the worst. Not that it was always that way.

During 9/11, I remember being scared, but mostly I was - we all were - just in shock. The idea was so foreign to us, the threat didn't fully register until hours, days, months later. Possibly not even until the Blackout of 2003 happened, and the city collectively jumped, on edge, to the worst possible conclusion. Once terrorism was ruled out of that one, I was still able to push it to the back of my mind, eager to return to the naiveté I had, the comfy blanket of denial that let me live my life.

But then last year, two years into the safety of LA, the baseball player's plane hit, and my emotions did a nose dive as well. Immediately I thought it was terrorism, and held my breath for an afternoon until it wasn't. The other day, in the terminal at LAX, I was sure we were under attack, even though it was probably little more than a lost child or clueless tourist. I'm not even in New York anymore, and I'm still on edge, still waiting for the other shoe to drop.

I feel like one of the only ones, though. It's barely a blip on the LA radar. I emailed my old 44th street roommate, who lives in LA now, asking, "Can you believe it?" She hadn't even heard. No one in my office is talking about it, or seems concerned about our Spa there just a few blocks away. It's a lonely silence in my head today, watching the office move all around me, utterly unaware while I am completely consumed.

At the end of the day, maybe it isn't a big deal. People are okay, life goes on. I'm aware that I am kind of wallowing in this, from 2600 miles away and more than two years removed, finding a way to make this all about me. But for the first time since this all began, I think reality has finally just hit me. A heartly slap on the back that most definitely left a mark.

Feng Sh-weigh

I don't know why people just automatically think to keep their scales in the bathroom. I personally think it makes much more sense in the kitchen.

Amber Alert: Missing Lori MacBlogger

Is it just me, or has the Lori MacBlogger masthead and colorful 70's background gone missing from this site?

It was there yesterday morning, before I left for Scottsdale. As I posted last night, I noticed the white space but thought maybe it was a temporary browser issue. (The 110 degree heat, perhaps?) Now that I am back in town, however, I can't blame the heat or the hotel or anything I can think of for kidnapping my Blogger identity.

Any idea what this might be, and how I can get it back?

Under a blood red sky

I am writing from Scottsdale where I had a work event today. I was actually here for a similar event two years ago to the day, and I feel like I am reliving that weekend, albeit a few shades shy of 2005's enthusiasm.

Usually when I travel for business I am with at least one other person from my office, or I will be in New York where I have an entire other life and can go out for a night on the town. Here, in the 109 degree desert, I am on my own, and it really is a lonely way to spend a Saturday night. The event ended at 7:00, and I was back in my hotel room by 8:00. I sat out on the balcony for a while, watched as the pink sky deepened behind the mountains, and then decided to take a bath.

I hate baths. I hated them as a kid. I've never had the patience to just sit in a tub of hot water, pruning like a steamed vegetable, with nothing to do but wonder how I could possibly be getting clean when the dirt from my own body is floating right next to me. I much prefer showers. But I'm in a nice hotel, I thought, with nothing but time on my hands. I should try and relax.

I don't actually like relaxing either, it turns out. But I've known that. This isn't the first Saturday night I've spent staying in, but it's one thing to stay comfortably curled up at home with a movie or book; it's quite another to be in a random hotel room with nothing but my thoughts to keep me company. Good thing there is a mini-bar.

This morning, as I passed through security at LAX, I heard what sounded, at first, like a large cheer - a tour group, perhaps, shouting in unison their name or newest location. Then, hordes of security guards ran by and we were ordered to stay where we were, we were on some sort of alert. I instinctively went to grab my purse from the x-ray's basin, and was told not to touch it. I am going to die, I thought. This is a bomb scare or a terrorist attack and I am going to die right here in the airport. In the shitty Southwest terminal. Thirty seconds, sixty seconds, who knows how long passed - the terminal was unnaturally silent. Suddenly another chant was heard, a whistle blew, and just like that, things were fine again.

Just another day.

Park Avenue leads to Skid Row

In the interest of service journalism (and, okay, clearing my own head) I took the liberty of researching MySpace trackers tonight. Well, if you consider Google a valid research system.

Everything I found seemed to reiterate what I have heard - that most trackers only give IP addresses and basic information along the lines of Sitemeter, and the few that do show profiles, only show other people who are signed up for the same tracker. And because there are about 10 different kinds of trackers and most invade profiles with a bunch of ugly ads, it's safe to assume they aren't exactly mainstream yet. I did come across a great blog that sums everything up; you can check it out here.

I got a bit sidetracked by one of the tips on the blog, which was entering latitude and longitude points to get the exact cross street for readers. Forgetting about MySpace, I opened my blog Sitemeter and ran down a list of IP addresses I haven't been able to identify. Did it work?

Well, kind of, at least in terms of telling me what I already knew. For instance, if the company name was listed alongside the IP address, then, yes, the street location matched up. But since a lot of businesses work off a proxy, the information isn't accurate to begin with, so I come up with a map of Nebraska or something where I'm pretty sure I don't have any readers.

Residences are the most difficult to pinpoint, and while I found plenty of intersections in LA, New York, and Boston which all seem reasonable, I can't think of anyone who actually lives there. Since I wasn't even sure how accurate Mapquest would be able to track, I decided to enter the coordinates of someone I know, and compare. I used a friend's information as my guinea pig, and was I shocked at what turned up:

Map of Latitude: 34.0416
Longitude: -118.2988

Go ahead and zoom in - the second button to the top is best. See it?

A cemetery. A freaking cemetery.

My friend does not live in a cemetery, but she does live in a house only a few miles away that she swears is haunted. Apparently, an old couple lived and died there two or three tenants before her, and once in a while make their presence known through noises or atmospheric changes or through objects that mysteriously go missing. Do I need to reiterate how I feel about ghosts? Let's just say that I don't want any haunting my blog, even from across town.

Spooked, I tracked my own IP address. Should have just done that in the first place. According to Mapquest, I live somewhere on or about Skid Row. Unfortunately, however, Sebastian Bach is nowhere to be found.

So this concludes my self-assigned research piece. I don't actually care who looks at my MySpace, and the blog tracker is primarily for safety. This whole thing began out of (hopefully needless) embarrassment for OD'ing on a certain gym boy's profile. Although, at this point, I think I should probably be more embarrassed by the amount of time I put into this at all.

I spy

Back when I joined MySpace, one of the things I loved was that you could browse people's pages without them ever knowing you were spying. Ex-boyfriends, old sorority sisters, you name it, I found them.

But then one day a friend posted a bulletin highlighting a "tracking" code that you could download to see who looks at your page. I clicked on it, but learned that it would only track people who also had the code; since I didn't really want to be "outed," I stopped right there and never pursued it.

Since then, I've seen a few different tracking systems advertised on other people's pages, but I've never looked into them. I've assumed they likely worked like the first - that, as long as I don't download the code, I would never be revealed as a cyberstalker. But I've always wondered, in the back of my mind, if, in fact, I am blindly revealing myself as such.

On Sunday I was browsing through my friends, and noticed one I usually skip right over. He was someone I went on one date with, more than a year ago, and haven't thought about practically since. I actually clicked on the profile to see how many friends he had - so maybe I could delete him from my list without him noticing. But, no, not enough, and anyway, that would probably be bad karma. I moved on and forgot about it.

Until I got an email from him yesterday.

I haven't talked to this guy since March of 2006, and the day after I look at his profile for the first time in forever, he randomly emails me? Nuh uh.

I wrote him back, told him how, oddly, I was just on his page, and does he have a friend tracker? If so, which one, as I've always wondered about those things. He wrote me back saying no, he didn't even know what those were, he barely ever used MySpace.

So either he's lying, of which I see no benefit for him to do so, or this is the biggest coincidence I've heard of in like, ever. And I don't believe in coincidences.

What bothers me about this whole thing is not that I look on ex-boyfriends pages, or browse through high school acquaintances, but that, a few months ago, I got a little overzealous checking out one profile in particular. You know, if you consider forwarding his profile to my entire office and Photoshopping our pictures together "overzealous." Suddenly, one day in May he disappeared off MySpace, and that was the same week he disappeared from my gym, and always, in the back of my mind, I wondered if maybe, just maybe, I had something to do with it.

Excuse me, Bitter Betsy would like to say hello

Oh, is it Sunday again? Time to write?

I don't have too much to report. Went our Friday for drinks, did mainly errands and grooming and gym-type stuff this weekend.

I did end up calling the guy back. We chatted. Eh. My mind is elsewhere. Like, where did age 25 go? And can I have it back, please?

I browsed through old journals earlier looking for a tasty topic for tonight. The only thing I found was the realization that I have spent the better part of the last ten years drunk. And that does nothing but make me thirsty.

Things are picking up with work and I'm looking forward to actually being busy this week. I'm off to Scottsdale next weekend for a work event, and the weekend after, my friend Maria is coming for a visit. I am so excited for her to come, I'm already dreading having to take her back to the airport. I just need some QT with the EC (East Coast).

I tried to use my Delta miles to book a flight home for Thanksgiving, but I don't have enough yet. I then tried to use them towards Maria's wedding in Cabo, but unless I want a 21 hour layover in Salt Lake City, that's not going to work either. I either need to start using my SkyMiles credit card on all of my purchases for the next few months, or cough up the change now in the hopes that maybe I can get a free flight sometime before they expire in 2010.

By the way, I would like a date for this wedding in Cabo. It is in December. At what point should I start lowering my standards? I'm thinking five years ago wouldn't have been too soon.

Old, but in no way mature

I'm pretty sure that the picture I use as the masthead for this blog was taken on July 4th, most likely in 1980. Every year my town put on an Independence Day Parade, a quaint little ditty that would bring all the local Girl Scouts troupes, firemen, and softball leagues marching down our street. My family would bring our chaise lounges up from the backyard into the front, perch them at the top of the lawn, and enjoy this annual slice of suburban pie.

My town also had a tradition of hosting the fireworks on the night of July 3rd. That way, they reasoned, everyone could stay out late to watch them and not have to get up early for work the next day. A genius idea, really. How has this idea not caught on in the rest of the country? That would solve all of my problems. (Well, today's problems.)

Seriously, though. EVERYONE gets out early on July 3rd, no? We can all appreciate that taste of "school's out" freedom, go home and get excited for a big night? But after a nice full relaxing day off from work, who wants to rouse themselves out of the house at 10 PM just to watch a light show? You know who? Drunk people, that's who. But if you (and by you, I mean me) have been drinking all day long, you really don't need to be out at 10 PM watching this display. Especially when you have to go to work the next day. So I vote that next year, the country unanimously decides to host fireworks on July 3rd and we can all spend July 4th happily nursing our hangovers. Good? Good.

I went down to Hermosa Beach yesterday, which wasn't my idea but seemed like a good a plan as any. I've never been down there before but figured it was likely going to be like my days at the Jersey shore: swarms of fun young things swimming and tanning and drinking and eating until dark, and then until dawn. And it was exactly like that, especially in that everyone down there seemed to be 27, and that was how I old I was when I did my first shore house, and how old I was the last time I thought that was really fun.

We had a good time. It was just a bit much for me. We lay on the beach from 12 until 3, ate lunch on the Pier, then went to a house party from about 4 until 6. Grabbed drinks on the Pier, watched fireworks, and then my friend, who was driving, decided we should hang out for another hour to avoid sitting in traffic. So we went back to the bar, she did not drink, but I did along with our other friends. And while there was never a point that I got "drunk" during the day, I was literally drinking all day. And, appropriately, my body has decided that if I am going to drink for 11 hours, I am damn well going to have a hangover for 11 hours. Because I am 31 and am too freaking old be doing this!

My friend, not coincidentally, happens to date younger guys almost exclusively. She is 31 (and a lawyer!) yet tends to prefer guys between 24 and 26. I, on the other hand, date older guys just as exclusively. I didn't date guys in their 20's when I was IN my 20's; in fact, I could count on one hand the number of 20-something guys I've dated since graduating college. I believe that number is Two. It's not intentional, and I doubt that it's because I'm incredibly mature, it's just what I seem to gravitate towards. Yes, I am blaming Gravity. I certainly blame it for everything else.

Now that the subject is back on boys, I have another Interactive Element to throw out there.

Situation: Guy on Match. Seems okay. Emailed a few times. I gave him my phone number. He called me about an hour later. Left a really long-winded message that had me cringing at his obvious dorkiness. Emailed me immediately after to let me know he had called. Far too eager. Now the ball is in my court, and I have absolutely no interest in speaking to him.

Do I:

A. Ignore him and not call him back. Make up an excuse on email tomorrow and then drop off the face of the earth. (Going away for the weekend, for a life sentence, whatever).

B. Call him back and make my way through polite chit chat and then, after our conversation, drop off the face of the earth.

I'm thinking A, but what do I know?

My mother, the superstar

I've written a few times that my mom is a really good cook. Well, now you don't have to just take my word for it - she has been officially selected as one of 12 finalists in a national magazine's annual recipe contest! That's 12 finalists, out of more than 1.7 million subscribers. Slightly freaking fantastic.

The cook-off will take place in August, on the east coast, and you can bet your bottom dollar I will fly out for it. I don't want to give too much away until the magazine posts the information on their website later this month, but I am just so proud of her I can't contain myself.

So, in the meantime, I am just going to book that flight home for Thanksgiving. Any takers?

This is my brain on overdrive

Thanks, everyone, for playing the Match game. Despite all of your good advice, I chose the overlooked yet underrated C option, saying briefly, "Sorry, I think you have me confused with someone else."

I figured that if he really thought we had talked and it was him that let it slip, if I chose A or D he would think I was being bitter about it. D definitely sounds bitter, and A or B could be misconstrued as much. And if he really wasn't sure, this was enough to say, Yes I looked at your profile and no, I'm not impressed. Because I graduated from the University of Overthinkthingsmuch. Shockingly, I haven't gotten a response, but to remind everyone who commented earlier, the point is not to date him or to even play the game, just to maybe have some fun with someone who probably wouldn't even get my sarcasm. So why bother?

Yesterday I went to a pool party for my friend/old neighbor who just moved to a house in the Valley with her husband. As she gave me the grand tour and we came across one of the spare bedrooms, I noticed it was filled with baby toys. "I'm nine weeks pregnant!" she said, somewhat sheepish to be telling me this way. I hugged her and hoped she wouldn't notice if I turned visibly green with envy.

Today I went to the beach and had a great time in the sun and the sand with a big group and a small round of cocktails. I came home to see pictures from my friend Andra's wedding, which was yesterday. No, I don't know why she's at a computer and not on her honeymoon, but maybe I would know if I had gone, which I didn't.

Andra is one of my best friends from high school, and while we don't talk too much anymore, she is still one of my oldest and dearest friends. When I found out she was getting married near her family's house on Cape Cod, I did some quick math and realized that unless I took a few days off from work and purchased airfare, like, last October, it just wasn't feasible. But I can't tell you how much I am regretting that right now.

Is this just absolutely the best wedding picture you've ever seen? I mean, aside from the fact that the groom is wearing flip flops, and I would probably rather die an old bitter spinster than marry someone who wears flip flops to his own wedding, but at the same time, that's what makes this so great. That is SO Andra's husband. I could have told you that when we were 16, before any of us really knew anything.

I wish I had gone. I thought about it, a lot. Agonized over it, a bit. I wanted to go, but didn't want to endure the planes, trains, and automobiles, not to mention the bank withdrawal, it would have taken me to get there. There are about six of us from high school that are still in touch, still get together on birthdays, holidays, and now, weddings. As we've gotten older, and all moved away, the occasions to see each other have gotten fewer and further between. But that has also made them a lot more special. I wanted to go to this wedding because I know those opportunities are becoming fewer, and further apart. But after all my trips going back to the east coast last fall, I realized this year that I NEED to make LA my home - I can't keep flying home whenever someone I love has a party. Enough of living with one foot out the door, as another blogger aptly put it. Either make my life here or move back, but stop living half way on each coast.

So I stayed here, and had a great weekend, but am greatly regretting not going back for this one. I can't help but feel like I missed out on something I should have been a part of. Never mind that Andra and I talk once, twice a year, usually over email or through our other friends. I just should have been there. So why wasn't I?

I think because I was punishing myself. For moving across the country, away from my friends and family, to something I said I wanted. In other words, I made my bed; now I have to lie in it.

For the record, Andra and Phil met on eHarmony.

And to bring this full circle, I was catching up with Briztow Jones this weekend, and came across her mom's wedding website in the link section. Karen met her fiance on Match. He winked at her. She winked back at him. The rest is history. It made me rethink my rules about winking. But then I remembered that guys who wink are also the type of guys to not remember doing so, and I may be a lot of things but I've never thought "forgettable" was one of them.