And for the record, no, I hadn't been drinking

I've written extensively here about my lifelong fear of ghosts, but in all my years, I've never actually seen or experienced one. Much.

When I first moved into my apartment, there were a few nights when I'd be drifting off to sleep or would be woken up by what felt like a cat jumping on the bed. I don't have a cat, and haven't had a cat since I was a kid, but for 13+ years of my adolescent life, I was woken up regularly when my cat Pookie would join me in my childhood twin-size bed. I remember his weight, the sudden indent in the covers, and, when this happened four years ago, it didn't scare me so much as spook me. For all the fear that a translucent Victorian female figure might inspire should I find one in my kitchen, the idea that a ghost cat wanted to keep me company at night was more baffling than terrifying.

After that first year, I never experienced the possible ghost cat again. I never even called it a ghost cat until the last time I found myself studying this stuff on the Internet, and came across a conversation about something similar. It was the first time I remembered the incidents, and thought, oh, okay, it is possible. Then, last night I woke up to the sound of a heart beating. Or, rather, the feel of a heart beating and the comforter next to me moving up and down along with it. It wasn't my heart. My heart was beating slow and steady, almost ridiculously slow. Whatever was next to me was round and fit in the crook of my arm - I could feel it's shape in my sheets. And rather than scare me, it was comforting, and I let the heartbeat lull me back to sleep.

Heading towards the straight and narrow

I've spent more time in the bathroom this week than I normally would in an entire month.

Wait - it's not what you think! I've just been busy, brushing my teeth. Four, five, six times a day.

Now that I finally have a decent dentist, I figured it was safe to take the plunge and get Invisalign. Unlike traditional braces, Invisalign is a series of clear plastic aligners that you wear over your teeth, essentially 20-22 hours per day. The only time I'm supposed to take them out is to eat, and because I am in the habit of eating 4-5 small meals every day (good for metabolism!), I'm literally at the sink every four hours brushing my teeth before putting them back in.

As the name would suggest, the liners are mostly invisible, especially compared to braces or the retainers we all wore as kids; they're not, however, perfect. Anyone with eyes can tell I have a thin layer of plastic over my teeth, which I wouldn't mind if at least I could speak well. I mean, I can speak fine, for the most part. If you can get past the slight lisp and that I am a 32 year old woman who thuddenly thounds like Thindy Brady. Maybe I should practice my tongue twisters.

Clearly, I am still a little self-conscious, though not nearly enough to not wear them. I paid a lot of money for these things - I'm going to get straight teeth if it kills me, and even if that bully Buddy Hinton wants to tease me after school.

The upside is that I think this will be the most effective diet I've ever tried. I haven't snacked in six days. Haven't had wine to wind down. I have to ask myself whether I'm really hungry or just in the mood to eat. Is it worth taking the liners out, losing the time, and then having to go back to the bathroom to put them back in? The answer is usually "no".

The one person I knew who tried Invisalign years ago claimed he lost ten pounds, because it was just too much trouble to eat. At the time, I thought that sounded like a wonderful problem to have. Now, I can completely see where he was coming from.

How to make friends and succeed in self-promotion

Shameless media whore that I am, when I heard that Redbook was looking for women who had made some of their best friends as an adult, I immediately pitched the writer my story. I explained that when I moved to New York after college, almost all of my friends moved with me; it wasn't until I moved to LA that I had to actively seek out new relationships.

Anyone who has had to make new friends as an adult can appreciate how hard it can be. It's kind of like dating - easy enough to find someone to share dinner or drinks with, but no one you necessarily want to share your life with. I've written before that I experienced some of that when I moved here. I was lucky to have always had enough plans to fill my social calendar, but it took a while before I built a circle strong enough to feed my soul. The catalyst, it turns out, was this blog and the people I came to meet through it.

As most articles are, this one was edited down to include only the most basic, and compelling, information. While I explained that I did, in fact, have one good friend here when I moved, that wouldn't have created as climactic of a story arc. Also, I don't think I've ever gone out for coffee - the writer almost certainly changed that from "drinks" to better relate to the magazine's mature readership. She loved the wine glass/emergency room angle, as it dramatized my lack of local closeness, which, I guess in hindsight, it did. And while I relayed that I had a met a number of wonderful women though the website, she wanted to focus on the one that had the most significant impact, which all of my regular readers would recognize as Nicole.

Aside from having adjacent birthdays and the same astrological sign, Nicole and I found that we had a lot in common and almost immediately hit it off. Anyone who knows her can attest to her warmth, and I did very much feel like I had found a big sister. While I still laugh at the idea of finding friends through the internet - like, hello, the D&D chat room is that way - it just reiterates once again that creating this silly little blog was one of the best things I ever did.

Oh, I'm sorry, did you want to read the article? Here it is, from the April issue.

Here's also the wine glass story, which, to this day, still scares me from ever doing the dishes.

Next I'll be running for class president and helping Peter with that pesky volcano

So, I don't know what to do. I have only two sessions left in my writing class, and I've loved it. Far from getting tired of the commitment, I've looked forward to every class and never even considered skipping a single one. I haven't written a book or even done much more than clean up a few already-written essays, but I've enjoyed spending three hours a week in a classroom environment with like-minded people discussing our collective common interest. I don't know that I've learned a lot, but I've definitely soaked up the juice for writing once again.

For a while, I thought I would jump immediately into another class next quarter. (So much for that commitment issue, I guess). Then I thought I should take some time off, do more writing on my own, and go back in a bit when I have a clearer goal or at least a better defined idea of what I want to work on.

I've really liked taking classes, though, so I became obsessed with the idea of taking weeknight tennis lessons. I played regularly as a kid, and was even pretty good, but have probably played ten times in the past ten years. I figured lessons once a week would not only encourage me to play, but also raise my game enough to play with my more tennis-advanced friends. I found the perfect class in Pasadena that I could go to immediately after work, and thought I had made my decision.

Then.

Then I got the UCLA course catalog and found a humor writing course that was totally up my alley. Suddenly, I knew what part of my writing I wanted to focus on, and got excited at the thought of writing weekly again. Unfortunately, I wasn't excited enough that I signed up right away, and when I went to go do that this weekend, it was already closed out. I added my name to the waiting list, but patience really isn't my strong suit.

So now I have to figure out what to do, because I really want to do something. It has been suggested to me that I just show up on the first day and keep going, since half the class is likely to drop out anyway. (My current class started with 20 and we are now down to 7 or 8). I suppose I can do that, but I want to have a back-up just in case. There are two other writing classes that *kind of* interest me - a creative writing, and a "find your inspiration" type of thing - but neither jumped out and grabbed me the way the humor writing class did. Both are around $400, which is a lot of money to pay for something I am lukewarm about. So I am leaning back towards the tennis idea, which is cheaper and I could probably do in addition to any writing class that I take, but then I do worry that having two nights per week committed to something may put me over the edge. At least it wouldn't take away from any gym time.

Everything starts the first week of April, so I need to act soon. Any thoughts/advice would be much appreciated.

Luck of the I wish

Donna Martin Graduates! Donna Martin Graduates!

What? We're not commemorating those four years? Oh, yeah. Tomorrow (Wednesday, March 18th) marks four years since I moved to LA.

Four more years! Four more years!

Now that's more like it.

In going through my archives, I realize I've already said pretty much everything there is to say, reflected on the past, pontificated on the future, and honestly, am just plain out of words on the subject. Now that I have been in LA more than half the time that I lived in New York, does it even make sense to compare my life now to what it was then? I don't know if it's just that the LA has totally seeped in, or that my 30's have been such a different decade than my 20's, but I do feel like a very different person than I was four years ago. Maybe I'm just sober more often.

Nah, that's not it.

These past four years have been some of the most challenging of my life, but, as such things usually are, also incredibly rewarding. What I find myself thinking lately, though, is that nothing has ever been that hard. I've experienced my share of setbacks and disappointments and faced the same insecurities as everyone else, but overall, I've led one hell of a charmed life.

Things with my move fell into place so easily, I can't help but feel the Universe moved into alignment to help. I also know I could never do it now. I couldn't quit a job in this economy trusting blindly in contacts on the other coast. Lucky I did it when I did.

I think about how lucky I am that I even found LA, found somewhere that would make me happy. Found the job that I did, the career I've fallen into. Lucky to have made the friends I have and kept the ones I left.

And though I grew tired of it, my life was pretty perfect in New York. I had the best friends, a bustling career, and perennial bragging rights that I lived in the Center of the Universe. I was also lucky to have so randomly met and befriended Tracy, whose singular existence has served as the catalyst for the last half-decade of my life.

Somewhere in all of this gratitude that keeps me awake at night and choking back tears during namaste, I've also realized that I've done a lot of work, too. I've found a calm and a strength and made a lot of changes to make the most of my second chance. My fortune could run dry tomorrow but it will never be entirely taken away. After all, luck has definitely been on my side, but someone had the good sense to make the wish in the first place.

Once upon a time I was popular

Okay, Facebook, you've redeemed yourself.

(click to embiggen)

If you can't transport me back to 1996, you can at least remind me that the best parts still exist.

Quite possibly the happiest place on earth

Last week when Lauren and I took Tricia down to the Santa Monica Pier, we stood in front of the amusement park and talked about how, with regard to rollercoasters and other rides, we had all, at some point, turned into our mothers. "I just can't imagine a scenario," I said, "in which I would ever go on a rollercoaster again."

So, naturally, that's exactly where I found myself last night, riding Space f'ing Mountain at Disneyland. And dammit if I didn't love every second of it. The Matterhorn was my second favorite, as from the top, it offered views of the entire park; and my third favorite was probably the Indiana Jones ride, because, hello, who doesn't love Harrison Ford? I went on five or six rides throughout the night, and the only one that made me just a little bit sick was probably the most tame - Star Tours. It was little more than a glorified IMAX movie experience, but we were so close to the screen, I immediately felt carsick. As soon as the first wave of nausea hit, though, I closed my eyes and started chanting to myself, "you're fine, you're fine, you're fine". And as soon as it over, I was.

The one thing I hadn't considered about Disneyland was the amount of exercise to be had. We walked/ran around for four hours straight, except when we were standing in line or sitting on a ride. By the time the park closed and we got off the last ride, it was after midnight, and I was starving. But I wasn't hungry for a meal or anything remotely healthy, however; instead, I craved the spun sugary sweetess of cotton candy. And so, at 12:30 AM, I guiltlessly inhaled the most tooth-achingly delicious dessert I've had in ages, and felt much less like my mother and more like a kid again.

I guess stripes ARE flattering

You may remember that about two and a half years ago, I went to the San Diego Zoo. I took a bunch of photos, and liked two so much, I had them blown up into 8 x 10's and framed. These photos have been hanging in my living room ever since, and I've gotten lots of compliments on them.

Then, on Sunday night, Miya pointed out something I had never noticed before. Can you guess what it is?

No, really, look close.

Closer.

It's a zebra penis.

I've had a magnified zebra penis hanging in my living room for the past 30 months, and no one, including me, had ever noticed it. Forget surreptitious sneaks through National Geographic or the Discovery Channel. I proudly display my animal porn in overpriced Pottery Barn frames.

Well, I did. My modest self immediately replaced the photo with a still life shot from Peru. It's a vibrant sunset over the village of Chinchero, but, content-wise, isn't nearly as colorful.

In like a lamb

So, I'm kind of disappointed that I didn't meet my 40-mile cardio goal in February. I could make the excuse that, with only 28 days, it was a short month, but I didn't even start my January goal until the 5th, and I still managed to run 38. Oh well. Clearly 40 is a lofty goal, then, and one I will continue to aim for in March. Of course, I didn't exercise all weekend and I'm planning on going to yoga tonight, so cardio is going to have to wait one more day.

By not exercising all weekend, I only mean that I didn't hit the gym. But I did more than a fair amount of walking, giving an old college friend a tour of the city, and of course, dancing, on Saturday night. My party shoes may be orthopedic but they still fit. Kind of. In a really uncomfortable, pinching type of way.

Yesterday turned out to be an absolutely GORGEOUS day, high 70's, with a strong afternoon sun. My friends and I headed down to Santa Monica, where we walked along the beach and the promenade, had a late lunch, and then headed down to Venice to the Whaler. We arrived around 5:30, just in time to catch the sunset.

The northeast doesn't need to get blanketed under an obscene amount of snow to remind me why I live here. Although it certainly helps.

Edited to add: And also? There is a line in the movie Clueless where Cher claims that mirrors lie which is why she always takes Polaroids. I never quite got that until seeing this picture, and a few from the party last weekend, and so I am publicly stating that I am never wearing those khaki capris or this dress again. I swear, I don't think I look dowdy when I leave the house, but neither are doing me any favors.