Sunday, June 28, 2009

Information generation

How is it that I go away for one week, and four pop culture icons die? That's it - I'm never leaving Los Angeles again. I can't handle the drama. (Or, more truthfully, the weather in any other part of this country.)

I was in Stamford Tuesday morning when I learned about Ed McMahon. Rebecca and I were sipping homemade cappuccinos on the couch, and I was scrolling through Facebook when a series of sad status updates revealed his passing. Minutes later, The Today Show confirmed it. Not that I was at all surprised.

The TV delivered the Farrah news Thursday, and my mom and I shared a collective, but also, unsurprised, sigh. Hours later, while I was posting a work update on Twitter, I started seeing frantic tweets about MJ; I then horrified my mother with my multitasking multimedia capabilities as I refreshed the laptop with one hand and my iPhone with the other, shamelessly lapping up details to the story.

Facebook was also the bearer of the bad Billy Mays news, this time minutes after my plane landed today and I turned on my phone desperate - after six and a half hours in the air - for a connection with the outside world. Maybe I should just shut my technology down for a day and hope that the rest of Hollywood stays safe.

Oops. Too late.

When I wasn't checking Facebook or Twitter or thanking the iPhone Gods for the GPS that let me drive effortlessly from one friend's house to another, I was, actually, on vacation. I saw everyone I intended to see, met and reconnected with their kids, parents, and/or pets, and generally spent some much needed quality time with everyone.

What I didn't do was see the sun for seven days. It seriously rained every single day I was away, if not the entire time, just often enough to keep anyone from becoming too optimistic. I wasn't expecting beach weather, but it would have been nice to have had some meals and drinks outdoors, maybe go for a walk or a run. As things were, I got very little exercise but a f#&%ing arkload of damp, gray, cloudy skies. I can not underestimate for you my ABSOLUTE and UTTER JOY and RELIEF and ELATION at arriving at a sun-drenched LAX this afternoon.

And what do I do? I stay inside and blog about it.

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Thursday, June 18, 2009

On the road again

Thanks, all, for the reading suggestions. I couldn't find the Dennis Lehane book, but I picked up Water for Elephants, and did raid Nicole's bookshelf for a few more.

On Saturday, I'm heading back east for a week-long, self-appointed tour of the Northeast. I'm flying into NYC to see some friends there, then spending a night with my friend Kristin in White Plains. On Monday, I'll pick up a rental car and drive to Stamford, CT to see Rebecca, who is weeks (days?) away from popping out baby number two. Much as I would love to meet the new baby, I'm hoping to avoid any hospital visits on this trip.

Tuesday I will drive up to Longmeadow, MA to see Maria, and Wednesday night I will drive back to my hometown to visit my mom. I'll stay there from Wednesday through Saturday, visit with some high school friends, and then finish the week at my dad's house, to celebrate his 60th birthday. (Which was actually last week, but who's counting.) I'll fly out of Boston on Sunday and head back to LA. Confused yet? Here's a map:


View Larger Map

It should be an interesting trip. I haven't driven in that area in quite a while, but I'm not too concerned. I won't be driving much in the dark, and besides, I figure that if I could navigate the LA freeways after a seven-year driving haitus, the Mass Pike shouldn't pose too many problems.

I got this idea in my head around Thanksgiving, when, for the umpteenth time I found myself trying to pack a week's worth of plans into two and a half days. There's never enough time to see both my friends and my family; what little time I do have is always squeezed in - an hour here, a lunch date there. And since I never have a car, it's like I'm a perpetual pre-teen, always relying on mom or dad to drive me somewhere.

This way, I feel like, not only will I NOT be rushing, but I'll actually get to spend some quality time. There are still dozens of people between these three states that I'm not seeing and would love to, but I would need another week and a much larger bank account to do so.

Blogging may be scarce but I'm sure I'll check in. Please send good thoughts that the clouds will part, that I won't get lost, and my flights will be wholly uneventful.

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Tuesday, June 16, 2009

Like a child in grown-up's clothing

I had a doctor's appointment this morning, and since it was at 9 AM on my side of town, I was looking forward to sleeping in a little bit. Because it was a slight change in my routine, though, it only made sense that I would have anxiety dreams about missing it, which in turn made me almost actually miss it. I woke up from the last dream at ten past eight, and realized that I'd inadvertently set the alarm for 7:30 PM. Oops.

Interwoven with that dream, I also dreamed that I was hours away from getting married when I realized that I didn't want to get married to my soon-to-be husband. It was nothing personal - I didn't even know who he was. He was just some unnamed, blank-faced figment of my imagination. In my dreams, I had to wait for his family to come in from afar, then rush to my doctor's appointment, then find him before the start of the ceremony so I could end things like a responsible human being who'd just spent $30,000 on a party.

My subconscious has apparently been working overtime in adulthood lately, as the night before I'd dreamed that I was changing a poopy diaper. There was a baby attached to the diaper but it wasn't mine and I didn't seem concerned with whose it was or why I was charged with changing it. No, I have just never actually changed a diaper before - ever - and in my dream I was primarily concerned with whether or not I was doing it right. I remember being proud of myself that I'd managed to do so, until I woke up and really thought about the process, at which point I remembered that I'd never actually removed the baby's clothes and instead just dabbed at the mess on the outside of the pajamas. Also, oops.

If I had babies on the brain, it was for a few reasons. For one, that day, I had been shopping for gifts for my friends' kids - including two newborns - who I am going to see next week. Then, I came home and read that Dooce had had her baby, so I spent the late afternoon checking for updates on the name and details. Then, finally, in the evening, after exhausting my television rerun options, I ended up engrossed in two hours of this show on the Discovery Health Network: I Didn't Know I Was Pregnant. What?

Have you watched that show? Are you aware that it is not only possible to go through nine months of pregnancy without knowing it, but that it is seemingly a common occurance in certain parts of the south and midwest? I watched, transfixed, the stories of young mothers having babies in toilets, on the living room floor, and in one case, a dirty bathroom in a Wisconsin camping ground. Throughout the episodes, both the narrator and the mother explain very clearly and convincingly how this phenomenon is possible. The women have irregular periods; they are unusually skinny or extremely overweight; they never develop any symptoms other than an odd craving for pickles or unusually swollen feet. The next thing you know, they go to bed and wake up to the baby crowning.

No wonder I've been having nightmares.

The baby dream, by the way, had nothing to do with my doctor's appointment this morning. Let me be perfectly clear.

Speaking of kids, I volunteered for my local alumni organization this past weekend, helping them out with an event that welcomes new graduates to the LA area. I was there to talk about my career in PR, and answer any questions from students looking to get into the same field. The event as a whole, though, focused on what it's like to move to Los Angeles, and I'd say at least half the questions from this post came up. "How to move to LA" is still the single most popular search term that brings readers to this blog, responsible for a good 5% of traffic, and about 50% of new visitors. So, I'm thinking that there is a legitimate market for this, and who's a better person than me to sit down and write the book? Right? Right! So, do you know anyone who wants to give me a book deal? Right...

The night before the alumni event, I spent with another friend who is moving here from the east coast. She's moving to San Diego, but we're in similar fields, so many of the same rules apply. As I was throwing out suggestions for networking, I realized, I may have found my niche.

When I'm not helping people move to the west coast, though, I am making my own plans for an upcoming trip back east. I'll post later this week with details, but in the meantime, can you suggest any good airplane/summer vacation reading? I don't mean to hijack (ooh, bad choice of words, there) Hilary's What Have You Read posts, but I am in need of some engrossing, yet lightweight, reading material.

Preferably not having to do with babies, diapers, or doctors. Thanks.

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Wednesday, June 10, 2009

Grammar Police Patrol: Badvertising

A few days ago, I noticed that someone in Showtime's online advertising department would do well to hire a proofreader:


Unless, of course, this is the Week of Right, but I'm pretty sure they meant start the week off right.

Then, yesterday, I was driving home - or, rather, sitting in horrific traffic on the 110 South near Dodger Stadium - when I passed this curious billboard:


"TRIPLE HOPS BREWED FOR GREAT TASTE." Ok. Yum.

"GREAT TASTE OF YOUR DODGERS" Huh? Great taste of my Dodger's what?

Is Miller Lite saying that it tastes like the Dodgers? I hadn't realized there was a market for that. What, exactly, do the Dodgers taste like? When I think of fluids associated with baseball, I recall A.) sweat, B.) spit from chewing tobacco, C.) steroids, and D.) every female that's partied with A-Rod or Derek Jeter. None of those are attributes I look for in a beer.

Then I thought maybe they left off a word. "Great Taste of the Dodger Game" might make more sense. "Great Taste of Summer" would be even better. How about just "Official Sponsor of Dodger Stadium"? I don't know if they actually are, but it might be a better use of Miller's marketing budget than this confusing ad.

I've finally narrowed it down to two options: either they meant to say that the Dodgers have great taste, and therefore drink Miller Lite, or simply that the Dodgers enjoy Miller Lite's great taste. In which case, why couldn't they just say, "Enjoyed by the Dodgers"? Simple. Clear. A Unique Selling Point.

What say you? Are you looking for a job in advertising? Because I can think of two departments that clearly could use the help.

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Monday, June 08, 2009

17 Again

Before I went to Nicole's 1992 Prom Party this weekend, I dug up this old photo to justify the fact that polka dots were a legitimate trend in 1992.


But now, I guess I don't have to.


The party, as you would expect, was amazing. So amazing, in fact, that I lost my camera, most likely in the cab on the way home. So I have started a small Flickr set here, drawing on what has already been shared with me. I'll try to add others, as they come.

In the meantime, can anyone suggest models for a relatively inexpensive but takes-really-good-photos digital camera? I'd had the other one for almost four years, and in 10 years of owning a cell phone, I've never lost a single one, which should prove to you that I'm not usually this irresponsible. Just, apparently, regressing.

But hey - I suppose a camera isn't the worst thing people have lost on prom night.

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Wednesday, June 03, 2009

Nights to remember

So, after all that, I had a fantastic birthday. Thank you to everyone who commented, called, emailed, Facebooked, texted, and just generally made me feel so special and loved throughout the day. My company gives us all our birthdays off (yay!) so I slept in a little, got my coffee, and opened up my computer to an entire screen of Facebook messages that continually kept me amused. I said it there and I'll say it here, Facebook is the best thing to happen to birthdays since cake. I don't care if I don't talk to half the people who chimed in - it was just a nice reminder of all the people who have, in 33 years, made up what I can't help but admit is a very charmed life.

When I wasn't chained to the computer, I took a new yoga class, got a FABULOUS facial, and met my five best friends for dinner and drinks. I got home shortly before midnight, full of cheap tacos and free shots, happy at making the most of my day.

Now that my birthday is over, though, I am ridiculously excited to concentrate on Nicole's birthday party planned for this weekend. The theme is 1992 Prom - we are all dressing in prom gear from the early 90's. I'll post pictures next week, but in the meantime, I thought I'd warm you up with some photos from my own high school dances from the same era.

Sophomore Semi-Formal - 1992


Oy to the vey, as Nicole would say. The thing is? I still love that color pink, and still wear it enough that I can shamelessly say, it's a good color on me. I stand behind the color choice, if not exactly the style.

This was an awkward event. Girls ask boys to this, for some reason, and while I was friendly with my date, I wouldn't say we were good friends. To be honest, I am not even sure why I asked him. We got along well enough but there was no attraction, and therefore no real excitement, and I'm pretty sure we just walked through the motions of sharing our first (semi-)formal dance. I was actually dating a junior at the time, though it didn't stop me from making out with yet a third person at the after-party. Said third person was actually Bryan, who I apparently still held a flame for and felt the need to remind him of what he was missing. Bryan didn't go to our school at that point - had just come to the after-party - so it wasn't like I stole anyone else's date.

Unlike at Junior Prom , in 1993, which was ripe with attraction, sexual tension, jealousy, drunkeness, and everything else John Hughes could have set me up to expect from a school dance.


First, I had the best date. Really fun, awesome guy who I was super comfortable with but also a tiny bit attracted to. Word had it, he was attracted to me as well, so we easily and candidly flirted throughout the night. The whole dance went by in a blur.

I should also mention, I loved my dress, thought my hair came out great, and overall, was just feeling really confident. It clearly shows, especially compared to the two other photos here.

The problem came at some point during the after party. My date managed to drink so much in such a short amount of time, he passed out. At which point, another guy (who went with my friend) swooped in to hit on me. I was flattered by and intrigued by the attention. This had never happened before! Two boys! Or actually, no boys. I resisted the second guy's advances, but because he tried to kiss me in the middle of a crowded room, word spread to both his date and my date, who then woke up and (if I remember correctly) had a testosterone-fueled tantrum about the whole thing. I couldn't say it out loud, but I was thinking, Dude. If you hadn't done that tenth keg stand, you could be rounding second base right about now.

Then there was my Senior Prom in 1994.


This pretty much sucked. Again, I was dating someone at the time, and I made the mistake of bringing him. He was in the grade below me, so while he had enough friends in my class, he was still more like "my date" than a natural part of the group. And since we had been dating for five or six months by then, there was no tension, no anticipation, no surprises. There was also no after-party. I remember everyone in my grade gathering in a parking lot somewhere discussing where to go. Talking and talking and talking and talking. No drinking.

Appearance-wise, while I liked my dress, I didn't LOVE it. I didn't feel sexy or attractive or whatever is appropriate for a 17 year old to feel. I had also had my hair blown out - but then the late-May, Northeast humidity immediately brought back the curl. So then I tried putting my hair up myself - to no avail - and ended up with the careless half-up/half-down look I wore to school on days when I couldn't fit in a shower. What did I care? The night hadn't even started and I was already looking forward to getting it over with. Boo...

So now that I am older, have better fashion sense, and can actually drink legally, you can see why I am very much looking forward to this weekend. It's not that I want to make up for lost time, exactly, but that I am more than ready to make new memories.

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Monday, June 01, 2009

Here's to me, Mrs. Robinson

I went to a dinner party on Saturday night in which I was the only person not engaged, married, pregnant, or a parent. (Yes, I did consider throwing myself off the balcony, but we were only on the first floor.) As all the conversation inevitably turned to mommyhood, one of the girls said something to the effect of while she hated being pregnant for what it did to her body, she loved the nine months of attention it brought her.

That's kind of how I am feeling about my birthday tomorrow. (Or, by the time most of you read this, today). The email and the Facebook messages have already started rolling in (thank you!) and with each one, I feel a surge of excitement, of pride, a sense of validation that I matter. I thrive off of the attention. And yet, in the downtime between each new message, I find myself still dreading 33, unable to escape the unusal feeling of being uncomfortable in my own skin.

I know 33 isn't old. (Even though I saw, in response to a Facebook friend's comment about turning 30, that the girl "didn't have to worry about going downhill until [she was] 33." Yikes.) I also know that there's no use getting upset, because 33 is the youngest I'll ever be. It's just the mental image of 33 - that I should be an adult, have wrinkles and gray hair, and have children - that seem so far removed from where I am. Don't get me wrong - I have plenty of wrinkles, plenty of gray hair. I just prefer to think of myself as a 25 year old with foggy mirrors and a finely honed sense of denial.

I have to say, 32 was a great year. While mentally, I probably wasn't the happiest I've ever been, I think I had more amazing - if not life-altering, life-affecting - experiences this year than ever. A brief recap:

- Malibu beach birthday party
- Kristin's bachelorette party in Las Vegas
- Kristin's wedding in Tarrytown
- Time travel in Canyon Ranch
- I inexplicably and rather immediately became a yogi.
- The Cringe Book
- OMG I purchased an iPhone (and I swear, it has changed my life)
- Crazy condo shopping
- Peru!
- Happy day, Mr. President!
- I miraculously found a good dentist!
- And ultimately started Invisalign!
- I finally got a dining room table. And a washer/dryer!
- My writing class. With Chaka.
- I was textually assaulted.
- Disneyland!
- Still and always, a fame whore
- Adopted a(n invisible) pet
- I met Dooce and Stephanie Klein
- Party weekend in Palm Springs!
- The weekend in which Swingers met The Graduate
- And probably a ton of other things I am forgetting about, but really, how freaking lucky am I?!

I don't know when birthdays became about meeting mental goals or elaborate expectations we've set for ourselves. I know that ultimately, it has to do with feelings of insecurity, inadequacy, and it appears I'm never too old to be affected by either. But at what point, do you think, I'll be able to stop being wistful and just remain thankful for the amazing amount of life I've already lived? I know they say youth is wasted on the young, but it will be a big mark of maturity for me if I can ever just revel in my achievements.

I was in yoga yesterday, bent way back in camel, when I heard a big thump on the floor in front of me. I didn't pay any attention at first - people topple over in yoga all the time. But then I heard gasps and a number of people moving hurriedly across the room. I looked up, and the tall, skinny girl who had been demonstrating the move just seconds before was now horizontal, hands shaking yet eerily still, on the hardwood floor. I couldn't tell if she was laughing or having a seizure.

It turned out she had fainted, her heart having spent too long higher than her head. But it took a few seconds for her to come to, and in that short amount of time, I wondered if she might have been dead. It sounds silly, trite, to talk about now. Of course she was okay. Of course I was just projecting my own Hollywood-inspired, worst-case-scenario scenario. I was already writing the blog post in my head. But in those few minutes as she lay still, then came around, and eventually walked out with the EMT's, it was a sober reminder about how fleeting health can be.

For my 33rd year, I don't expect to change much from 32. I won't suddenly stop being wistful, won't always remember to appreciate what I have. But I think I lived more in the past year - tried things out of my comfort zone, acted a bit more spontaneous, and just challenged myself in ways I haven't been in a while - and that is a lifestyle I would be proud, for one more year, to put forth.

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