My life on the guest list

A couple of months ago, I started a Twitter account for my company. I've never gotten into Twitter for personal use, but I realized pretty quickly that it's ideal to use professionally. The entire platform is centered around self- and third-party-promotion, it's a simple way of connecting with like-minded brands, and, if you follow the right people, it's a great way of keeping up with new developments in your industry.

A large portion, then, of the people/companies I follow have some relation to beauty and fashion. And now that it's Fashion Week in NYC, nearly four out of every five Tweets I'm reading are related. When 80% of anyone is talking about the same thing, it feels kind of funny to be left out. It's especially odd for me because for years, I was not only involved in Fashion Week, I was entrenched in it.

In my first PR job, I represented a celebrity/editorial manicurist who would work up to 10 shows per season. For years, I would accompany her while she manicured the models, and coordinate interviews for her with beauty editors backstage.

I would arrive to the show 2-3 hours early, mostly stand around while the models were styled, and then later tried to stay out of the way while they rushed through fittings. While it was secretly thrilling, it was also nerve-racking. No one (except my client and the few beauty editors who trickled through) knew who I was, so if I wasn't actively overseeing an interview, I usually felt awkward and out of place. It could have been a dream come true for a fashion student or someone more in the society scene; since it was only me, however, I always imagined Michael Kors must have wondered about that random off-the-rack girl in the corner.

That reminds me of this one time I was backstage, chatting casually with a beauty editor. We were wearing the same pants! Or so I thought. When I asked, she said hers were some big name designer. My face turned red as I admitted mine were J. Crew. I assumed hers were as well - I hadn't realized girls my age (26?) now had access to "designer."

Who ever let me work in this business?

And that's the irony of the situation. While I can appreciate nice clothes and of course like to dress well, I have never, ever, even at my most New Yorkish, been fashion-oriented. I grew up shopping at Marshall's and being grateful for what I was given. I valued brand names for their status, not their seamwork. And while once I got in the business I could understand the cache, I still preferred to put my money toward my weekends rather than my wardrobe. Through luck, timing, and a random ad in The New York Times, I basically fell into the beauty industry, and through that, dipped a few pedicured toes into fashion. Since then, I've seen more naked model breasts than most men could dream of in a lifetime, and had better access to the shows than some fashion editors ever will. I knew it was cool, sure. But this was all before Project Runway or Sex & the City or The Devil Wears Prada elevated the industry and informed the rest of the world how cool it could be.

In 2003, I moved to a different firm that specialized in fashion. There, I didn't typically get to go backstage of amazing designers, but was responsible for coordinating shows for smaller ones. (Though I did get to work an Isaac Mizrahi show once, which was pretty spectacular. I actually worked the red carpet for that and got yelled at by Iman for hurrying Mike Nichols along the carpet. Note to self: Recognize the talent.)

Getting yelled at was par for the course when it came to fashion shows. I've been yelled at by designers who aren't happy with their press, by the press who aren't happy with their seats, and by random, unaffiliated strangers who request invitations and show up even after their requests have been declined.

Coordinating press for Fashion Week was exhausting. Much of the work takes place in the immediate days and hours before, so there were late nights spent tallying RSVPs, updating seating charts, printing out place-cards, and confirming attendance. I got through it just like any other 27 year old city-dwelling single girl - with lots and lots of alcohol.

There were fun parts, too. My first week at that job, our office held a casting for men's swimwear. For two hours on a Friday afternoon, a parade of male models came through and took their shirts off upon request. I wasn't part of that project, so just watched from across the hall, frantically emailing all of my friends about this unexpected good fortune.

The fashion work, as exciting as it was, was also a big reason I got burned out in New York. The yelling, the intensity, the seriousness of the craft. Beauty people can take themselves seriously, too, but it's always just seemed like a happier business.

I sometimes think that I'd like to work Fashion Week again - I miss the glamour, the energy, the sheer craziness of the week. Forced to ingest so many Tweets about the subject (#nyfw!), reading as everyone simultaneously celebrates and commiserates, I can't help feel nostalgic, but the greater part of me is also relieved. I guess for now I'm still okay just to watch from behind the screen.

The days after

I have a Fashion Week post in the works that I was intent on finishing this morning (work, what?), but since everyone's Facebook status updates have been directing me to "Never Forget", I can't help but remember. I wrote a whole September 11th post a while back, but here are some other memories that have been running through my head this morning:

- The night of the 10th, I attended a Fashion Week after-party. On the bus ride down, I ran into Ben, a guy I had been friendly with in college but hadn't seen in the three years since. We swapped business cards, and he contacted me a week later to make sure I was okay and suggest that his friends and my friends meet up. We did, and I immediately hit it off with Ben's friend Mike. While I was dating Mike, my friend Miya met and started dating Ben. Mike and I fizzled out (and by that I mean he was a total player and blew me off), but through Ben, Mike met Miya's roommate Danielle, and promptly fell head over heels in love with her. That was nice. It's one thing when someone treats you like crap but you can write it off to the fact that they are a player. It's another thing when the person they meet two weeks later knocks their socks off and any trace of "player" out of them. Translation: It's not him, it was me. Gah.

- We had the 12th off from work, and since it was a beautiful, sunny day, I decided to go for a run. As soon as I stepped outside, though, I inhaled the overpowering smell of jet fuel, and headed to the gym instead. I passed the local diner, and, sitting in the window, was the guy I had dated that past spring. (Who, also, by the way, had lost interest.) I was relieved to see that he was okay, so went inside to say hello. Midway through our conversation, I realized that, while he was sitting alone, his table was set for two; I suddenly panicked thinking he was there with another girl. Perhaps reading my mind, he - out of nowhere - mentioned that his sister was off in the bathroom, but I didn't want to stick around to meet her. I offered a hasty "goodbye-glad-you're-safe" and hustled myself out of the restaurant.

- Everyone talks about September 11th, but the days after were almost worse. You may remember seeing the tear-streaked people on TV, holding signs of their missing loved ones. They weren't just on TV for me, they were all over the city. Not in my neighborhood, per se - I was too far north - but I was still afraid of running into one, coming face-to-face with their despair. While the sign-holders may have stayed further south, those Missing posters were plastered everywhere. I was just as afraid to look at them, fearing I'd recognize someone from the gym, from school, from my extended circle; I forced myself to look at every one, though, out of respect and out of guilt that that posters were the worst I had to deal with. For weeks I dreaded going back to my gym. Thinking that someone might be missing, and never return. It was around December when I realized that everyone I'd known was accounted for, and breathed a metaphorical sigh of relief.

Staying in the house wasn't any better. All there was to do was watch the coverage on TV, or read commentary in the newspaper. I bought every newspaper every day that week, and the subsequent magazine specials that were rushed to print. I poured through the photos, horrified but hypnotized, compulsively turning back to the full page picture of the man mid-air, falling upside-down past the windows of the World Trade Center. It was the only image to which I allowed myself to cry. For him for having to make that decision, for his family for having to deal with it, but not for me who had gotten off Scot-free. I still don't understand how they use a similar shot in the opening credits of Mad Men.

I kept those periodicals for years, thought I'd keep them forever. But when it came to pack up my apartment for LA, I threw them away. It didn't make sense to bring those memories with me.

We had Wednesday off from work; went in on Thursday only to be evacuated (again); then had the option to come in on Friday. There was no work to do - I couldn't pitch beauty products in that climate and certainly no one was writing about them - but I couldn't sit at home any longer. I think I left work around noon on Friday, bored, and went to see that movie Rock Star. It was awful, but a million times better than the real world. Saturday, my friends and I went down to the Armory on 26th street, where they had set up an assistance center and a tribute to the lost, and forced ourselves to look at the hundreds of Missing posters. Another day - Thursday? Sunday? - Maria and I, stir-crazy, decided to bring supplies down to the firefighters. Being 25, poor, and living in tiny New York apartments with no closet space, we didn't have a ton of extra "supplies", so we grabbed what we could. For me, that was a few mismatched towels, and the largest, heaviest sweatshirt I owned - which boasted my sorority "letters" in gold and black celestial print. Because we wanted exercise and had plenty of time on our hands, we decided to walk the four or so miles to Chelsea Market, where supplies were being collected. The walk - with everything in our hands and on our back - was grueling, but I, at least, was grateful for the physical distraction so I could justify some of my internal suffering. We laughed at the thought of a big powerful firefighter staying warm in my sorority sweatshirt, knowing we weren't even doing this for them so much as for us. By the time we arrived on West 15th street, conversation had slowed down and the novelty of our adventure had worn off. We took the bus back.

Everything's coming up roses

Hi! Did you miss me? I'd love to say that I missed blogging, but, really, I didn't. I kind of enjoyed not reporting in. Especially since I had little to report, anyway. Let's mutually consider this my summer blogging schedule and both go grab a mai tai before reading the recap:

My business trip to New York was good. I'm still recovering a lot of the data that I lost on my computer, so I've been extra busy at work, which I think has also contributed to my lack of posting. But my media lists are finally almost back up to where they were, and my most important and timely documents were saved elsewhere, so I am out of panic mode for the time being.

A nice surprise was that Kelly Taylor (aka Jennie Garth) was on my flight back to LA. Before boarding, Jet Blue made a loud announcement paging "Jennie Garth Facinelli" to the terminal. I bounded out of my seat and strained my neck looking for any sign of her and her yummy hubby. Alas, she was traveling solo - well, with only kids and other women in tow - but it was still very exciting.

I don't know if I've ever mentioned it here, but hands down, my very favorite part of every week is Saturday mornings when SoapNet plays old episodes of 90210. Especially since the weather has been nice, I've been waking up pretty early and catching an episode or two before my 9:30 yoga class. Sometimes it's seriously a struggle to leave the house. Last weekend, one of my favorite episodes ever came on right before I had to leave, and I spent 20 minutes mentally debating whether or not it was worth staying home. Reason won out and I went to yoga, but only because I figured I'd be able to find this on YouTube:

Also, and I know I have said this before, I have fallen headstand over heels in love with yoga. I have not run in weeks; haven't lifted a weight in months. And yet my body feels different, better, lighter, tighter, than it has in years. It's seriously amazing - but also, weird. For 15 years, I've defined myself by my workouts. I'm a "runner". I lift weights. I shave my legs so I can wear cute shorts and am constantly charging my iPod.

Now? I haven't even listened to my iPod in weeks. I shave for my work wardrobe but wear stretch pants to practice. More than that, my entire commuting schedule has changed. Rather than go to the gym near my office to avoid what most people would consider a miserable drive, I'm heading across town during rush hour to make my favorite classes. I can't say I don't mind or notice the traffic, but it doesn't really bother me, either. These all may sound like little, trivial details, but so much of my identity has been wrapped up in the gym, it's a little disconcerting to suddenly develop entirely new habits.

When I haven't been working or at the gym, I've been living life in LA - spending every weekend at the beach, going out with friends, celebrity-spotting when I can. Last Wednesday, I had two good sightings - at the same restaurant. First, James Spader, who is one of my favorite actors and childhood crushes, was eating with what looked like his wife and family. If I had a Top 5/Free Pass/Celebrity Sex Loophole List, I can confidently say that he would be on it.

A little bit later, Jillian The Bachelorette walked in. She and her friend ate at the bar but did not reveal any clues about what or who might have contributed to what is supposed to be the MOST EMOTIONAL SEASON FINALE IN BACHELORETTE HISTORY. (I typed that literally as Chris Harrison spoke it - I'm watching while I write.) I liked Jillian a lot when she was on The Bachelor last year, but she grated on my nerves a bit this season. I don't blame her for that; truthfully, I think that show is just so formulaic, they've reduced her to little more than a methodical rotation of sound bites. It didn't help that the series was extra long this year. But she looked like a cute, normal girl when I saw her, and maybe it was the wine or maybe it was James Spader, but I couldn't help but think that I liked her again.

Of course, given what takes place on TV tonight, I reserve the right to change my opinion.

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.

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.

More information about my travel preferences and celebrity predilections than probably anyone needs to know

Whenever I travel to New York on business, I always try to take the 7 AM Jet Blue flight out of Burbank.

Jet Blue is, especially in these trying times, by far the best airline. Seats offer a fair amount of legroom, the planes always seem newer and brighter, and, most importantly, there are working TV's at every seat. Delta offers seat-back TVs on a handful of jets; however, and I say this from a lot of experience, they very rarely function.

Burbank is a small, friendly, civilized airport, and even though it's farther away than LAX, I more than make up for the drive time when I can quickly navigate through the tiny terminal.

And while having to wake up at 4:30 AM to make a 7:00 flight may sound like a God awful inconvenience, that's really the best way to do it. There's no traffic at 5 AM, and shorter lines to heed. Plus, the later the flight, the greater chance for delay. This proved true on Tuesday, when the FAA had a small midday meltdown and grounded hundreds of flights across the country. I had already been in the air a few hours by that point and, thankfully, wasn't affected.

But what I really like about the early flight is that, so long as I don't sleep on the plane, it automatically acclimates me to Eastern Standard Time.

Usually.

I've been a mental mess since waking up Wednesday morning, and despite the fact that I'm now back in my normal time zone, I can't help but still feel more than a little bit off.

Sleep patterns aside, the trip was fantastic. The event was one of the best I've ever done - not because of me, this time, but because of the partners who hosted it at our spa. I saw a lot of friends, but, more importantly, had quality time, which, sometimes, in New York, gets compromised.

I didn't have much time to spend outside the hotel, but the weather was gorgeous - in the 70's, crystal clear, zero humidity. In my one venture across the street, I ran into David Schwimmer, and he looked good, amazing in fact. Wearing a worn-in, frat-boy baseball cap and muscle tee that showed serious guns, I did a double-take. I'll never forget how douchey he seemed when I met him four years ago, but after being blessed with the vision of those biceps, I've easily, already forgiven.

Bridesmaid and grooming

If I tried to relay every funny story and tender moment and all-around-awesome time I had at the wedding this weekend, this post would be more akin to a screenplay than a summary. As such, I'm going to start off with a single, simple learning I took away from the experience: If I ever get married, it's going to be in LA.

All week, New York lay under a thick cloud of humidity that threatened rain every morning and delivered every evening. The wedding was wonderful, nearly perfect, but I spent the weekend worrying about the weather. The outdoor ceremony offered the option to move indoors, if necessary; the options for my hair, however, were another story.

Because this wedding wasn't about me, though, I'll spare you the frizz-fighting details, and instead link to the photos that have left me wishing for just one more day with my friends. Even if that day is a bad hair day.

New York City Blues

Things I miss about New York:
- The 59th Street Bloomingdales
- Being warm enough at night to go out without a jacket

Things I don't miss about New York:
- Everything else

Yeah. I'm about half way through my trip here, and while it has been great seeing my friends, I'm so over the city. For a change. I will say, though, because I have turned into a much more positive person since I moved away from this septic tank three years ago, that I do like being away on business in a city I know so well and can navigate through so easily. I can't imagine if my job sent me on regular gigs to say, Dayton, or Dallas, where I'd know not a soul and need a car just to get around. Here, I may dirty my own soles but at least I have the knowledge and ability to do so.

The trip started off on a good note, with a familiar celebrity sighting at JFK: Daniel Cosgrove (probably best known in my circle as Kelly Taylor's lawyer boyfriend in the later seasons of 90210, but he's been in a ton of other things). The reason it was familiar is because when I lived on 44th street, he lived and worked in the same neighborhood, and my roommate and I would see him all the time. Even before I realized it was him at the airport, I looked up, mouth gaping as he walked through the terminal, as he is truly one of the best looking men I have ever seen in person in my life. Seriously. Naturally he was with his wife and fam.

And, of course the trip should end on a good note, as Friday I can head out of the city up north to Tarrytown, for my friend's wedding. Photos and stories to come, I'm sure...

How to Move to LA, Part II, 3 years later

A while ago, I noticed that the single most common search term that brought people to this blog was, "How to move to LA." Back when I was still living in New York, I penned a post with that phrase in the title, and have gotten a fairly steady stream of traffic from the term ever since. Unfortunately for those people, however, the post didn't really explain how to move to LA - at least not past the point of my packing for it. So when one reader emailed me a list of specific questions, I thought I should publish my answers here to hopefully help out anyone else who finds this in the future.

Since I am only one person with one set of experiences, please feel free to offer any additional advice or alternate viewpoints in the comments section.

There's a negative vibe I get from the media, from conversation, and from others that LA is a place where EVERYONE is just trying to make it and that making new friends is hard. What do you think about this judgment? Adding to that, if I moved to LA, I would know only two people, both of whom I don't really know.

Well, first, "everyone" is a sweeping generalization. LA is an ambitious town, and the entertainment industry is highly competitive, but that doesn't have to define your experience. Before I moved, I heard the same thing - that LA people are shallow, vapid, out for themselves. I pictured a city full of Ari Golds and Cher Horowitzs. And yeah, they're here. But people are people, and I truly believe there are good, solid, down-to-earth people everywhere, including LA. It's easy for me to believe that, because many of those people are my friends.

That said (and I am going to repeat that phrase a lot in this post), it's hard to meet people anywhere as an adult without a job, a spouse, or other friends to introduce you around. I had a lot of "acquaintances" when I moved here - people to grab drinks with, really - but only one good friend. Through her, I met some other good friends, then I met more good friends through my job, and more good friends through this blog. But it wasn't always fun - I spent a year constantly feeling "on", like I was going on interviews - and in the process, I had a lot of nights where I wished I had just stayed home.

I would start networking as much as you can, talking to people, if only online, that will meet you for a drink once you move. When you do move, stay busy. Join Meetup.com or an online dating service. Go to the beach, museum, volunteer. There's no shortage of activities here, and I've found that most people are pretty friendly. Most everyone in LA was new here at some point, and I think half of us came from New York.

Best ways for finding a place to live or share with others?

Craigslist and Westside Rentals. I never had to use WR because I took over my friend's apartment, but that's pretty much what most people use.

Is there a community that is safe, near the movie business, and not impossible to rent in if you have roommates - something where you can walk to stores, restaurants, nightlife. What would be your favorite place to live in and why?

First of all, the movie business is pretty broad, and I'm not sure what you are looking to do. (Act, produce, direct, edit, represent, etc.) That distinction is important, because the business is all over LA. While the studios (Disney, Warner Bros, Paramount, Universal) are mostly concentrated in Burbank and Hollywood, the talent agencies (CAA, Endeavor, etc.) are in Beverly Hills and Century City and editing houses, post-production, etc. are all over.

Studio City and other areas of the Valley are probably some of the most affordable areas where young people live, but you can't really walk anywhere. And while Ventura Blvd has some great restaurants, it's not known for its nightlife. Hollywood and West Hollywood might be a bit more expensive, but - especially in West Hollywood - you can walk or take cabs to a ton of great bars and clubs.

If I were you, I would try to find temporary housing (no lease) until you get a job, and then decide where to live. You could find a great place in Studio City and bank on getting a job at nearby Disney or WB, only to end up working at Sony way down in Culver City, which would be a miserable commute.

I've heard great things about Silver Lake and Echo Park, two (I think) relatively-inexpensive yet charming areas northeast of Hollywood. Unfortunately, I don't really know anyone that lives there, so if any readers have info to share, please do.

Personally, if I could live anywhere, it would be Santa Monica. It's a pretty, laid-back-but-citified beach town with good shopping, restaurants, and nightlife within walking distance. It's a bit quieter than I would have liked in my 20's, but at 32, it's exactly what I think I want. (It's also a bit expensive to purchase a condo, which is why I don't live there now.)

What's the weather like year-round? Are there clothes you don't wear anymore, like coats, etc? Do dark colors go out the window for men who dress in nice slacks and button downs for work and lighter colors are used, or is it like the east coast and dark is still a starting point.

One word: jeans. Guys here wears jeans. Unless you are an agent, suits and dress pants are rare. For the most part, everyone - especially in the more creative fields - wears jeans or cool pants paired with some combination of ironic t-shirts, blazers, sweaters, or jerseys. I'm not suggesting you go on an interview like that, but you'll see very quickly that things are much more casual than they are in New York. Button-downs here are more likely to be vintage patterns from Urban Outfitters than tailored trims from Brooks Brothers. I wouldn't worry so much about the colors as the style. You won't see a ton of people wearing gray wool slacks, but it's not Miami, either.

The weather is great, temperate, dry. It's heaven in the winter and a bit cool for my taste in the summer (I like it hot!) but overall, it is fabulous. Keep a winter coat for trips back east, but I gave away all but a few of my wool sweaters. Even in the coldest weather (40's in the winter) you're probably not going to feel comfortable in the preppy Apres-ski style so popular in New York.

I know you're not in the film business, but suppose someone with limited cash moves to LA to try and find an entry-level film job and hopes for the best. What is your reaction to hearing this - the feasibility of it all (monetary suicide/starving) or can it be done in some way?

Well, you're right - I'm not in the film business so I can't give you specifics, like the number of open jobs or the likelihood of you finding one. I have heard, and have experienced, that yes, you really need to know someone. In LA, and in the entertainment biz in general, who you know is often more important than what you know. So start networking. Do you have a college alumni group you can contact? Family friends? Former employers with contacts out here? Get talking.

That said, I had a handful of professional connections when I moved out here. They were all very nice and helpful, but none led to my current job. That, I got randomly off of Monster.com, due to my experience. So take that for what its worth.

Obviously you know that the economy is horrible right now, and I wouldn't suggest picking up and moving without some money in the bank. I had about $8000 saved when I moved here, a small stream of freelance work, and I had paid my first month and a half's rent when I was still getting a paycheck in New York. So I felt okay about my risk. That said, I was also dying to move here, and nothing could stop me. If this is your dream and you have no major debt or commitments back home, I say take the plunge! What do you have to lose? Worst case scenario is that you move back. Just start saving as much money as you can, and have a plan in mind about, at what point, do you start applying to Starbucks? How badly are you willing to work to make it?

Any recommendations if getting a job before moving isn't a possibility?

Network. Save as much money as you can. Sell the stuff you don't need. Be prepared to work at Starbucks or waiting tables or in retail. I would also take a trip out here, just to make sure that you like it. See if you can set up some informational interviews. Get a feel for the city and the industry you want to work in. Make sure it's something you really want. If you aren't comfortable staying with friends, look for a housing swap on Craig's List. Start a blog about your experience. Get some advertisers.

(As an aside, I tried pitching my move to MTV as a documentary special, hoping they might finance it: Spunky NYC girls packs up and moves across the country! Watch as she navigates finding a job, driving a car, and looking for love in the land of La! They didn't go for it, but hey, I tried.)

What are some things you could not have known about LA, or didn't believe until you lived here, i.e. traffic.

Honestly, I didn't expect to be continuously surprised by it's beauty. LA does get a bad rap in the press (smog, people, congestion, vapidity) but even after three years, I am still finding amazement in the architecture, the ocean, the desert, the views. I guess I just assumed it would have gotten old by now, the way New York did. Other than that, I really had no idea what to expect, and came here with little-to-no expectations.

What is the price of brand name gas (Amoco, Mobil, etc.)?

Currently, at this very second, my local Mobil is selling it for $4.61/Regular. That will probably go up to $4.64 tomorrow. It has been going up about $0.03 every other day. Only two or three weeks ago, I was paying $4.29. It is miserable.

Are necessities in general more expensive?

Compared to most areas of the country? Yes. Compared to New York, they are actually cheaper. I remember on my first morning here, realizing my daily Tall drip at Starbucks was $0.25 cents less than in New York. That's a savings of $1.75 per week, $7.00 per month, $84.00 per year. That's a pair of shoes! Groceries are less expensive (compared to New York) and I can buy in bulk and throw in my trunk, rather than carry up four flights of stairs and into my single kitchen cupboard. Dinners out are less, alcohol costs less. All compared to New York. Rent is less, or if you live in a more expensive area, comparable to New York, but you get so much more. I wouldn't recommend making the opposite move.

Any tips for saving money that you might have picked up?

Shopping at Target. Buying in bulk. Having a car versus living in Manhattan has allowed me to do both these things which weren't an option before. Also, having to drive all the time has cut down on my drinking considerably, so my entertainment expenses are much lower. Trader Joes is usually cheaper (and better) than regular grocery stores. I signed up for the Spare Change program with Bank of America which deposits the balance of every dollar I spend on my debit card into my savings account. (So if I spend $5.64, $0.36 of that is automatically transferred to my savings.) I also have $50 per month automatically moved from my checking account to my savings account ($25 on the first of the month, $25 on the 15th). I use one credit card that gives me airline miles so that, occasionally, I will get a free flight. (The key to this though, is to make this your only credit card, and use it only for the things you will buy anyway. You might as well get something for the money you have to spend.)

SPECIAL BONUS ADVICE:

One of the easiest and most helpful things you can do - if you aren't doing this already - is reading. Start reading the LA Times online, if not every day, at least on Sunday. Subscribe to Defamer and LAist and Nikki Finke's column. Even if you don't understand or relate to the specifics right away, you'll pick up a sense of the city and the industry, get familiar with key players, and broaden your knowledge base which will help when you start going on interviews.

Also, someone once told me that it would take 18 months to feel like LA was my home. That advice was spot-on. While I loved it here since Day 1, it took almost exactly 18 months for me to really feel comfortable here - like I had my own friends, my career, and a life that moved forward without me having to nudge it a little.

And finally, I'd be remiss if I didn't tell you to get a Thomas Guide.

Good luck!

Bugging out

Some people believe they have a guardian angel or a good luck fairy. I personally think I have been blessed with a fairy bugmother.

A few years ago, I wrote a long-winded post about my fear of waterbugs, and how they were one of the more significant reasons I fled New York. The only part of that story that bears repeating is in which I woke up one night to the sound of some weird, Victrola-like music playing outside my window. I had never heard the music before, and it seemed like nothing I would ever hear in this era. While I was listening, trying to figure out what it was or where it was coming from, I heard a more alarming sound - the clickety-clack of little roach legs running across my hardwood floors, settling somewhere under my bed.

Instinctively, I jumped up and out, grabbed the Raid from our bathroom, and commenced a 10 minute standoff until eventually I killed the little f#@ker in the corner. It was only as I waited for him to show himself that I realized at some point, the music had stopped. In the dead of night, in the darkness of the witching hour, I couldn't help but think it had been playing a wake-up call for my benefit.

This past Saturday night, I went to wash my face in the bathroom, and a bug swooped down from the ceiling and flew at my head. I couldn't tell what kind of bug, exactly, because I ducked for cover and ran screaming out of the room, but it had a thorax at least the size of a dime and more determination than I had courage.

I returned to the bathroom ready for battle with a bottle of Raid, a thick glossy magazine and a broom. I looked in every crevice, in every nook and corner, and eventually, in every other room of my apartment, but the bug was no where to be found. I went to sleep that night unsettled, but with little other option.

Sunday night, I woke up at 2:30 AM and instinctively knew. I don't know how - maybe I heard its wings flap against my wall, maybe I was highly attuned to the change in energy. But I sat up in bed, turned on the light, and waited, wondering. I even strained my ears for the familiar sound of the Victrola. Other than my racing heart, there was nothing to suggest anything was askew, but minutes later, I caught it fluttering behind my nightstand, inches from where my head had just been resting.

I jumped off the bed, grabbed my armor, but when I came back - can you guess? - the bug was nowhere to be found. I threw things at my night tables and banged my broom behind them, hoping to rouse the louse. I eventually dragged them and my bed more than a foot away from the walls, creating an island fortress from which I sat, ready to attack. I also checked my closet and the bathroom and the kitchen and the living room, but I couldn't shake the thought that it had all but shacked up, and was seconds away from storming my castle.

I sat awake for two hours, until 4:30 AM. Eventually I let myself lie down, or, more accurately, curl up in the center of my bed, and fell asleep with the lights on, gripping the can of Raid with one hand, my broom with another.

Last night, Albert sprayed Raid around the perimeter of my room, my bathroom, my bug-fearing brain. I still slept with the lights on, my bed in the center of the room. But sleep I did, and I'm praying that if there is still something haunting my home, that I can trust my Spidey sense to keep me safe from danger.

Lifestyle choices

Every Sunday morning, for as long as I have lived in LA, I have kept the same ritual: I wake up, get my coffee from Starbucks, and read the New York Times online. I always skip immediately to the Styles section, read every single article in it, and only then go back and look at what else might have made news that morning.

For the last year or so, I have started doing the same thing with the LA Times. I skip immediately to the Image section, read every single article, and then go back and read whatever else might catch my eye.

And I realized today that the names of these two sections exemplify an elusive difference between both cities I have always noticed but never quite nailed down.

From Dictionary.com:

Style - (noun) - a particular kind, sort, or type, as with reference to form, appearance, or character; a particular, distinctive, or characteristic mode of action or manner of acting; an elegant, fashionable, or luxurious mode of living; the way in which something is said, done, expressed, or performed.

Image - (noun) - a mental representation, idea, conception; the general or public perception of a company, public figure, etc., esp. as achieved by careful calculation aimed at creating widespread goodwill.

Style, while subjective, is concrete. You either have it or you don't. It's a tangible, physical thing, something that can be measured and judged. You know it when you see it. Most of us covet it.

Image is an imaginary thing, only in the mind. Anyone can create one, everyone has one, and therefore, we all look down on the idea of it.

People in New York are focused on style. People in LA are concerned about their image.

That's not to say that no one in LA has style, or thinks about style or cares about style. But they think of style in terms of how it relates to their image. What will style do for me?

And of course, plenty of New Yorkers are image-conscious. But its such an anonymous town, I don't think too many people leave the house as concerned about perception as what brand of shoes they are wearing. New Jimmy Choos or kicked-around Chuck Taylors, it doesn't matter, so long as there's a soul behind the sole.

Style, in LA, is manufactured by stylists, working hard to create just the right image. New York stylists are typically known for their editorial work, not creating an "image" as much of a story that's representative of something specific, a distinctive expression of the artist at hand

An image could vanish faster than it was built. Style, even when questionable, is habitual, a permanent stain.

And I'm not trying to imply that one is necessarily better than the other. I think the resounding argument would vote in favor of New York, that "style" is a legitimate and worthy thing to aspire to, whereas "image" is fleeting and shallow. New York is real, legitimately gritty; LA is a footprint, a composite of its environment, La La Land.

But, for someone who has always lacked an inherent style or at least the desire to conform to one, I think there is something kind of freeing about living in a city that doesn't dictate a sartorial standard and instead gives you some control over your inevitable interpretation.

Turn and face the strain

Just a quick update to let you know that I am back in LA after a fantastic trip to New York. My work event was a huge success, and I spent every evening catching up with friends. Physically, I am exhausted, but mentally, I am energized, and oddly excited to go into work tomorrow, to ride the wave of momentum this trip created. In the meantime, I have to shower soon and head out to dinner to see my friend Laura off for her last night living in LA. Sigh.

Ironically, when I was back east (I almost just wrote "when I was back home"), I spent a few nights consoling a friend whose other friend was, today, moving out of town. To Florida. With her husband. My friend, who has known this girl since college and has been close with ever since, was devastated at this loss, to say the least. Terrified of change and the idea that she's being left behind, I could understand all too well. But it made me remember that so much good can come from change, and that if you can get past the immediate vacancy, there's ultimately room to become so much more fulfilled.

When I left New York I thought I had hit my good friend quota - I couldn't possibly make any more friends like the ones I had there. But, three years later, I have, and I didn't have to sacrifice my former relationships to get them. Rather, I simply found more room in my heart for everyone.

It's not who's right but who's left

For the last few hours, my mind has been completely consumed by something that happened at work today. Not with anyone in my office, rather, one of our media partners that we work with on occasion. Technically, I am/we are the client. And the client is always right, right?

Until I moved to LA, I spent my career on the agency side, diligently practicing that motto with clients of my own, working with the creed that it's not as important to be right as it is to be left still working on the account. Now that I am in-house, I don't really have "clients," but I do work with enough media outlets, community partners, and Fortune 500 companies that I think I still remember how to treat them.

Since I have partnered with this media company, I have been given the run-around about a number of things, given conflicting answers to singular questions while other queries go entirely unanswered. Often, I've had to follow up to ensure that things get done, and more times than not I have felt that my requests are treated as an afterthought, reacted to rather than having been acted on in the first place. A few times, I've suspected I've been lied to, not because they hiding something, exactly, other than the fact that they don't know the answer. They are, at best, disorganized.

To be fair, though, the work has gotten done, and my company has benefited hugely from this partnership. So much so that I have tried to be patient, tried to overlook the discrepancies that, while driving me crazy personally, won't really affect the big picture. A few months ago, I brought my concerns to this company as calmly and rationally as I could, wearing my "I'm ready to listen to and understand you" hat, eager to be a good partner and team player. Never mind that very few clients had ever done the same for me in my former life. Never mind that if I had ever treated my clients the way this company treated me, I would be moved off the account, if not fired from the firm. But we were partners, and I needed to make this work. End of story.

Today I found myself getting fed what seemed like another series of lies. I emailed separately with my two contacts, and, as I've come to expect, they each gave me different, conflicting stories. So I called them out on it. Unfortunately, though, in the heat of the moment (I know, I know, never email mad!) my tone was more passive aggressive than professional, and I quickly received an email back calling me out on my tone, and calling me disrespectful to them - how dare I question their integrity?

And that's when I started to question myself.

Did I have a right to be bitchy? Yes, I was paying them for a service but they were granting us some favors in return. (Or were they favors? Honestly, I'm not really getting anything that wasn't outlined in our contract.) Was I expecting too much from our spread-too-thin 26 year old account executive who sent emails to me with smiley faces? Have things changed that much since I was on the other side that smiley faces are now acceptable in client correspondence? Or is that an LA thing?

Since I moved here, I have both struggled with and embraced how laid back businesses can be. I'm still used to working for companies that are run by perfectionists and expect the same. But out here, so many people seem to take an "eh, good enough" approach to their work. And while it's extremely gratifying not waking up every morning with a pit in my stomach, worried about misspelling a client's name on a memo or arriving five minutes late to a meeting, the downside is that I often feel like I'm conversing with college students.

Part of me feels like in New York, this behavior would never be tolerated. But then, I'm not in New York, and, as with men, if I want to be successful in LA, I drastically need to lower my expectations. Or, at the very least, take a chill pill.

Overall, the "LA laid-back" thing has benefited me - my quality of life is the best it's ever been. But today it affected my work, as I let myself act unprofessional, unbecoming of my own high standards. While I may have harped about the way I've been treated as a client, I've realized it's not about being the client at all, but about being a professional. I don't think this company is very professional, but by my passive-aggressive email today, I lowered myself to their level. And that makes me not nearly as good at my job as I remember.

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.

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.

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

But today is not that day.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Back in Cali

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

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

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

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

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

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

East coast - west coast limbo

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

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

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

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

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

And another work trip begins.

Moving to LA, flashback weekend, part 2

I had spent more than a year hating New York City and over six months looking forward to the move; maybe that's why it never occured to me that I might get slightly emotional when the day finally arrived.

I had sold my bed earlier in the week and spent the last five nights sleeping on my trusty aerobed. Since it didn't make sense to schlep the aerobed to LA, I offered it to my aunt who would find a use for it among the four kids and their many friends who spent weekends sleeping over. When I went to drop the bed off, though, the irony hit me like a ton of bricks. My aunt was the whole reason I moved to New York.

After college graduation, I was in complete denial that that part of my life was actually over. I stayed up in my Syracuse apartment as long as I could, or at least until I figured out the next step. I had majored in advertising, so my logical choices were either New York or Boston; I hated the idea of both. But I was dating someone on Long Island and had friends there and in New Jersey, so when my aunt offered me the spare bedroom for a few weeks, it seemed like as good of an idea as any. In my mind it was just another adventure, even though I packed the majority of my belongings as if I knew I would stay.

My aunt allowed me two weeks of play before bringing home the Sunday Times and announcing that I would be looking for a job. We circled a few leads, set up the interviews, and I accepted the first position I was offered only a week or so later. It wasn't until a month later that my younger friends started heading back to school and I really understood that this wasn't a summer job, that my life was no longer measured in semesters and weekends were back to being only two days long. It was a hard fall.

But in the meantime, it became time to find an apartment. At the time, Nick was the only other friend I knew who was ready to move. We checked out a few places across town, but became quickly discouraged at what was offered and at what price. Understanding my frustration (or perhaps getting tired of my now permanent presence), my aunt called her realtor company to see if they had anything available. It turned out, they had an enormous three bedroom a block away that was right in our price range. Nick made some calls, and recruited our common friend Ryan to act as the third roommate, and in October, the three of us began our lives as real New Yorkers.

I lived on 86th street for three years, and I will always remember those years as my best in New York. The apartment was the best, and our social lives were the best. So when I passed off the aerobed and said goodbye to my aunt on that last morning, I became very nostalgic and thankful and sorrowful, and wondered if I would ever feel about LA the way I felt about my life in New York. Something so familiar, it seemed literally part of my blood.

I can say that I do feel that way now. In these last two years, I have come to view my neighborhood with the same degree of comfort and familiarity I felt back then. I feel like I am in the prime of my life, the way I felt after two years in New York, when things were still new enough to seem exciting but I had been around the block enough to know how to handle myself.

Walking down the street that morning, though, back to the subway towards the final hours in my empty apartment, I had no idea what was in store.

It's a jump to the left, and then a step to the right

The literal time warp started with my red eye on Friday night. The concept of red eyes always freaks me out - that you get on a plane, close your eyes for a few hours, and suddenly it's a brand new day? That's a little Twilight Zone-ish, if you ask me.

I was hardly able to sleep and arrived in New York groggy and exhausted at 6 AM Saturday. Fortunately, I was able to make up for lost sleep at my friend Cara's, who is training for a marathon (support here here!) and so left me to nap while she went off to run 13 miles through Central Park. Fair trade off, yes. It couldn't have worked out any better.

Cara returned just as I started waking up around 12:30. That left us a little more than four hours to eat lunch, buy our friend Kristin gifts for the engagement party, and get ready for the party that evening. Since it was being held up in Westchester, we were hitching a ride with another friend in the city, but had to meet her on the other side of town to do so.

The engagement party was fun - having the celebratory feel of a wedding without the formality and stress. There were about 75 people there - college friends, family, and friends from the new life she shares with her fiancee. Of the 75 people, I was one of five single people at the entire party. Five. Seven if you count her brothers who are in their young twenties. Of course I had a million friends to talk to, but the loneliness hit the next day when I went to take the train back to the city, knowing everyone else was waking up with their significant other and would be gossipping about the party, sharing laughs, having breakfast in bed. I just lugged my overnight bag to the MetroNorth station, thinking about who might be worth text-messaging, just so I could say hello. Have someone to check in with.

That person turned out to be Hilary who was in town for the weekend with her four year old, Sophie. I can't remember the last time I had seen either of them, and we had made plans for brunch with our other friend Nick. If I haven't seen Hilary in two years, then I probably haven't seen Nick for three or four. But we all have a tremendous history together.

I met them both first semester Freshman year and became close with both rather quickly. Nick was my platonic guy friend, and Hilary was my best girlfriend. After graduation, we all moved to the city within a few months of each other. When September came and I was ready to look for my own place, it turned out that Nick was also ready to get an apartment. It was an easy decision to become roommates, and he brought in a third friend, who I also knew, to make rent more manageable. Hilary, who had been staying in her grandmother's guest bedroom while she looked for work, ended up living in that apartment for years. Since it was a large, three-bedroom, rent-controlled apartment, our group of friends often met there to hang out - at least when the grandmother was out of town.

By the end of the first year, Nick and I weren't getting along. I thought he was an inconsiderate slob, and I found out that he was taking the money we gave him for the phone and, well, not using it to pay the phone bill. I kicked him out of the apartment (and asked Kristin to move in) and we avoided each other for a few years, eventually patching things up sometime later when neither of could remember what we were mad about.

In 2002, Hilary got pregnant, then married, and then moved back to Boston where rent was more affordable. I get holiday cards every year but have only seen her and her daughter a handful of times since the move. So I was eager to see both of them and catch up on lost time.

Brunch turned into an all-day affair, and Nick and I found ourselves back at Hilary's grandmother's entertaining Sophie while Hilary packed up the car to go back to Boston. Nick read the paper as I gave horsie rides around the living room, the same room I had been in so many times with these same people. And that's when the deja vu hit. I have been here before. But in a different life.

That life was before babies and husbands and engagement parties. The same apartment, the same people, but now there was a baby. Excuse me, not a baby - a child. A four year old child that my friend had practically in the blink of an eye.

Coming off of the night I had had prior, it was a weird and kind of sad feeling. Nick and I walked out together and he commented, "I really miss the good old days." I swallowed the lump in my throat and agreed.

What made that reunion even more intense was that the last few weeks have brought reconnections with some other people from my past, namely Copywriter, who was in my life during the same exact period I lived with Nick and hung out with Hilary. He talked me down the day our phone was turned off, tried to set Hilary up with one of his friends, and painted our kitchen the day Kristin moved in. He knew me at a very distinctive time in my life, when I was basically still a college kid - utterly green and unsure of myself in the big city. We didn't talk after the breakup, save for a few run-ins, and all of my memories of him are tied into that unique, year and a half window of my life.

So it was fitting that I met him for coffee this week.

I wasn't nervous, exactly, even though it had been six-plus years; although I wasn't quite sure what to expect, either. But he walked in, looking exactly the same if not better, and we just fell into our natural banter and spent a good hour and a half laughing and reminiscing. It was comfortable and nostalgic and fun. Also a nice ending to a trip I hadn't really wanted to take. Again, I felt that there was no way seven years could have passed. Oh, except for that he is engaged and I live in LA, and that, despite my best efforts, time still finds a way of passing, after all.

Nothing had changed, yet everything had changed.

And such is the figurative time warp this trip became. In between my social calls, I was actually there to work, visiting the various magazines to introduce new products. This is something I do occasionally - schedule appointments with beauty editors at their offices to show them my goods. The last time I went was about a year and a half ago; since then, offices have been upgraded, the Hearst tower was constructed, and security was at such a maximum I actually had my bags X-rayed at Time Life. The Hearst tower was straight out of the Jetsons; everything else was just a reminder of the world we live in, post-9/11. When I started doing these appointments, back in the days when I dated a copywriter and lived with college friends, you could just saunter right up to each floor and do what you wish. Now, I had identification ready at a moment's notice and spent my time before appointments locked inside the sealed glass doors of the elevator banks, lobbies and reception areas having been sacrificed for safety.

The continuous juxtaposition of the past with the present (and future) has now left this time traveler exhausted. It also makes me laugh. In a week where all I want to do is look toward the future, I can't seem to stop partying like it's 1999.