I'm still "tripping" over my high school reunion. Since I had beacoup servings of alcohol from a very generous bartender, I'm sort of still gathering images of people and bits of conversations that make-up an overall general sense of "Oh, Shit, We're Old," combined with "Wow, I Forgot About That Horrible 8th Grade Ski Trip," and "These People Know Me Like No One Else." I know experiences are sweeter in recollection, but once you've coughed up a plume of clove cigarette smoke (amongst other types of smoke), before your brain had finished growing with another, you're never again at a loss of things to talk about. I always thought we were "fast" and "bad," but geez, we seem angelic and innocent compared to some of kids I see today. Listen to me, next thing you know I'll be saying, "Back in my day..." in an old woman's voice.

Seriously, though, back in my day, we weren't on our cell phones 24/7 and most of my friends dress didn't like Vegas strippers. Ok, so maybe I looked like a Vegas stripper in Junior High, but that's because my parents were living on Planet Neglect. Actually, I didn't look like a stripper, I just, as my friend once said, "looked Mexican." My mother used to stand at the door with a wash cloth and wipe my eye make-up off, but I was like, "Hell, no, Mom! I'm 13 and I have the right to single handedly support Wet n' Wild's line of eyeshadow!" Although, who am I kidding? I deftly lifted most of my make-up like a pro. Why steal eye liner that costs $.99? I wasn't the brightest shoplifter...

See, this is what has been happening since the reunion. I'm looking at my yearbook, the one of which I was editor-in-chief (after I stopped wearing blue eye shadow and toxic amounts of Aqua Net) and onto which I shamelessly strew with pictures of myself and my friends - and wondering how I managed that responsibility at 18. I have to say, I'm prouder of that work than most things I've done since.

Just for today, I'm old.

High school reunion. Oh. My. God. Rum. You look great! Now, who are you? (Look at name tag). Oh, my God! Need more alcohol. What are you drinking? Senior prom date recommends a Manhattan. 1st grade group picture! (Or, was it 3rd grade?). Hugs. Oh, my God! Tears. Another Manhattan. More pictures. Someone stole my Manhattan. Crush from 1st grade toasting. Another Manhattan. First communion crew. People who loved me. People who have known me since I wore bell bottoms (the first time around). Sweet memories. Another drink. Beastie Boys. It's 2:00 am...WTF?

What a great night. I loved my reunion!

Just for today, I'm happy I went.

My mom's cat is depressed. The vet recommended anti-depressants, and/or this special cat-flavored aromatherapy treatment. I suggested finding a cat therapist intern who needs to put hours in towards getting licensed. But my mom opted for the aromatherapy treatment ( the cheap-o route), and, according to her, it seems to be working.

The problem (for my mom) is that Donuts meows constantly. But if you pet her, hold her, give her some love, she stops. Funny how that works. Her (Donut's) sister died last year and since they didn't speak, I think it took her a while to start processing her grief.

Oh, Donuts, you have no idea...imagine going through this while holding down a 40 hour a week job! God, I wish I was a cat....

Just for today, I hope to reincarnate as a rich woman's cat.

If you've lived in West LA long enough you start to know things that only people west of the 405 know. For instance, except for a few blocks in Venice and Santa Monica, only Mammoth after a storm gets any whiter. You also know that for mysterious reasons the 405 headed north between LAX and Brentwood must remain an under 5 mile an hour zone at any hour of the day or night (going South is different), that only the immediate threat of a Tsunami (I have no idea why I capitalized that word) will send you East of that God forsaken street, Lincoln Blvd, that Baja Cantina is a slimy pick-up scene any night of the week, the 3rd street promenade is for tourists, and there's no way in hell you're going to ride your bike on the strand on the weekends in the summer (unless you enjoy the 405 headed North). You know that the only cheap food west of the 405 is Mexican (even the taco trucks get into $10 range), that straight hair, gym-bodies and an unnaturally even tan can be found at Beachwood, that Abbot-Kinney is Artsy Wealth, as opposed to Montana which is Wealth Wealth and and that the Santa Monica farmers market is where you go if you want to be around the bold and the beautiful, and get really, really, depressed (and buy a $4 peach). You know that the Peete's on Main Street is where you're likely to run into a movie or television star (so rumor has it, though, thus far I've only seen Chad Lowe and Joe Pantoliano), but you're also less likely to get any work done with all those aging hippy artists breathing down your neck and asking you about what you're screenplay. You know that Culver City is where you go to get a breather from West LA, as it seems to come from another part of California. You wonder why Venice has managed to maintain some authentic funk, even just a few hundred feet from Santa Monica (I can actually feel the energy shift after Rose), and about the appeal of an off-beat drum circle ruckus. You know that if there is a short dark-skinned man at any bar or club, he is surely bussing the glasses and plates. And you know that all the hard-driven, ambitious, people has to have some corrosive effect on your soul....and, yet, you still don't want to live anywhere else.

...or, at least that's what I know.

Just for today, I live in West LA.

The other night, while riding down the bike path, I ran into a guy who had been dating a friend over the past year.

"She's a wonderful girl. I have nothing but kind words to say about her. And she's beautiful."

No, not the Nice Guy Break-up! Please, anything but kind words! That's what a woman wants to hear at the beginning of a relationship. Not at the end. Oh, men, you're so confusing...!

This, I have decided, is a particularly male behavioral trait. I've been through a few of these myself, and from most accounts, he's not faking it. The Nice Guy Break-Up is not for appearances sake, so much as running-for-the-hills sake. I'm not saying I want a voodoo doll created out of my bra strap. I don't want want to see my coffee cup smashed to little bits and pieces. I don't want my secrets spewed out to mutual friends. I'm not looking for pyscho...I just think a woman deserves a little bit of...loss-fueled emotion. Did I make an impact? Am I less influential than an Oprah endorsement?

"It was great, she's great, but it's not the right time."

"Well, you sound great."

I haven't talked to her, yet. Maybe she's fine, too. Though, if my own experience is any indication...probably not.

Just for today, I don't understand men.

I spent yesterday with two friends who have known me since the days when we wore our white K-swiss, X-Large college sweatshirts, and another X-Large sweatshirt tied around our waists to hide our healthy-sized billowing behinds. No, wait...they've known me since the days when I wore Guido amounts of eye-liner and Wet n' Wild 528. No, wait,...they've known me since we belted out Lionel Ritchie from the backseat on our way to a John Hughes movie. Anyway, the point is that they've known me a "long-ass" time, as we used to say. I would love to insert "long-ass" or "big-ass" in front of every noun, but people tend to regard 38-year-olds who speak like 13-teen-year olds as unfit for adult conversations about organic arugula.

Now we're all fifteen pounds lighter and, at least two of us, more prone to show the shape of our behinds (though, as the weather has gotten nice, I've come to realize that it's pointless to adopt wheat free diet if you drink dark beer and eat frozen yogurt every other day). Still, middle age has changed since my mom started pushing forty.

I will see them them and a whole other posse of old friends at my 20th high school reunion. Help...

Just for today, I can connect with old friends.

Just ran into the same guy for the hundredth time in a coffee shop.

"This must mean something!" he said.

"It means we drink a lot of coffee and both live in West LA," I replied.

"Well, if you want to simplify it," he answered.

No, I'm not interested. I know in the movies and television when people keep running into each other it means that they're supposed to have sex, but in, well, in my life, it means that I need to get out of my hood more often.

It's kind of embarrassing, really. Am I that predictable? Why can't I run into people I know in a Parisian coffee shop? On a ski lift in the Alps? At a market in Guatemala?

Just for today, I need to get out of town.

2010 has been a roller coaster. Not so much a Magic Mountain one, as that traveling rent-a-ride my friends and I made the mistake of going on in the 8th grade. The girl in the car in front of us puked, and in lieu of cleaning it up the I'm-sure-shittily-paid attendant threw some disinfectant on it, hit the "On" button, and let winds of motion blow puke in our young faces. {Note to self: remind friends of puke ride at 20-year-high school reunion]. It's not that I feel like puke is being thrown in my face (right now), so much as the sense of being on a moving apparatus that I can't stop or get off of.

I'm on my third job this year and tenth career in my life. On alternating weeks I'm a ambitious writer, dejected blogger, unemployed Target addict, or web professional. During January and April the fires of creativity burned like a giant oil spill, but since May I have felt about as inspired as a network line-up of reality shows.

Last week my father flew in for another whirlwind visit before he leaves for South East Asia to (I'm guessing) find himself. Plans take tangential turns when he's around and somehow we ended up in gay bar playing pool. How did I not know that I'm good at pool? For a second I thought I had a hidden talent and then I remembered that mid-90's dot.com job with a pool table in the conference room. Guess I didn't work much at that gig. But I can play pool! Who plays pool? Dudes! And not in gay bars.

I thanked my father for dinner and for helping me rediscover a passion that could help my social life.

Just for today, I'm going with the flow.

My brain has been occupied by a new line of work and a recent emotional shit storm.

I predict clarity, a positive upturn, and a flurry of writing in the coming weeks. But for now, all I have are the ideas I had for blog entries over the past week.

1) The day last week when I ran into two people on separate occasions who are both friends with my close friend in New York. One was sitting next to me (actually, he was "posing" next to me) in yoga class. He claims we had once met and frightened me by knowing my name and vital statistics. Besides his friendship with our mutual friend, I also learned that he's about to move into a solar paneled house in the mountains, and seemed really bitter about the dating scene in LA (i.e., "single"). Boy, that would have been a great blog!

2) I have a friend who embraces political philosophy as her personal religion. She called my new line of work "Foucault-ian." Interesting idea. Not quite a blog entry.

3) People who stay stuck in the decade in which they felt the hottest. I'm still waiting for my decade.

4) A meditation on why people love to go to a beach front property on the 4th of July, drink lots of beer, and scream, "Woohoo!...Happy 4th of July!"

Just for today, I vow to start blogging regularly.

One time, during a JV Basketball game in high school, one of our five person team got fouled out for calling the ref a "fucker." I'm sure he was, but you can't really play against a five-person team when you only have four players. I believe we were already down by God knows how many points. The ensuing humiliation went beyond reason, to the point where I hoped all those girls experienced the karmic repercussions of shoving our faces in deeper cow caca.

It hurts to lose. It really hurts to lose really bad. It really hurts to lose to guys with long hair.

Just for today, I feel your pain, Mexico.