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Growing up in a quiet suburban town, I used to love playing neighborhood games with the  kids on my street. Back then, the summer days seemed to last forever and the only time you would stop playing Capture the Flag was when someone’s Mom yelled out their front door, “David! Kristen! Dinner!” My favorite memory of these simple neighborhood games  was the concept of a “Do-over.” You could call a “Do-over” when someone made a stupid mistake and the game wasn’t played as well as it could have been. You were allowed (at least in my oh-so-forgiving neighborhood) at least one “Do-over.” This opportunity would allow you to replay your move and have a second chance at scoring a point or making a play that would keep the game fun, exciting, and in most cases, simply still going. Lately I’ve been thinking about what it might be like if we could all have a “Do-over” in our adult life. Let’s say we totally screwed up at work or yelled at our significant other for no apparent reason, or even went so far as to make a big mistake like quitting our job and moving away from home without realizing the consequences. What if we could call a giant “Do-over!” and get a second chance to make things right. Wouldn’t that be great? Unfortunately, life doesn’t seem to work like that anymore and although it can be a bit of a  game sometimes, we are usually stuck with our decisions, good and bad, and forced to deal with their consequences with little opportunity to go back and cancel our first course of action.  It’s hard being an adult and there are times, especially lately, where I long for the days of my youth when life didn’t seem so serious and our choices were much more simple…Bubble Yum or Bubbalicious, Tootsie Pop or Blow Pop, Nerds or Skittles. There is a growing part of me that just doesn’t want to let go of my youth (I’m finally beginning to understand the whole Peter Pan thing) and craves the fun adventures and youthful friendships that don’t come with all the complications and drama of adulthood. So this evening, as I stand in my kitchen wondering what to prepare for dinner and stare at the pile of bills that need to get paid, I decide to answer the phone when I see that it’s my neighbor Deborah calling. Without a moment’s hesitation, I put down the can of sloppy joe mix, grab my tennis shoes and bolt out the door… there’s an awesome game of Kick the Can starting in five minutes.

For many of us across the country and around the world, 2009 was a very, let’s just say, interesting year. I find myself from time to time wondering how I got to where I am right now, and shake my head at the strangeness of it all. If someone where to tell me a year ago that I would be house sitting at an estate in Mill Valley, California and working on turning the property into a spiritual retreat center, driving a 2002 Mercedes Benz, hiking through the redwoods of Marin County and writing for a guy with a foot fetish, I would have thought you had gone insane. But, oddly enough, this is what I am doing and it is a far cry from living in the middle of Manhattan in an elevator building and working as a stylist on photo shoots. Complete polar opposites. I have a funny feeling that I am not the only person who has radically changed their lifestyle because of the recession or any other number of strange events that have occurred this year. I feel like I have been flipped over like a pancake, and although change is good, it can also be downright scary. The comforts of our previous life are gone and our new life is still forming. We have no road map to point us in the right direction and our future can at times be crystal clear, but most of the time is foggy and uncertain. What we have come to accept as normal is now thrown into question and it seems, at least for me, that I live in a world of paradox. Just the other night I was sitting out on the balcony with a friend of mine watching a glorious full moon rise up over the San Francisco Bay, and I was awestruck at just how powerful and strong the light was that was emanating from this amazing source. My friend joked and said, “I think I’m getting a moonburn.” I laughed wholeheartedly at the idea of being scorched by the moon instead of the sun. Kind of like my battle with opposite extremes, you just can’t be certain about much these days. Just when you think you got it all figured out, life takes a new turn and you are thrown in a whole new direction. But instead of fighting this tendency and running back to my comfortable existence, I am deciding to take on this challenging year and embrace that which is uncertain, paradoxical and downright surprising. We all get burned sometimes, by our bosses, our parents, our friends, by life, but the key is to keep going despite the sting and appreciate how beautiful life can be, turmoils and all. And once you realize that the things we think will hurt us are really just beautiful gifts from the universe, you can settle back in your chair and enjoy the show, with no fear of being burned… at least until the sun comes up.

As a recent transplant from New York City to the sprawling mecca of Los Angeles, I have undergone several changes including my preferred method of transportation. In New York it was all about walking, taxi cabs and subways and here in LA it’s so all about your car. It’s true, people here spend as much time on their cars as they do on themselves, so in order to fit in you gotta look good and have the right ride. I somehow wound up through a very odd series of events with a 2009 charcoal gray Ford Mustang. It’s cool, its fast, it’s fun to drive, and my friends all seem to dig it. I feel good getting into it, I feel good getting out of it, it does everything a car is supposed to do and then some. But there’s something special about my Mustang that very few people in LA can top. It has hand controls. “What are hand controls,” you ask? Basically the car is equipped with a steering ball and a hand brake that allows you to start, stop and maneuver the car without using your feet. I recently had a stuntman friend of mine take my Mustang for a spin and he came back with a look on his face that bordered on sheer ecstasy. “How is it you got a Mustang with hand controls?” he asked me, his hair completely blown out from the impact of riding at top speed with the windows down. I thought about giving him an embellished over-the- top Hollywood answer that would make me look even cooler, but I decided to tell him the truth. “I rent it with a paraplegic,” I answer slightly embarrassed and ashamed that I have officially “worked the system.” “I paid him $200 to sign me up as an additional driver on his  car rental account. We get gold star treatment and additional discounts for his disability. He’s happy, I’m happy, the rental car company is happy. It’s a win, win, win all the way around.” My friend laughs out loud at the ridiculousness of my situation but shrugs it off as a typical new-to-LA story. I continue to confess to him that at first the hand controls were a bit annoying, but I have grown so accustomed to them that whenever I get into a car without them, I feel like something is missing. It pains me slightly to know that eventually I’ll have to give up this car and get something a little more practical, but for now I’m going to enjoy every last minute of my hand control situation. In this mad city called Los Angeles with all its games, power struggles, and one-upmanship, I know I have to take each day as it comes and use all my secret abilities and talents. I won’t be told no, I won’t let the big guys intimidate me, and when I pull up to power meetings with executives and Hollywood types in my beautiful Ford Mustang I know that inside, I’ll have just a little more control than everybody else.

On a recent trip to the Bay area, admist a mad morning rush to the airport, I mistakenly left one of my prized possessions at the home of my friend. It’s just a scarf, I realize, but it was a gift which makes it much more special and and all the more missed when it is left behind. I rarely perform these random acts of irresponsibility, but this particular morning was  exceptionally hazy. (If I couldn’t remember what happened between the hours of 10 and midnight the night before, how could I possibly remember to throw my scarf in my purse before I head out the door?) The incident got me thinking, though, about all the things, big and silly, that we leave behind. I have a friend who every time he visits me at my Malibu beach house always without fail leaves something behind. The first time it was his sunglasses, the second the contents of his wallet, cash and ID included, the third it was a hat, then an IPOD…you get the picture. My neighbor told me that certain people do this on purpose so they have a reason to come back. In life, some of us leave behind much bigger things, like boyfriends and girlfriends, kids and pets. People leave behind their homes, their friends, their past. I’ve recently left a city, an apartment, a boyfriend and a dog, so I guess my little scarf isn’t such a big deal afterall. It’s funny though how the small things can really get to us when they are misplaced and God forbid lost. My scarf symbolizes all those things that I left behind and I wear it all the time, like a grown up version of a child’s blankie, so when I accidentally leave it  behind I wonder if it was a mistake or simply a sign that I need to let go of the past and move on with my life. The familiar song tells the story of a man who left his heart in San Francisco, I just left a scarf, but there’s a whole lot of love wrapped up in it.

We all have relatives that drive us crazy. The scary uncle who tickled us a bit too much as a kid, the mother-in-law who drives us batty with her incessant chatter and complete inability to mind her own business. But the biggest pain in the ass for all us women is Aunt Flow. It seems we are always preparing for her arrival in some way, shape, or form. Even after she leaves, we get only a week of calm and normalcy before she rears her ugly head again, and then we’re back to the two week prep phase of emotional outburts, excruciating pain, mass confusion and irritability so powerful that your cat starts to spend more time hiding under the bed. What is it about Aunt Flow that just makes us cuckoo? She’s difficult, messy, time consuming, expensive, and always appears at the most inconvenient times, like when you are about to leave on a five day beach vacation with your new boyfriend. Sure some people can stop Aunt Flow from coming to town if they choose, and many do, but for those who prefer the natural way, we are stuck every month having to face her, deal with her and accept her into our lives….that is until we have our first scare. Wait!  Hold the phone!  Holy shit!  Aunt Flow is two days late! Panic sets it, best friends are consulted, calenders are checked, several trips to the “scary aisle” in the drug store are made, and the rest of your life flashes before your eyes before you can even wave a stick at it. You think to yourself, “If its yes, its yes, if its no, its no” as if rationalizing anything at this point will get  yourself through those next few heart wrenching moments. Then, the answer comes, clear as day! Like a magical phone call from  dear Aunt Flow herself. She’s coming back to town! She’ll be here soon! You don’t have to worry, she’ll be back in your life before you know it and make everything all better. And then the familiar pain sets in, the tears start to come unexpectanatly, you begin to crave chocolate like never before, and the world is good again. The thing about Aunt Flow is, she’s not easy to deal with, she’ll stay longer than she’s welcome, she’ll make you feel like shit,  but at least you know she guarantees to bring with her, another month of freedom.

I know it’s been awhile since Sex and the City was the hip HBO program to watch, and since its jump from the small to the big screen (which some would argue was akin to jumping the shark) all us single girls are left wanting and needing more weekly dating guidance. I find myself downloading old episodes that still to this day make me laugh and think at the same time. Being a recent transplant from New York City to Los Angeles (excuse me, Malibu) I find myself entering an entirely new pool of strangers and especially strange men. Adding to the confusion is a break-up with my “Mr. Big” which although was my decision, is still heart wrenching and seemingly impossible to understand. So right now, my mantra is Thank God for Sex and the City.  If you are recently back in the dating game I highly suggest you revisit each and every episode (especially Season Two) as there are nuggets of dating wisdom in there that are not only accurate and surprisingly true, but hysterical and capable of pulling you out of the dating duldrums in less than 30 minutes (and with no commercial interruptions.) Navigating the muddy waters of new relationships isn’t easy so for $1.99 an episode I can remind myself that a stiff drink and the power of great friends can get me though any transitional period. Back to back, an hour of Sex and the City can be just the right thing to get a girl off the couch, head out for the night and try to navigate the scary world of being single (I thought New York was tough, but LA is a whole other animal.) Sometimes a little SATC  is just what a girl needs to get her evening going and if at the very worst, the night turns out to be a bust, you can come home and watch another episode or even a whole season if you feel the need. It’s tough out there, and although my life right now feels a little more like “Sex and the Pity” than Sex and the City, I know I’ll get through it, with a little help from my Friends.

A friend of mine called the other day questioning wether she should go out on a second date with this new guy. “He’s really nice, super funny, smart, successful and handsome.” “So what’s the problem?” I ask. “He’s got manboobs.” “Oh shit,” I respond. “I hear ya, man.” “Any guy who’s got bigger boobs than me, definitely a dealbreaker,”she finalized after three hours of  phone analysis and consultation (I should start charging.) My friend’s situation did get me thinking though about what it is that would cause us to end a relationship, start a new one from moving forward or simply say “no” to a second date. Another friend of mine (actually it’s the same girl, but I don’t want to exploit her – it’s tough dating in LA) had the reverse situation where the guy cancelled a third date because he had a plethora of unidentifiable bug bites all over his torso and didn’t want to freak her out. “Smart guy,” I said. “Let’s just hope those bites don’t continue further South.” Comparing my own sordid dating past to that of my girlfriends, I started to wonder, what’s my dating dealbreaker? After running through my head all the bad dates and rough starts to relationships I’ve had over the years, I have to admit, it’s definitely, without a doubt, hands down… fish lips. You know, the guy that can’t kiss for shit. He either tries too hard or not hard enough, and you’re left at the end of the night thinking, “What the hell was that?” Guys! Listen up! Girls, and I mean all girls, like a guy who’s a good kisser. Period. We love long make-out sessions and just the right amount of tongue, not too much, not too little, just the right amount. I can’t believe that it is that hard for some guys (ok a lot of guys) to get it right. They should have a class in 8th grade where they pull you out from Social Studies and teach guys how to kiss not just right, but good, real good. A good kisser makes up for a lot of other things that maybe aren’t so great, and a bad kisser…definitely a deal breaker, at least for me. So what’s your thing that you absolutely can’t handle when it comes to finding new love? I understand there’s a lot more important criteria, like being a good person, intelligence, compassion, all that stuff. But what’s the one thing aside from all that, that just really gets your goat? Think about it, there is something that will prevent you from taking his phone call or responding to his midnight text message. Be honest with yourself and tell me the truth…those yellow toenails really got to you didn’t they.

How many of you have an Ex that’s now one of your best friends? It’s like you still have that great connection but you don’t have any of the complications that come along with being in a committed relationship. Why is it so hard, though, to turn a boyfriend or girlfriend into just a friend? Sure, feelings are going to be hurt and ego’s bruised but it seems silly to throw away a relationship for good just because they didn’t work out somewhere between the bedroom and the sidewalk. I have an Ex named Fred (yes, that is his real name. I would have used a false name to protect his identity but it just worked too good for the title.) We dated for awhile when I first moved to New York and after several months of trying to get things right we (ok, I) realized it was just all wrong. We split up and went the usual self-torture route of trying to stay in touch only to find out that they had moved on and gotten involved with another person. But soon we became the “When Harry Met Sally” type of  friends. Its been several years and we have a fantastic relationship where we can hang out, laugh, help each other with our problems, but in no way shape or form do we want to sleep together. It’s quite perfect because we know each other’s in’s and out’s, yet there is no tension, confusion or underlying awkwardness. It’s just two people who really like and appreciate each other. That’s it. End of story. I wish I could be like this with all of my Ex’s, but unfortunately it’s just not that easy. There’s too much baggage that’s been carried around and we are too tired to open it all up and see what’s inside. I think the key to turning your current boyfriend or girlfriend into just a friend takes a lot of finessing so that we get the words just right and we make a clean break without any blame or drama. If you are contemplating going through this transition, I highly recommend that you sit down and think about exactly what you are going to say so that you can hopefully lose the relationship and gain a friendship. Because in the end, when you go to break up with someone…it’s all in the delivery.

For the last 3 1/2 years or so, I have had a borderline obsession with a bat-wielding superstar named Alex Rodriguez. I have spent many an afternoon at Yankee stadium not paying attention to the baseball game, but rather staring endlessly at how good those pinstripes looked on our gorgeous third baseman. I’ve studied his form, memorized his warm-up routine, and drooled over every last bit of chewing gum that passed through his lips. What started out as an ordinary school-girl crush, however, has recently turned into a crushing disappointment when I found out that not only has he been “Kaballah-ized” by Madonna, he also has admitted to using illegal steroids to beef up his game. This, in my opinion, makes him a fraud, a liar, and in the end, not so stunningly cute. My supersized crush gone wrong has got me thinking about how many crushes I’ve had over the years. From the bowl-cut sporting Doug Bivens in 5th grade, to the short-cut taking sport star A-Rod in adulthood, I now know just how unrealistic these silly fantasies can be. We have a tendency as humans to build people up to be “larger than life” and place them so high up on a pedestal that they become unreachable by mere mortals. Unfortunately the higher up we place THEM, the farther WE fall when we come to realize that they don’t have the superstar qualities we attach to them. There’s a reason they are called “crushes,” as there is usually some type of disappointment involved in this emotionally dangerous situation. Either we never actually become involved with our crushes (or in my case never even meet them) and are left forever wondering what “might have been,” or we actually do hook up with our fantasy mate and  find out that they aren’t as seemingly perfect as we thought they were.  So either way we are eventually screwed, and destined for disappointment when we have unrealistic expectations of another person’s fabulousness. No matter how great they look in a pair of old Levi’s or an iconic baseball uniform, we eventually figure out that our chains have been “Yankeed.” It doesn’t take long, however, before our hopes are often re-ignited when we find a new crush to thrive on. As we begin to feed off the magical power of fantasy and strive toward our ultimate wish fulfillment, we work ourselves into an emotional frenzy yet again with the hopes that this one will actually work out. But not me, not this time, because I’ve learned my lesson and realized that had my superstar crush A-Rod actually “worked out” in real life…he wouldn’t have needed any steroids.

It never ceases to amaze me just how adaptable we humans are on a daily basis. We go from freezing cold temperatures to boiling hot apartments, from getting off another one of “those conversations” with our mother’s right back to closing a million dollar deal. From sleeping in our warm toasty beds, to the blaring sound of the alarm clock, alerting us to another day of God knows what. Throughout all our trials and tribulations, we supposedly have an invisible force called Karma that guides our way and balances out the good with the bad, the yin and the yang, to make this roller coaster ride we call life somehow even out, if we hang on long enough. I haven’t gotten it all figured out quite yet, but it seems that lately, everything I do wrong seems to somehow come back to bite me in the ass, but for some reason when I do something right, it just means I did something right. No giant lollipop or pot of gold to congratulate me at the end of a good deed, no gold star for tipping the cab driver an extra buck just because I felt like it, no putting my very own first published article on the fridge door to be admired by my family. Am I supposed to just be content with a quiet sense of accomplishment that I “done good” and that’s it? Where was Karma when I helped that old lady across the icy street the other day, or watched my neighbor’s cat at the nineth hour while she went away sailing for the weekend? It always  seems that Karma is out to lunch when I do something good,  but hovers over me with an eagle’s eye when God forbid I should screw up. Lately, I think I might deserve a little something more than just your average self congratulatory pat on the back. My  hope is that one day I’ll get a really BIG reward for all the good I’ve done over the last few years, like a free all expenses paid vacation to the Carribean, or a winning lottery ticket, or maybe a chance encounter with Knox Jolie -Pitt. It’ll be great, I know, the moment of moments when I’ll know for sure that all those good deeds will have paid off and I’ll be singing the great praises of Karma’s connection with all things miraculous. So until that day comes I’ll keep doing what I’m doing everyday. I’ll be nice to my mother, face the arctic winter blast and get out of bed every morning hoping that all my good deeds, not to mention my patience and humility, will eventually payoff and my BIG day will finally arrive. So if we ever meet on the beaches of St. Barths and I’m getting off my private plane and holding the world’s cutest baby, you’ll know that I’m not just a lucky nanny, I didn’t actually marry Brad Pitt, you’ll know that maybe, just maybe, I did a whole lot of  good in the world.