Anxiety & Animals: You Say "Crazy," I Say "Coping"

Something really cool happened earlier this week. Buzzfeed – the company behind those addicting listicles and “Which __ Are You?” quizzes – used its reach on the web to bring attention to something really, really, really important. Something no one ever wants to talk about, even though talking about it is exactly what we should be doing.

Mental health.

All week long, Buzzfeed has been inundating our social media feeds with content designed to raise awareness about mental health issues. I hope you took the time to read/watch some of it. Partly because I think they do a great job of explaining it in a way that's both relatable and easy-to-understand. Also because these issues are more common than you think. They come in all shapes and sizes. Sometimes, it’s obvious someone is suffering. Other times, you’d never know anything is wrong. For many of us, the battle we’re fighting is an internal one. Because talking about it makes it real. And that makes it scary.

Yes, I said “us.” I’ve been dealing with anxiety for years. Fortunately, I’ve found ways to manage it, so I’m able to live a full, happy life. But getting to this point hasn’t been easy. Let me try to explain what anxiety feels like for me. (Just remember – anxiety manifests itself differently in different people, so my experience may be completely unlike yours.)

For me, anxiety is a constant sense of worry. All day, every day –  from the moment I wake up until the moment I fall asleep – my mind is screaming, “What if ?!??”

Oh no! I overslept again. What if I’m late for work?
What if I forgot to turn my hair straightener off?
What if I forget to pay that bill that’s due this week?
What if I can’t pay my bills this month?
I don’t understand this assignment. What if my boss regrets hiring me?
I just said something awkward to a married colleague. What if he thinks I’m flirting with him?
There’s a cute guy at the coffee shop. I can’t flirt with him – what if he thinks I’m fat?
What if I never lose weight?
What if my sister picks out a bridesmaid dress that looks terrible on me?
My friend wants to meet up for dinner. My turn to choose the spot. But what if she doesn’t really want to eat there and is only agreeing to be nice?
What if there’s nothing on the menu that I like? I'll look online and decide what to order now.
Going to dinner means I’ll be home later than usual. What if my cats get hungry? 
I don’t have a DVR anymore. What if going to dinner means I’ll miss my favorite show?
I keep eating crap that tastes good and skipping the gym. What if I have a heart attack in my 30s?
Mom’s calling. She never calls me. I always call her. What if someone’s sick or hurt or worse?
The cat won’t snuggle with me. What if she hates me for staying out late?
What if I sleep through my alarm in the morning?

That is only a tiny fraction of what goes through my head on a typical day. My mind is always buzzing with doubt, worry and the overwhelming fear of being judged for it. The What If Monster has become an unwelcome, but integral part of my life – like a terrifying Teddy Ruxpin on my shoulder that only spews doubt and doesn’t have an “off” switch.

The rational part of me knows 99 percent of these worries are irrational. That I unplugged the straightening iron because I’m OCD about it. That my boss has told me multiple times how happy she is to have me on the team. That my sister would never ask me to wear a dress that makes me uncomfortable. That my friend would never agree to go to dinner somewhere if she didn’t want to eat there. I know these things, but I still worry about them. I can’t turn it off.

I can’t turn it off, but I have learned to quiet it down. About two-and-a-half years ago, I started having panic attacks. I couldn’t catch my breath. I couldn’t focus. My mind would race, even more than it does on any other day. Sometimes, I would cry – no, sob – uncontrollably. The “what ifs” and the doubt would rise to a level so intense, so loud, that it blocked everything else out. The panic attacks were debilitating. I would shut down entirely. And while I’m by no means a control freak, I couldn’t accept the idea of not being in control of my own mind. So I decided to start seeing to a therapist. I talked to a friend who recommended her psychologist and I started seeing her on a regular basis.

Together, we talked about what was going on and what was triggering the attacks. It turned out to be a combination of two things: a particularly manipulative/emotionally abusive guy I was seeing at the time and my incredibly high-stress job. I ditched the douchebag immediately, and eventually found the courage to leave my job for a new career path. The decision to remove these toxic triggers from my life was one of the best I’ve ever made. I haven’t had a panic attack since.

As for the constant worry, I cope with that in a few ways. Sometimes, meditation or breathing exercises help. Staying busy and surrounding myself with people who accept me for who I am, flaws and all, also helps. So does getting wrapped up in a good book. But the thing that helps the most – the thing that brings me the most peace, the most happiness and can quiet the What If Monster the most effectively – is spending time with animals. It’s also, sadly, the thing for which I get the most grief.

Anyone who knows me knows I like animals. A LOT. I have two cats that have become the center of my world. They have their own Instagram account, occupy the only picture frame on my desk at work and are my absolute favorite conversation topic. So, it's not surprising that I've become known as "The Crazy Cat Lady" among my friends and colleagues. When I say it about myself, I'm just joking. When my friends say it, they're kidding around too. Most of the time. Sometimes though, I can tell you’re judging, not joking. Maybe you don't think I notice. Maybe you don't care. But maybe you should. Because being a “crazy cat lady” is the thing that helps me cope with my actual “crazy.”

When I adopted my girls from local animal shelters, they rescued me as much as I rescued them. I know it’s cliché, but it’s true. Because they make me happy in a way that no person ever has. That’s not to say my friends and family don’t make me happy – they absolutely do! But with animals, it’s much simpler. There’s no judgment, no bias, no malice. With animals, you get what you give: in this case, unconditional love. Loads of it.

                                                                                                           

Think about it this way: What’s the opposite of being worried? Being happy. Duh. For me (and many others, I would imagine), happiness is inextricably linked to feeling loved.

Every morning, my alarm goes off. Calliope hears that alarm, immediately gets up and climbs onto the pillow with me. She purrs at the top of her lungs, licks my nose and my ear (so gross, yet oddly endearing) and nuzzles me affectionately until I finally get up. Every night, I set my alarm, turn off the light and roll onto my side to sleep. Within ten minutes, Cleo curls up behind my knees or in front of my stomach and sleeps by my side all night long. During the day, they’re usually being their silly selves, playing and doing dumb shit that makes me laugh uncontrollably. The joy that these two furballs bring to my life has proven itself to be the one thing that never fails to quiet my racing, worried mind.

Snuggles on the couch with my girls

In September, I started volunteering at a shelter, working exclusively with...wait for it...dogs. (Not what you were expecting, was it? Ha!) I volunteer for a non-profit group that works primarily with pit bulls. I've always wanted a dog (or two), but due to financial constraints/antiquated apartment restrictions, I haven't been able to adopt, or even foster, one yet. I've had a soft spot for pitties ever since my brother adopted one a few years ago.

Just a few of the cuties I've met since I
started volunteering at the shelter

Over the past few months, I have met, walked and played with dozens of dogs. Each one is different, but they're all wonderful in their own way. Two dogs in particular occupy most of my thoughts these days: Charlotte and Cookie. Yes, I have favorites, but so does everyone else. Most volunteers gravitate towards the obvious choices: the silly dogs with big personalities, the smarties who are quick to learn new tricks or the lovebugs who dole out kisses by the dozen. And that's great - those dogs should get all the attention they deserve. But as I much as I love those pups, I gravitate toward the ones that tend to get overlooked.

Charlotte

I met Charlotte about a month ago. She was timid and shy and each time I would take her out of her kennel for a walk, she started shaking in fear. With lots of patience, praise, chicken (what we use in lieu of treats) and kisses, this gorgeous girl quickly learned she could trust me. Even though it only lasted as long as our walks, seeing her come out of her shell long enough to snuggle and wag her tail made my heart happy. Charlotte is now with a foster family and while I miss our walks, I'm so glad she's out of the scary shelter.

Cookie in her kennel

Then, last week, I met Cookie. When I got to her kennel to take her for a walk, she was so happy to see me. Tail wagging, walking in circles around me, she clearly wasn't scared of people. But the minute we got into the hallway, she froze and started shaking. After sweet-talk and chicken failed to convince her to move, I had to carry all 30+ pounds of her outside. Even then, she was still scared, only walking a few feet before she stopped again. I sat quietly with her for a while, giving her lots of hugs and kisses, before I had to carry her back. Turns out, it’s the leash that makes her nervous. So this week, I took her to a fenced-in area where I could take the leash off. And man, did she light up! This happy little girl walked and walked and walked, sniffing everything, eating all the chicken I gave her and giving me snuggles and kisses galore. Again, seeing this scared little pup come out of her shell, even for just a little while, made my heart melt.

Why do I gravitate toward dogs like these who seem scared or unsure? Simple. Because I relate to them. Every ounce of me wants to show them that they are safe. That they are loved. That it's okay to be their silly, affectionate selves. Because with everything I worry about, I constantly need to be reminded of those things myself. By working with these dogs, I’m also working with my anxiety, reminding myself that while the What If Monster may not have an “off” switch, there is a way to turn down the volume.

So the next time I start talking about my cats or the dogs I walked last night, maybe skip the judgy, she’s-talking-about-animals-again eye-roll and look past your preconceptions. Then look up something called Animal-Assisted Therapy (AAT). It’s a real thing – animals including dogs, cats, horses and even dolphins help treat a range of conditions including anxiety disorders. I no longer see my psychologist because I’ve learned to manage my anxiety on my own, in part, by surrounding myself with furry therapists. But also by surrounding myself with people who are okay with that…and with me, just as I am.

Remember: Just because you can’t hear the noise inside my head, doesn’t mean it isn’t there. Here is some more information on anxiety disorders and some great listicles from Buzzfeed’s Mental Health Week that can help explain anxiety further.

AnxietyDisorders - National Institute of Mental Health

11 Things People With Anxiety Want You To Know - Buzzfeed

24Comics That Capture The Frustration Of Anxiety Disorders - Buzzfeed

17Charts That Will Speak To You If You Have Social Anxiety - Buzzfeed

It Finally Happened

I've tried to write this post more times than I can remember. Right after it happened. A couple weeks after it happened. In an airport on vacation. A couple weeks after that. The words just wouldn't come. It was as if my life had shifted so monumentally, that I needed time just to wrap my own mind around it. It's hard to explain how it feels when that thing you've been waiting to happen... actually happens. But it’s pretty amazing, so bear with me while I try.

Back in April, I was supremely discouraged. After a couple of particularly tough-to-swallow rejections on the job-search front, I was left wondering, "What’s the point?" Wondering if taking the risk to leave my job last summer had been worth it. Wondering if I could muster enough energy to pick myself up. Wondering if anything would ever work out. As usual, I turned to my best friend for support. And as usual, she delivered.

(I really need to stop telling the internet how she's
always right. She's a lawyer for crying out loud.
If I'm not careful, this will come back to bite me
 the next time we disagree on something...)

Fast-forward four-and-a-half months and, as usual, she was absolutely right. It's now just a blip in the rear-view. At the end of June, it finally happened. Just as I was beginning to think I couldn't handle another day of driving 170+ miles round-trip to & from work, the phone calls started coming in. Over a two-and-a-half-week period, I had five separate job interviews. And less than a week after that, I landed one.

I’ve been working for the State of California for a little over a month. I now do communications/public affairs work for an agency based in Sacramento. (Although details are easy to Google, I’m not going to get into them here, as this is still a personal blog, not a professional one.) I’m working on a project I believe in, with people who are friendly, supportive and encouraging. My commute is down from 86 miles each way to exactly two miles. I have a huge cubicle to myself, where I can put up pictures and never have to worry about finding someone else’s crumbs in the keyboard. I get lunch breaks, go for coffee and get paid a good salary with great benefits. I’ll save my TV News-Work-Environment-Versus-State-Job-Work-Environment for another post, but you get the idea. If you don't, then allow my good friend Jack Dawson to explain.

For the first time in my adult life, I have a regular schedule during normal hours. I don’t have to get up before the sun. My nights are my own again. My weekends are actually weekends. I sleep 7+ hours every night. I don’t toss and turn anymore with the restless dreams of a woman whose mind is full of worry and doubt and disappointment. I hit the pillow and I’m out cold, enjoying the restful, dreamless sleep of a woman who just took a sleeping pill with the better part of a bottle of red wine. (Yes, I speak from experience. But no, I haven’t done that since I left TV.)

                                                                                                                                            

Also, because I have a social life again, I don’t spend nearly as much time at home having lengthy conversations with my cats. So that’s a win.

Last summer, I took a huge risk. I gambled everything for the possibility of something better. And it paid off. It wasn’t easy. In fact, it was downright terrifying at times. But it was worth it. Things aren’t perfect – there are still areas of my life that need some serious work. But for the first time in a very, very, very long time, I can say I’m happy. Really happy.

You know that feeling? When things are going your way and everything’s coming up roses and butterflies and sunshine and unicorn poo? That’s how I feel. For example, every time an upbeat song with a positive message starts playing, something happens. In that moment, the song becomes my anthem. The singer, my spirit animal. I crank up the volume, dance in the driver’s seat and sing at the top of my very large swimmer's lungs.

I don’t care who sees me. And I don’t care what they think. I don’t care that all Kelly Clarkson Girl Power ballads are mostly the same. I don’t care that Celine and Whitney and Cher are cliché. And I don’t care that so many people have a weird beef with this band. Because in this moment, this is my anthem. Because, to paraphrase my good buddy Jack Dawson, right now, I am King of the Mother-Effing World. (Sorry, Mom.)

Hope: A Blessing Or A Burden?

I have always been a hopeful person. I dream big dreams and believe they can come true. I reach for the metaphorical stars because I believe I can touch them. I believe big risks can yield big reward. And perhaps, most of all, I believe in Happy Endings. Hope is a powerful thing. It can motivate you. Inspire you. Keep you from giving up. But as I've discovered in recent months, it can also backfire in a big way.

As you probably know by now, I'm still commuting between Sacramento and San Francisco for work. I'm fortunate to work with a great group of people, but almost ten months of constant back-and-forth for a high-stress job has worn me down. I'm soooo ready to be done with my commute and with TV news.

Since the New Year began, I've applied to about a dozen jobs in the Sacramento area. Some were only mildly interesting. Others seemed much more up my alley. In two cases in particular though, I was convinced that "this was it."

The first was in late January/early February. I landed an interview for a PIO position at headquarters for one of the largest, busiest agencies in the state. It sounded like a great gig - writing-intensive, possible video/photography projects, interesting subject matter, normal hours, good money. I knew I'd enjoy the work. But more than that, I knew I could do it. And do it well.

I spent a lot of time preparing for my interview. I researched the agency, recent events/projects it was involved in and the people I'd likely be interviewing with. I talked to friends who'd gone through the interview process before so I would know (more or less anyway) what to expect. I'd never felt more prepared. And I nailed it. They seemed responsive/happy with my answers to their questions. They laughed and smiled. They liked the questions I asked them. And when he walked me out, the man who would have been my supervisor basically told me I'd aced the interview.

Two days later, I got called in for a second interview. And I nailed it again. The head of the department was present this time, so the atmosphere was more formal. I had a hard time reading the room, but left feeling confident I'd showed them I was the best candidate for the job.

Apparently not.

A couple days later, I got a phone call from Mr. Would-Be Supervisor Man while I was going on a long walk near Lake Natoma. He was kind and gracious (something I'm incredibly grateful for), but told me they'd "decided to go in another direction." He told me they loved me. That my resume was great and my interview was about as good as it gets. But there was someone else with more formal writing (read: print) experience who could "jump in" with a lot less training than I would need. He promised to keep my resume - that I would be his first call when another position opens up in the office. He also offered to be a resource if I ever needed help in my job search, which was very kind.

I managed to end the conversation before I burst into tears. All that hope I'd built up in the weeks before came crashing down on top of me. I sat there, in the middle of a park, not caring who saw me, and dialed my mom, who knew I'd be getting a call about the job that day and was waiting for word.

She answered, her voice full of hope (because I have the best mom in the world, who believes in me, usually more than I believe in myself): "So????"

I managed to choke out a single word: "No."

Mom: "Oh Sweetheart! I'm so sorry."

And that's when it happened. It was as if my body was rejecting all the hope I'd kept inside, forcing it out of me in one fell swoop. Violent sobs ripped through my chest. It was the ugliest Ugly Cry I can remember having as an adult. I couldn't breathe, couldn't stop the tears and couldn't talk, so everything came out as terrifying, guttural shrieks. Mom patiently stayed on the other end of the phone while I had what basically amounted to one of those epic tantrums you only see babies and toddlers throw because they don't know how to control their feelings yet. The world wasn't ending. People weren't dying. But for an innately hopeful person, there are few things worse than seeing the light at the end of the tunnel go out, just as you reach it.

It took a little while, but I picked myself back up. I gave myself some time to lick my wounds, and once they healed, the hope slowly came back. I started applying for jobs again. I started believing in myself again. Believing that the "right job" was still out there, waiting for me to grab it.

And then in March, I found it. My Dream Job. A communications position with a nonprofit animal welfare organization. I have always believed everything happens for a reason. And as corny as that may sound, I believed the state job didn't work out because this job was going to open up. This was the work I was meant to do.

When I first saw the posting, something happened that I hadn't experienced in this process before. I had a physical reaction - my adrenaline started pumping, I got goosebumps and I couldn't stop smiling. Anyone who knows me well knows one of the few things I'm really passionate about is animals. I adopted both of my cats from local shelters and I plan on rescuing at least one dog someday. This was my chance to put my communications skills to use for something I wasn't just interested in...but something I was downright passionate about.

These jobs don't open up often - people usually hold onto them for years. So I knew I had to nail it. I knew I had most of the skills they were looking for and immediately began taking online courses to beef up my knowledge in the one area where my resume was a bit weaker. I even started keeping a list of ideas to pitch - everything from marketing and social media strategy to community outreach. A few weeks later, when the posting closed, I got the call I was waiting for. I got an interview!

As I drove to the interview this past Wednesday, it felt different than usual. I wasn't a ball of nerves. I felt calm, confident and excited. I knew this was what I was meant to do. I knew I was capable of doing the job well, but more importantly, I knew I'd love doing it. I was overwhelmed with hope at the promise and possibility of working for an organization I'd supported and believed in for so long.

Once again, I nailed the interview. I was personable and confident without being arrogant. I never had to hesitate before answering a question. My answers were met with smiles, nods and even some laughter. And they loved the questions I asked them. I left feeling confident I'd shown them how well I could do the job and that I shared their passion for the work being done there. The woman who walked me out even made a point of telling me how well I'd done. I left that building knowing beyond a doubt that I'd given the best interview I was capable of giving.

Before I left, they told me I was one of a handful of people they were interviewing, including one internal candidate. They also said they'd make a decision - and call me - on Friday afternoon.

Friday came and I was still full of hope. Still sure that nothing else had panned out because this was going to. That the big risk I took in leaving my job in Sacramento ten months ago, and all my patience and perseverance since, was about to pay off in the most amazing way possible.

Or not.

The call came after I got home Friday afternoon. I knew it was bad news the moment I answered and it wasn't the CEO, but the woman who'd walked me out, on the other end. They decided to go with the internal candidate. Not because I did anything wrong - again, they absolutely loved me - but because this person "could just jump in" with a lot less training than I would need. This is quickly becoming the least pleasant case of deja vu I've ever experienced. She gave me some good advice on how to break into the nonprofit world, and after I thanked her for it, I hung up. And promptly felt all that hope rush from my body...again.

Thankfully, I was home this time, so I could cry and sob and not breathe without an audience. When I could breathe again, I screamed through my tears, demanding an explanation from the Universe that never came. I cursed out a god I'm more convinced than ever is either cruel or nonexistent. I let my emotions run their course. All that hope I'd had 20 minutes earlier had turned into an overwhelming feeling of hopelessness. Again, I called my mom, who patiently sat on the other end of the phone while I cried and eventually calmed down.

No, the world still isn't ending. Many people have it much worse than I do. I haven't completely lost perspective. I know how lucky I am to have a job while I look for another one. And how fortunate I am to have such a strong support system. But I can't even begin to describe how discouraging it is to know you're doing everything right, yet somehow, everything always goes wrong. To be told you're great...but not great enough to hire. To believe in an organization that doesn't believe in you enough to think you're worth the extra training time. To know you were meant to do a job given to someone else. And to know that in the end, something entirely out of your control can render all that hard work, preparation, confidence and positive thinking obsolete.

I'm dealing with the disappointment the way I usually do. By locking myself in my apartment, away from the world. By sleeping well past noon. By watching a marathon of action movies because watching someone else get his butt kicked distracts me from how beat-up I'm feeling. And by playing with the kitties because this is me we're talking about and if anyone can make me smile, it's my girls.

I've also been thinking a lot. About hope. Is it a blessing? Or a burden?

A strong argument can be made for the latter. In my experience, nothing hurts quite as much as disappointment. That feeling when hope comes crashing down. The moment you realize a dream won't actually come true. The other day, a friend of mine told me she tries to never get her hopes up. She says it's easier to be a pessimist and be pleasantly surprised than to be hopeful and disappointed. She has a point. Am I being naïve? Should I stop myself from getting excited about the potential for something to happen, so I don't hurt as badly if it doesn't?

When I posed these questions to my best friend Friday night, she vehemently rejected the idea. While not a pessimist, she is much more of a realist than I am (one of many reasons I keep her around). But she said my capacity for hope is one of the greatest things about me. I just have to be stronger than the disappointment. As usual, she was right. (Just don't tell her I said that - we still haven't entirely resolved an argument regarding a box of Pop-Tarts that started during our sophomore year in college.)

Being hopeful is part of who I am. I can't help it. And I don't want to change it. I like living a life full of hope. It brings me comfort. Keeps me positive. Motivates me. I can't imagine a life without big dreams or stars to reach for.

It will be a while before I get back to that place. Right now, I'm still wrapping my head around the dream that was just shattered. But I'll get back there. I always do. Because I'm stronger than the disappointment. Because I still believe everything happens for a reason, even if I don't know what it is yet. Because I know someday, I'll look back on all this and it will make sense. Because I have my family and friends to lean on. And because my Happy Ending is still out there.

Right now, the world seems pretty dark. But it won't stay that way for long. Because for better or for worse, Hope always seems to find its way back to me.

“Isn't it the moment of most profound doubt that gives birth to 

new certainties? Perhaps hopelessness is the very soil that 

nourishes human hope; perhaps one could never find sense 

in life without first experiencing its absurdity.”

-Vaclav Havel

20 New Year's Resolutions for 2015

It's that time of year again. New Year's Eve. The night we look back on the past year, reflect and set goals for the year ahead. This time last year, there wasn't much reflection needed. I was more than ready to leave 2013 in the past. Good riddance.

Despite a few periods of intense stress and uncertainty about my future (the inspiration for this blog), the memories I made in 2014 were, as I'd hoped, much brighter. My best friend came to visit me in California for the first time. I discovered my inner Martha Stewart. I stood among friends on a perfect day at the beach and watched as two of our friends vowed to love each other forever. I stood up for myself and my career. I left my job in Sacramento. I was unemployed. I started a new job in San Francisco. I adopted a second cat and became "that crazy cat lady." I discovered a love for photography. I flew home to surprise my Grandpa for his 80th birthday. I went to baseball games. I drank great beer. I tried new foods. I laughed with friends so hard it hurt. And I got to hug my parents (when you live 3,000+ miles apart and only make it home once a year, this is a big deal). And those are just a few of the highlights.

Looking back, this past year was just what I needed. Sure, there were bumps in the metaphorical road, but overall, it was a pretty enjoyable drive.

Looking ahead to 2015, I'm excited. But instead of making a handful of resolutions I'll inevitably break in the weeks ahead, I'm taking another approach. I'm going to make a whole bunch of resolutions, significantly upping my chances of sticking to at least one or two of them.

Start a new career. I've got a good feeling about 2015. By now, you know I'm trying to get out of TV news to begin a new journey. This will be the year it happens, I know it.

Get healthy. Ok, I make this one every year. And every year I find excuses not to. But with my 30th birthday and three weddings to take pictures at, in addition to an increasing feeling of self-disgust every time I look in the mirror, it's time to cut the crap and do it already.

Not eat an entire brick of cheese in one sitting. In keeping with the previously-mentioned attempt at a healthier lifestyle, I will refrain from gorging myself every time Nugget stocks up on super-sharp Vermont cheddar from Cabot. At least I'll try. Not making any promises on this one.

Drink less. Or at least swap some of those beers for red wine. It's supposed to be good for you, right?

Swear less during football games. But only if there are kids around. Otherwise, I'll continue my classy tradition of making even the most hardened sailors blush.

Only hit Snooze Once. I typically hit the Snooze button a minimum of three times in the morning. And for some crazy reason, I'm always running late. Hmmm...

Wear my hair down at least three days a week. My hair is my favorite feature about myself, yet most days, I just throw it up in a ponytail. Because I'm running late. So this goes hand-in-hand with the Snooze thing.

FaceTime with the family more often. Because watching my mom roll her eyes at something ridiculous I say is so much more effective than hearing her do it.

Continue trying new foods. Because I have the palate of a 9-year-old. Which is actually an improvement over the 5-year-old me that moved to California a few years ago. But it's still not acceptable for a 29-year-old-in-real-life.

Stop apologizing for being a "cat person." Because in all honesty, who really cares?!??

Make my cats Instagram-Famous. Because if Grumpy Cat can make its owner $100M, you damn well better believe my girls can at least pay off my student loans.

Open Sacramento's first Cat Cafe. A girl can dream, right?

Take more pictures. I need to invest in a good camera first, but last year, I found I have a decent eye for photography (at least I think so). Plus, it's a great excuse to explore!

Be more cordial to strangers. I'm not rude, but I've always been a keep-my-head-down-and-offer-a-quick-hello-so-they-don't-talk-to-me type of person. But that doesn't reflect my personality, which is more outgoing. While making more eye contact and smiling more may put me at greater risk of being mugged by a homeless meth addict in the West Sac Safeway parking lot, I'm willing to risk it.

Drink less coffee. As long as I'm still in TV, working weird, inconsistent hours, I have no intention of keeping this one. But once I join the Land of The Normal People, I really need to cut back to 2-3 cups a day.

Fall in love. Because I'm secretly a hopeless romantic. And because I just watched "When Harry Met Sally" and Sally just told Harry she hates him, but she really loves him and it always makes me feel more emotions than I know how to handle.

Start swimming again. It's the only form of exercise I've ever truly enjoyed. So rather than forcing myself to join a gym full of black-crew-socks-wearing-hipsters and grunting gym-rats, why not get in shape doing something that I love?

Try yoga. Over the past year, I've learned a lot about finding healthy ways to manage stress. I feel like yoga could definitely be an enjoyable way to do that. Also, I'm about as flexible as a pregnant cow, so it certainly couldn't hurt.

Stop avoiding judgement from grocery store cashiers by buying frozen veggies. Because A) fresh veggies are waaay better. And because B) no amount of Kraft Mac & Cheese is even remotely as embarrassing as the condoms, hemorrhoid cream and adult diapers the man in front of me at Target bought yesterday. Oh, how I wish I was kidding.

Try 10 new beers. I needed at least one resolution that I know I'll keep.

So there you have it. My New Year's Resolutions for 2015. We'll see just how many stick. Your list probably isn't as extensive as mine, but I wish you luck with it. Unless you're planning to give up cheese or red meat. Because that's just crazy talk. Weirdos.

When Failure Becomes "The Best Thing That Ever Happened To You"

So, it's been a while. Almost two months since I've felt the need to pour my thoughts into a witty, snarky or overly emotional blog post. Not because I haven't had things to say, but rather, because I've been too tired to say them. Tired isn't the right word though. Exhausted. No...more like really, really, really, mind-blowingly, achingly, all-I-can-think-about-is-how-great-a-week-long-medically-induced-coma-would-be exhausted. Seriously - I'm fighting an epic battle with my eyelids even as I type this.

These days, my life goes like this: wake up / drive to San Francisco (usually at 1am) / work for 9 hours / drive back to Sacramento / eat something / shower / sleep. Repeat. Beyond these basic things, I am barely functional. My apartment's a mess. I have almost no social life. I cook quick meals out of a box, so I've put on weight and now feel disgusted with myself. I spend most of my days off sleeping or napping between Netflix binges. I am entirely dependent on my cats for affection, as I never know when I'll get a hug from a friend (see aforementioned lack of social life/newly-adopted hermit-like lifestyle). Cleaning the kitchen has become a legitimate accomplishment. It's sad and pathetic, but it's the truth.

Before I continue, let me be clear. I made the decisions regarding my career myself and I do not regret them. I am not trying to throw myself some selfish pity-party. I am incredibly grateful to have a job working with people I like that allows me to pay the bills and then some. I have a say over my own schedule (to an extent anyway). I realize how fortunate I am, I truly do. Fortunate? Yes. Happy? No. I still want to get out of news. The more time I spend in a newsroom, the more I realize it's not the life I want. I'm tired of 3:00 a.m. shifts, over-inflated egos and reporting on the community, rather than feeling like a part of it. I want to meet new people and do something (ideally) that makes a truly positive difference in the lives of others. But when it comes to the search for that satisfying new career, things are going nowhere, fast.

I hate that idiom. Because it's not fast. It's slow. Mind-numbingly slow. I left my job in Sacramento roughly five months ago. I've been commuting to/from San Francisco for about four. But it feels like it's been a year. I've been scouring online job postings and networking like a social butterfly on crack. I've applied for probably close to two-dozen jobs, all of which I truly believe I would enjoy and all of which I know I'd be able to do well. I send applications. I follow up. I have fabulous references. I customize my cover letters to each opening. I reach out to anyone who can put in a good word or point me in the direction of an interesting job opportunity. Everyone tells me I'm doing everything right. So why does it feel like I'm doing something wrong?!?

Dear Amy,

Thank you for your interest in <our company/organization>. Your resume and experience are impressive. However, the application process is competitive, and after reviewing resumes, we've decided to <go in another direction/move forward with other candidates>.

Please keep in touch. Best of luck in your job search. If there's anything else <we/I> can do for you, don't hesitate to ask.

Best,

<Name of person with whom I will probably not keep in touch>

When I first started this process, I said I wished every potential employer would follow up with me, even if the decision wasn't the one I wanted. But this isn't what I had in mind. Every one of these is like a sucker punch right in the gut. So formal. So impersonal. Every one of these You're-Great-But-Not-Really notes makes me want to curl up in a ball and give up. Throw in the towel. The irony is not lost on me - when applying for jobs, confidence is crucial. Not arrogance, but knowing beyond a doubt that you're capable of doing the job in question well. Yet every cold rejection letter cuts into that confidence, leaving more room for self-doubt.

When it comes to producing the news, I'm good at what I do. Some have said I'm really good at it. And I've seen many friends transition from newsrooms to the world of PR/PA/Communications very successfully. I know it can be done. And I know I have the right skills, attitude and work ethic to do it too. But failure after failure inevitably make me start to question myself. What am I doing wrong? Why am I not good enough? Should I just forget about it and settle for a successful-but-totally-unsatisfying career in news? I know from personal experience, the answer is No.

After my first year as a producer, my boss pulled me aside to tell me he'd decided not to "extend my contract." It was a two-year contract and it had only been a year. The "official" reason my boss offered was, "After a year with us, you're not where you should be as a Newhouse graduate." The truth was that the manager I worked directly under was the definition of a workplace bully. She went out of her way to undermine my self-confidence by belittling me, questioning me and mocking me in front of my colleagues. Even the News Director was intimidated by her - rarely questioned or disagreed with her. He was right - I couldn't do my job properly, but not because I wasn't smart, driven or skilled. Because I could never escape that shadow of self-doubt. I barely managed to make it out of the building before I started sobbing. Failure. It was unfamiliar territory. I was always the Honor Roll nerd in high school. Dean's List while juggling two degrees, sorority commitments and internships in college. I had a job lined up before I graduated. And now it was all falling apart. A friend/colleague who I looked up to very much (and still do) ran after me as I left. He gave me the biggest bear hug and said something I'll never forget: "Amy, it's okay to be upset. Go home. Have a good cry. Call your mom. But you'll be okay. I know it doesn't feel like it now, but trust me, this is the best thing that ever happened to you."

He was right. I went home, called my mom in hysterics and basically had a panic attack. But I had a month left on my contract to work. So I stopped crying and told myself I would take the high road - I wouldn't be bitter or nasty and I would continue to put 100% into everything I did. A few weeks later, my boss said he was so impressed with my attitude, that he was recommending me for a job at another station. It turned out to be a great fit - management was encouraging, not condescending. And I thrived there, gaining the confidence I needed to be successful in such a high-pressure environment. (Yes, I know it's the same environment I'm now trying to get out of, but that's not the point.)

So here I am, facing what feels like more failure. Five months ago, I was full of hope and optimism, the future bursting with promise. Now I just feel overwhelmed with discouragement, disappointment and continued uncertainty. And while I'm not always successful, I'm fighting that pessimism with what little energy I have to spare. I'm still plugging away at my job search, determined not to give up on a chance to be truly happy with my career. I do believe everything happens for a reason and I know I'll end up where I'm meant to be. I hope this will, again, be "the best thing that ever happened" to me.

Losing Faith

I am a woman. And a die-hard football fan. That FOMOF commercial last year with the woman stuck at a baby shower on a Sunday? Yep, that’s me.



Every year, from February to September, I wait anxiously for my favorite time of year. The time when my friends and I spend every Sunday (and the occasional Monday or Thursday night) watching football. I wear my jersey every game day – I even coordinate my home/away jerseys with whatever my beloved Patriots are wearing on the field. Once it gets cold enough, I bust out my throwback beanie and my fuzzy team socks.  And whenever I’m watching at home, my beer wears its team gear too.

It’s a weekly ritual of sorts: trash talk with friends, good beer, greasy food and acting like we know better than head coaches and offensive/defensive coordinators who get paid millions to do what they do. At the end of the day, we talk a big game, but it’s the game itself that we love. A shared passion for a sport that’s action-packed and exciting. For me, football is like a religion. And this week, I’m having a crisis of faith.

By now, you know what happened with the whole Ray Rice debacle. If you don’t, crawl out from under that rock and Google it. I’m not going to analyze what the newest video does or doesn’t show – I wasn’t inside that elevator and I’m no psychologist. I won’t presume to know what personal demons Rice or his wife have battled. But there are two things I do know. First, that harming another human being (physically or emotionally… man, woman or child) is NEVER acceptable. No exceptions. Second, that the NFL – and its leader in particular – screwed up. Big time.

According to USA Today’s NFL Arrests Database (yes, this is a thing and its very existence should raise all kinds of questions, but let’s not get into that now), there have been 82 documented Domestic Violence incidents involving NFL players since 2000. All but four of those ended in the arrest of an NFL player. More than half of those incidents were under Roger Goodell’s watch. It’s not clear how many of these cases were (or were not) ultimately resolved. What is clear is that in the cases that have been closed, dozens of players got off with a slap on the wrist – a single-game suspension, court-ordered anger management, community service and the oh-so-popular pretrial Diversion Program. Only eight NFL players charged with Domestic Violence (including Ray Rice) were cut or released by their team. What’s even more interesting (or disturbing, in my opinion) is the number of players dropped within days – sometimes hours – of their arrests on drug- or alcohol-related charges. I count at least 20.

So the NFL has a zero-tolerance policy for substance abuse, but when it comes to actually abusing other human beings, they’ll throw you in therapy, ask you to donate a marginal percentage of your obscene salary to an organization for battered women, let you call the shots from the sideline for a week or two and then call it even. Stay classy, gentlemen, stay classy.

I know statistics can be manipulated to back up almost any argument, and there’s probably a lot more to that arrest data than I could ever wrap my mind around (mostly because I hate doing math). But one thing is crystal clear: the NFL has a track record of hypocrisy and upholds a culture of condoning behavior that any decent human being would consider unacceptable.

Yes, the League just announced harsher punishments for future domestic violence incidents involving players or other employees. But it's too little too late. Mr. Commissioner, you stand at your podium, telling us all how sorry you are, how you screwed up. But then you tell us you’re being proactive now, to prevent future abuse. It doesn’t matter how your PR people try to spin it, the reality is this: there is nothing proactive about what you’re doing. It is entirely reactive – a response to a video leaked by a celebrity gossip site. If TMZ had never released either video of what happened in Atlantic City, would we be having this discussion at all? Would you have even thought about changing the league’s domestic violence policy? In all fairness, we as fans are also reacting to that video. Most of us are calling for change in response to it, not out of some altruistic need to stand up for other women. But it’s not our job to enforce a code of conduct within the NFL – it’s yours.

Roger Goodell, you are a husband. A son. A father to two daughters. A role model for the thousands of men and women employed by the NFL. You should know better. What happens if, God forbid, one of your daughters ever finds herself in an abusive relationship? Would you step in as soon as you saw the signs? Or would you turn a blind eye and wait for him to sucker-punch her on surveillance video before you said something?

Based on my research, roughly 46% of NFL fans are women. I am one of them. Yesterday, I planned on watching the first Monday Night Football of the season. My fantasy team had a lot at stake. But even as a devoted fan, I couldn’t bring myself to turn on the TV. I couldn’t watch because I couldn’t stand the thought of seeing an NFL ad targeting women, the very demographic it’s failed so badly. I couldn’t watch another Play 60 promotion, the NFL patting itself on the back for setting a good example with children, when the only examples it’s set lately are ones of willful ignorance and defensive posturing. I couldn’t watch my beloved football because for the first time in my life, I felt guilty about it.

I don’t know how I’ll feel this Thursday or next Sunday. In truth, I probably will put on my jersey, drink beer with friends and resume our weekly ritual of screaming obscenities at oversized television screens. Because at the end of the day, I don’t believe every NFL player is an abusive misogynist. I do think the vast majority of the guys out there are decent people - loving fathers, sons, husbands and brothers. But I also know that my feelings about football likely will change if things don’t change within the NFL soon. And that has to start at the top. So Mr. Commissioner, I’m asking you, on behalf of all your female fans, please don’t let us down. Because if the NFL doesn’t enact effective, proactive measures to fight its own culture of condoning abhorrent behavior, I will lose my faith in football. And I won’t be alone.

Calling All "Cat Ladies!"

November 11, 2011: I pulled up to the Sacramento SPCA to find the parking lot packed and cars lined up down the street. The day before, we had run a story about the shelter on the news. They had too many animals and in an effort to find them new homes, they were holding a "sale" of sorts. On 11/11/11, you could adopt a pet for just $11.11 - spay/neuter surgery and vaccines included. I'd wanted a cat for years, but concerns about the costs of adoption had kept me from taking the plunge. So when this opportunity presented itself, I couldn't resist. I drove down on a whim and told myself I was just "looking." Yah right.

I walked in the door and was instantly overwhelmed. There were easily more than 800 people packed like sardines in the hallways. Volunteers were running around like chickens with their heads cut off (pardon the poor choice of idiom). Someone hurriedly threw a clipboard at me and explained the process. I was told to look for animals who still have paperwork on their crates (no paperwork = already spoken for), write down the name/ID number and bring it back. Then, I could meet those animals and decide if I wanted to take one home.

As I wandered through rooms and hallways full of cats, I scrawled down dozens of names/numbers. I knew I wanted a kitten, so everybody who looked cute (which is pretty much everybody) got written down. I stopped in front of a stall with three tiny kittens inside. The cute factor almost killed me. I immediately put an asterisk next to the name of a little orange dude. As I walked by the next stall, a six-month-old, gray tabby kitten looked up at me. She jumped up to the highest platform, stood on her back paws and put her front paws on the glass, seemingly begging me to play with her. I traced my fingers on the glass. Delighted, she chased them eagerly with her paws. I squatted down, and put my fingers through the tiny space under the door. She jumped down and swatted at them like it was the greatest thing that ever happened to her. Turns out it was one of the greatest things that ever happened to me. Two hours later, I got to meet her. A few hours after that, I signed the paperwork. And three days after that (after they took out her lady bits), I took her home. I have been madly in love ever since.

Cleo, right after I decided to adopt her.
(Her shelter name was Scarlett, but I liked Cleo better.)

Fast-forward to this summer. Even though she's now three years old, my Cleo still acts like a kitten. All she ever wants to do is play. But now that I commute to San Francisco for work, I'm gone for 13-14 hours a day. When I get home, Cleo cries and cries and begs and begs for me to play with her. I toss plastic balls with bells in them (her favorite) down the hallway. She tears across the apartment, chasing them down. I love how happy it makes her, but lately, I've been so exhausted, I only last about 20 minutes before I crawl into bed despite her very vocal demands that we keep playing.

For a few months now, I've been seriously considering getting her a little brother or sister. Someone she can play with while I'm at work. So when the Sacramento County Animal Shelter held a similar adoption "sale" this past weekend, I decided it was time.

It was a different shelter, but the same story. Rooms full of cats, waiting for homes. Hallways absolutely jammed with people willing to offer one. Once again, I wrote down the names/ID numbers of close to two dozen kittens. And again, as I was walking down a hallway, I saw a six-month-old tortoiseshell kitten peering up at me through the glass.  She stood on her hind legs, put her front paws on the glass and gave me the, "will-you-play-with-me?" look. I put my hand up to the glass and she got so excited, trying to chase my fingers through the window. Total déjà vu. 

About 20 minutes later, I got to meet her. She was playful and sweet and her ears were too big for her face (don't worry - she'll grow into them...I hope). I knew she'd be the perfect playmate for Cleo. An hour and a half later, I signed the paperwork to bring her home. And this afternoon, I get to do it.

The new girl. Name TBD. This picture doesn't
do her cuteness justice - she looks terrified here.

Ever since I brought Cleo home, my friends have teased me about being one of those "crazy cat ladies." So you can imagine the reaction I got when I told everyone I was bringing home another one. I know it's all good-natured fun and I don't take offense. But the more I think about it, the more I take offense to the stereotype in general. Because, like so many stereotypes, it is so supremely unfair.

Sure, I'm a single woman who lives alone with her cat. Sure, I spoil her rotten and talk to her like an actual child. Sure, I post pictures of my cat on Facebook and Instagram all the time. But guess what? That doesn't make me some anti-social loner who's going to turn into this woman in 40 years.

Women like that ruined it for the rest of us. Seriously - even one of the veterinarians gave me that "Oh - you're one of those women" look when I brought Cleo in to get vaccinated and mentioned it was because I was getting a second cat. No, I'm not one of those women. I have a fully-developed set of social skills that allow me to have a fulfilling social life outside my apartment. Two cats is my limit, not 50. I'm offering a warm, loving home to two animals that would have otherwise been put to sleep because they didn't have one. I have the means to take care of them properly. I'm responsible enough to make sure my first cat is up to date on her vaccines before I bring the other one home. And for the love of all that is holy, I do not (and will not ever) own one of those flannel nightgowns!

Let's change the scenario for a second. Hypothetically, what if Cleo was a dog? What if I was adopting a second dog to keep my first one company? No one would call me a "Crazy Dog Lady" - they'd all "oooo" and "ahhh" and invite themselves over to meet said puppy. I'm not going to get into the whole Cats vs. Dogs thing right now - I'll save that for another post. But you get my point.

Cleo is one of the greatest joys of my life. If you own a pet (cat, dog, whatever) and don't feel that way about it, something is wrong. She makes me smile every day. She makes me laugh every day. If I've had a bad day, I can't always get a hug. But unlimited cuddles and unconditional love from Cleo always make me feel better.

So no, I won't apologize for loving my cat. I won't hang my head in shame for adopting another one. I am proud of being able to rescue these girls and give them the home and the love they deserve. Hopefully, Cleo and her little sister get along, otherwise my next post might have a decidedly different tone to it. Time to go find out!

"I'm getting a WHAT today?! What
exactly is a 'sister?' Is it like tuna?
Because then I'm in. All in."

People Watching

Working in the news business, I observe the world for a living. I'm naturally curious and inherently nosy. So it probably comes as no surprise that I love people watching. I've been able to do a lot of it lately and I've noticed something interesting. Whether I'm sitting on a San Francisco pier, taking my dinner break at my favorite park or just strolling through Old Sacramento, there is a consistent cast of characters that always seem to be present. And before you tell me I'm a terrible, judgmental person, let me be clear: I don't condone stereotypes, but I'm starting to realize why they exist.

Family of Tourists: Mom, Dad and 3-5 kids under the age of 12. Dad is wearing a baseball cap with his shirt tucked into his jeans (and if I'm very lucky, he still thinks it's 1990 and is also sporting a fanny pack). He's trying to navigate the group to its next destination. Mom is carrying a giant bag with everyone's spare sweatshirt in it. It probably weighs more than a small child. She's telling the kids (who are running, yelling, touching things they shouldn't and generally causing mayhem) to "stay where I can see you" while trying to herd them in the general direction indicated by Dad. As someone who has spent a lot of time babysitting/nannying/working with kids, there is a part of me that empathizes with her. That realizes I never gave my mom enough credit for wrangling my brother, sister and I for all those years. And then there's a part of me that looks at this family and thinks, "That right there...is the most effective form of birth control ever."

Guy & His Dog: This is particularly prevalent at the park. You can tell the dog really had to "go" when Guy got home because he hasn't even changed out of his work clothes. Sometimes he's got his phone out and his earbuds in, projecting a "don't-talk-to-me-even-if-you-think-my-dog-is-cute" kind of attitude. Other times, you can tell one of the primary reasons he even adopted the dog is to pick up women. For some reason, I take immense pleasure in watching this backfire. A couple of times, I've seen a guy chatting up a pretty girl. Things seem to be going well, but then Fido decides to ruin the moment. He does his business right then and there. Girl is grossed out and Guy is now awkwardly trying to save the conversation with a bag of poo in his hand. Makes me laugh every time.

Cat on a Leash: Even as a self-proclaimed "cat lady," I find this bizarre. Fortunately, I've only seen it once or twice. There's a couple that takes their kitten to the park where I often take my dinner break, and lets her run around on a leash. I suppose it's a good way to get her some fresh air and exercise without worrying about letting her loose in a bustling city. But it still weirds me out. I'm of the mindset that you should either let your cat roam free outside or do what I do - keep her inside where she stays safe but runs into windows trying to chase the birds outside.

Old Asian Men: On the pier, they're wearing bucket hats and windbreakers as they cast their fishing poles into the Bay. Anywhere else, they sit on a bench, watching the world go by. But no matter where they are, one thing is always the same - they never seem to speak to each other! What is this all about?!? I don't get it. I can't figure out why you would spend time with people in complete silence. I'm sure it's a cultural thing I don't understand. Or maybe I just talk too much and should take a cue from these men. They may be sitting in silence, but they seem pretty content.

Skateboarding Kids: Am I the only one who finds skateboarders annoying and/or obnoxious? They always manage to find a busy, crowded place to try and show off where the rest of us are just trying to sit quietly or walk down the street. But nine times out of ten, they don't land their ill-planned stunt and just wind up eating dirt while their skateboard almost takes someone out. It's not cool. It's not impressive. It just turns me into a crotchety old woman and makes me want to yell, "enough of those shenanigans, you little hooligans!" Seriously though - kids on skateboards instantly turn me into Mr. Wilson from Dennis the Menace. I can't explain it.

Workout Girl: She's tall, lean and in perfect shape. She's at the end of a run and looks down at her watch as she gracefully glides to a stop. She inevitably chooses a spot in my line of sight to stretch the legs I would kill to have while I inevitably begin to feel guilty about whatever food I'm shoving in my face. There's a part of me that's furiously jealous. Not of her figure - I'm built differently and could have a rockin' body too if I could discipline myself better. Nope, that's not it. I'm jealous because she just finished working out and she isn't sweaty at all. And her hair is perfect - not a strand out of place. HOW DOES THAT EVEN HAPPEN?! When I run, I'm a bright red, sweaty mess - it's kind of terrifying. I'm pretty sure post-workout-me frightens small children. I've decided this woman is either a mutant with no sweat glands or she's just faking it and only ran a couple blocks before cruising into position to make the rest of us feel bad about ourselves. Jerk.

The New Couple: You can tell the relationship is still new - they're completely wrapped up in each other and probably wouldn't believe it if you told one the other has flaws. They walk, hand-in-hand. Every six steps or so, they stop, gaze into each other's eyes and kiss. No, suck face is more like it. I watched a couple in the park the other day. They made out for 30+ minutes, oblivious to everyone else.

Look closely and you can see them.
Looks like a scene right out of a Rom Com, right? Sheesh.

Part of me thought it was a bit too much. Call me old-fashioned, but while I'm all for a little G-rated PDA, I believe a full game of tonsil hockey should be reserved for a more private setting. Part of me envied them - who doesn't want to feel that way about someone? And part of me was just plain impressed - in 30 minutes, I'm pretty sure they only came up for air twice.

Men in Suits: My favorite stereotype in the city, by far. My new job is in downtown San Francisco, right on the edge of the Financial District. Everywhere I look, there are men in suits. They carry cups of coffee, messenger bags and (in my dreams) me, when I become overwhelmed with all that yumminess and faint on the sidewalk. Because ladies, let's face it: ain't nothing sexier than a smart, good-looking man in a well-tailored suit. AmIRight? Can I get an "Amen?"

Girl on Bench: She's in her own little world. Minding her own business while she munches on a sandwich or drinks a soda. If her head isn't buried in her phone checking Facebook and Instagram, she's just watching everyone else. She's not really interested in making small-talk, so she rarely looks anyone in the eye. Maybe she's rolling her eyes at those skateboarders. Maybe her earbuds are in, playing music to drown out the noise from that family of tourists. Maybe she's trying not to laugh out loud, when that guy's dog takes a dump in front of that pretty girl he's trying to flirt with. Maybe she's trying to figure out how much it would cost to have the same surgery that runner did to remove her sweat glands. Maybe she's too quick to pass judgement. Maybe she needs to get a life. Maybe she's me.

Transition Year

Today, I turned 29. As far as birthdays go, it was uneventful. I spent the morning at the mechanic, wishing things on my 15-year-old car that would make even the most seasoned sailor blush. Then I picked up a piece of cake for breakfast to cheer myself up.

Chocolate Mousse Marble Cake
AMAZING.

After a few phone calls and some extra birthday snuggles from Cleo, I drove two hours to work and enjoyed a beautiful, peaceful dinner break on my favorite San Francisco pier. Not an exciting birthday, but I have no complaints either.

Birthday dinner view.
Not too bad, right?

While talking to my mom this morning, she asked me, "So, how does it feel to be 29?" I told her it felt a lot like 28. But upon further reflection, that's not the case at all, thank goodness.

I'm actually glad I finally get to leave 28 behind. Because - to be frank - the past year was pretty rotten. I didn't know it then. On July 21, 2013, everything was coming up roses. The day started with a brunch that involved three of my all-time favorite things: good friends, bottomless mimosas and the best sausage gravy in town. I had just met someone the night before. I spent the day catching up with loved ones on the phone. It was a Sunday, so I didn't have to work. And I ended my birthday, laughing with more friends over dinner.

Little did I know that in the weeks/months that followed, La Vie En Rose would turn blue. I battled a severe bout of homesickness. That guy I met made me feel worse about myself than anyone ever has. I started having anxiety attacks that would sideline me for hours. I had a career crisis. My car starting falling apart. Basically, 28 sucked. Big Time.

But here's the thing: once you get through all the truly terrible stuff, it gives you some great perspective. Getting past all those obstacles - and not letting them break my spirit - made me a stronger person. Being away from my family for so long made me realize how important it is that I find a way to get home. Spending time with someone so toxic helped me realize what I really want from a relationship and that walking away is sometimes the best thing you can do for yourself. While trying to manage my panic attacks, I learned not only that I wasn't alone in dealing with anxiety, but that I had an even stronger support system in my friends and colleagues than I had ever imagined. Finally coming to terms with the fact that I was unhappy with my career allowed me to open my mind to the idea of something new and get excited about it. As for my car....nope...no perspective there...I still just want to send it off a cliff. In a lot of ways, my 28th year actually made me a stronger, more confident person. But I'm still more than happy to leave it in the past.

A friend of mine turned 29 a few months ago. He calls it his "Transition Year." The year when you transition from your 20s to your 30s. The year when you get your shit together so you can go into your 30s feeling good about your life instead of feeling scared. (Ok, I may be taking some creative license here - I don't know if that's exactly what he means, but that's how I'm looking at it.) And that's what I want to do - spend the next year taking care of myself and setting myself up for success and happiness in my 30s.

There are a lot of things I want to accomplish during the next year. I want to find a job I love and begin a new career that's fulfilling. I want to lose the pounds I put on from stress-eating and get back to a healthy weight. I want to get myself on a more solid financial footing. I want to cook more. I want to get enough sleep. I want to see my family at least twice. And I want to retire my stupid car once and for all.

It's a long to-do list, but I know I can handle it with the right attitude. Attitude is everything and mine hasn't been ideal lately. So I'm kicking off 29 with a simple change that I hope will inspire many more. I am going to be more positive. The things I went through at 28 killed some of my optimism and I want it back. So beginning tonight, I'm instituting a new, two-part life change. First, I'm going to stop myself from making at least one silly complaint every day. Second, I'm going to identify one thing each day that makes me happy. Today, it's my friends and family. Their thoughtful birthday phone calls, texts and social media messages made me feel incredibly loved and for that, I am incredibly grateful.

Don't worry - the snark, sass and sarcasm that define my sense of humor aren't going anywhere. I'm just making room for some new voices in my head.

The Value Of Being Wanted

It's official - I'm no longer unemployed! After finishing my first week freelancing in San Francisco, I am exhausted, but encouraged. It's nice to spend my days outside the apartment, talking to humans again. Cleo doesn't seem to be enjoying it much - she's been acting out all week for (God forbid) changing her usual dinner time. (I tried telling her that I have to work to pay for that dinner, but then I caught myself meowing at my cat. If I don't stop doing that, I really will die alone.)

My ridiculous pet-parent guilt trips aside, the new gig is going pretty well so far. Everyone has been very nice and it's great to spend a little time in the city. I thought working in the sixth-largest television market in the country would be intimidating. I suppose it is, in the sense that I'm still familiarizing myself with the area and the station itself. But I also felt something I didn't expect this week - something surprising and satisfying - I felt wanted.

Let's face it - we all want to be wanted. Whether it's by family, friends, a romantic interest or colleagues, we all have a desire, even a need, to feel significant. There's no shame in this - it's simply human nature. And when it comes to my past career and my ongoing job search, I haven't felt wanted at all lately.

I've been on a handful of interviews for jobs I ultimately didn't get. It's disappointing, but not the end of the world - I knew that would be part of the process. But what has disappointed me - no, offended me - even more are the number of potential employers who didn't even have the decency to let me know I didn't get the job. People who left me hanging, hoping I'd take the hint and move on. I dated a couple of guys who did that - grown men who didn't have the cojones to be honest with me and took the cowardly way out. I never thought I'd experience the same thing in a professional setting, but sadly, disrespect is universal. Talk about feeling unwanted.

I don't buy the "I'm too busy" excuse. Who isn't busy? If a lawmaker found the time to call me personally while sitting on multiple committees AND running a major campaign for higher office, you can at least have the courtesy to send me an e-mail that takes less than five minutes to write. Besides, you know what they say about excuses... 

I should note - not everyone has been so disappointing. In fact, I've met many potential employers and networking contacts who have been nothing but helpful, supportive and encouraging. Those are the people who keep me from giving up on my dream of finding a new career that I will love. To all of you (you know who you are) - thank you, from the bottom of my heart.

It's not just my job hunt that's left me feeling insignificant lately. The company I worked for for the past seven years did the same. The people I worked with every day made it clear they valued my work (something for which I will forever be grateful), but the company made it clear they didn't value me at all. I don't feel the need to get into the details here, but suffice it to say that I was literally laughed at when I stood up for myself and what I was really worth. Ouch.

Not surprisingly, I left the business jaded and bitter, with no desire to continue doing a job I once loved. But after a month of networking, job interviews that went nowhere and seemingly endless conversations with the cat, I needed a source of income again. So I went back to the thing I was familiar with - writing and producing the news.

Would working in a newsroom again bring all that bitterness back to the surface? Or would a new station allow me to fall in love with producing again? To be honest, I didn't know what to expect. But I sure as hell wasn't expecting what I got this week.

At the end of my second day on the job, a manager pulled me aside to tell me how well I was doing. To tell me that several other managers and producers were already talking about how good I am and how excited they are to have me. Imagine that - the new kid being told she's valued already. Well, color me surprised! The next day, a producer thanked me for my help and told me I'm "a keeper." And on the last day of my first week of work, the manager who hired me pulled me aside again. He said, "You're doing really well. I know you're trying to get out of TV and for your sake, I hope you find a job soon. But it's really great to have you here and I hope we get to work with you for a while." Nope. Not what I expected at all.

The thought of falling in love with producing again both scares and excites me. Scares me because even if I do enjoy it again, it's not the lifestyle I want for myself. And I'm afraid of getting sucked back into it. But it also excites me, because when I do leave the business (which is still my ultimate goal), it would be on better terms this time. I want my last memories of working in a newsroom to be positive ones. I left my job in Sacramento with nothing but love for my colleagues, and nothing but bitterness for the the job itself.

I'm hoping the weeks ahead will restore my faith in local news, so I can leave it peacefully in my past. In the meantime, I'm looking forward to my new job. I have to admit - it's really, really, really  nice to feel wanted again.

My new favorite spot in San Francisco - just a couple of blocks from work.
Not a bad place for a lunch break, right?