photo courtesy of Weetabix

I love dressing up for Halloween. One year, I was a very credible and popular ogre-fied Princess Fiona (thanks to a green and gold trimmed Ren Faire dress), and two years ago, I had two excellent ideas, so one night I was the Anne half of a very excellent tribute to Heart and then the next night, I was extremely popular with the J-Pop set when I was Hello Kitty (or Hello T*tty, as my friends often refer to that costume). This year, I'm torn between revisiting the Kitty (since I'll be in a different town and I'd like to get a few uses out of the rather expensive white wig), being some kind of tragic goth creature, or possibly Beth Ditto (I doubt, however, that I have the body confidence to pull that off). But now I'm starting to rethink. We all know that bacon is the new black (meh, Elastic Waist called that last year) and how cool would it be to wear a bacon tiara all night? Maybe I could resurrect my prom dress and be a Miss Bacon?

What are your plans for Halloween? Do you dress up? Do you bring out your inner hootchie? What is your dream costume?

Healthy living is the goal, right? I really do try to live a fairly healthy lifestyle. I eat a lot of plants, a lot of them, really, don't sit too close. I exercise, I drink water, I take pictures of all of my food and post it to the interweb, I feel closer to fiber than I have ever felt to any of my boyfriends (Michael Pollan would be proud). And for the most part, healthy living has been good to me: I have energy, I have collarbones, I have padded bras...oh wait, that's right, my boobs disappeared. There are a few other not-so-hot side-effects to this thing called health. Needless to say, I am anything but glamorous:

• I'm like a geyser. I drink oodles and oodles of water, just like I'm s'posed to. The result of this is many trips to the bathroom. Unfortunately my office latrine is located right next to the HR department. I've truly become paranoid that they think I have raging coke problem based on the number of potty breaks I take.

• Increased pottying = increased hand washing. So the skin on my face looks fabu from all that water, but my hands--they're not feeling the love. All those bathroom breaks mean I wash my hands upward of 15-20 times a day. Needless to say, I'm keeping the office Avon lady swimming in lotion orders.

• Nothing to quench those cravings. There are times (when I'm drunk) that I just want to settle in (lying on the floor of my kitchen) and have a not-so-healthy snack (an entire bag of Cheetos washed down with a chocolate milkshake with those minty Girl Scout Cookies crumbled in). But I don't buy junk food anymore; my rule is that if I want it, I have to go get it, which isn't always possible (like when I stumble home three minutes before dawn).  Cucumber slices do not good drunk food make, FYI.

I've learned a lot from my family, and by family I don't mean my mom and dad, aunts and uncles, grandparents and cousins, I mean the ones that go way back. I'm talking great-great-grandpa Shlomy (yeah, I said Shlomy--you wanna fight?). This past weekend I visited my 92-year-old great aunt Ethel...shouldn't all great aunts be named Ethel? Besides being the most amazing and lively 92-year-old ever to roam New Jersey, she is also the keeper of all pictures family related. As I sat on her couch eating vegetarian chopped liver, she showed me six generations of pictures that started in Kiev in the 1800s and followed my family through Ellis Island to where they would eventually set up shop in the Bronx. Let's just say from a genetic standpoint it's a good thing that we left the shtetl and diversified the gene pool a little. I do not come from beauteous stock--sorry Shlomy.

I have this paranoia when people offer me a seat in the subway that it's because they assume I'm pregnant. Maybe I'm just callused, but I don't see any reason why a complete stranger would stand up and give me their seat unless they thought I was someone that really needed to sit down, and let's face it--I'm a young, able-bodied woman, I can stand.

There is one moment that sticks out in my mind. I had recently found out a boyfriend of many years had cheated on me, I'd already gained a bunch of relationship weight over the course of our time together, but now I was depressed and lethargic and wanted nothing more than to curl up in bed and die, but not before inhaling an order of sesame chicken, a quart of wonton soup, three bottles of Snapple and 376 fortune cookies. In other words, I put on a few.

There are these days that for no particular reason I'm thinner than I should be. You know what I mean? Sometimes they follow a stomach virus, a serendipitous streak of regularity, dehydration, the de-bloated days following my monthly visit, and sometimes they just happen out of the blue. I've done nothing to deserve them--but all of a sudden my tummy is a little flatter, my ass is a little higher. It's like the gods are reaching from the heavens and hitting me with the hottie stick.

I've confirmed that this phenomenon exists with some of my friends. None of us know why or when it's going to happen, but we all know that those days are a little pick-me-up in the ebb & flow that is our body image.

These are the days that I go shopping, which is probably not the best idea come to think of it, but heck, the joy of fitting into those sexy pencil skirts and tight fitting sweaters is a pure joy. I go out on the town. I feel hot, for no other reason than that I've decided that I'm hot, and now is the time to go out and show the world (or the Lower East Side, in my case) that I am one sexy mofo. And finally, I'm inspired by my pseudo-svelteness to be more careful about my food and exercise habits, as I want to feel this good every day.

I've often felt this tinge of panic when people ask me where I'm from, and this happens a lot in New York.  Although my family is from the Bronx, and I did live there briefly as a child, I cannot deny that in actuality I am from Long Island. Now depending on where you hail from, you may not know the prejudices people have of this tiny island I like to call the dingleberry of America. If you don't know the stereotype, here it is: stuck-up, Coach and Tiffany-adorned JAPs (I hate that term) with fake nails and thick accents reign supreme as they spend daddy's money and drive gas guzzling SUVs while talking on their cellphone and cutting everyone else off. Those people exist, but they are not everyone (and certainly not me), but it's not a particularly pleasant stereotype to have to combat all the time. Which is why, when I am asked each summer if I want to "go out East," which means to the Hamptons, I pass. I mean, why would anyone want to go to Long Island on vacation?

Times change and for the first time, this past weekend I went out to the Hamptons. Okay, I get it now, this is not the Long Island of my childhood--there was not a strip mall in sight! All in all, it really was a lovely weekend, spent with much more high falootin' types than I'm used to. Cocktail dresses were worn, parties attended, private beaches were lounged upon, and mass quantities of SPF 50 sunblock were slathered upon my almost translucent skin, and for the first time in two years I wore a bathing suit.

Photo via Splash

I want to fall in love the way it happens in commercials. You see each other in a crowded room, sultry looks are exchanged, wham bam, you buy a car. It all happens instantly, and that's the way I want it. It doesn't happen that way in real life; apparently falling in love is serious business. There are many dates with many different people. Lots of walking, lots of kissing, lots of banal chatter. And rarely is there a connection.

I like to think that I rise above all the typical single young woman traps, that my mama taught me better, and that I have too much respect for myself to make obviously self destructive choices. But, the truth is, I'm a total cliché.

Sometimes people don't realize how much the things they say effect us.  Growing up I was nicknamed "thunder thighs" by my mom as she would laugh and tell me I was the only baby ever born with cellulite.  I'm relatively sure my mother wasn't trying to scar me emotionally for life, but for as long as I can remember I've hated my thighs--  considered them an enemy to be vanquished by long hours of running and lunges. I was a dancer growing up, five days a week were spent turning, stretching, leaping, extending, and while many dancers grow up to be long and lean, I grew to be short and squat.   There was just no way around it: long lean muscle just wasn't in my genetic makeup, bulky muscular legs where.

What's amazing is that there's so much of my body that isn't my legs.  I can't tell you how long it took me to realize that I was more than just thighs. I can't tell you because it's an embarrassingly recent discovery of mine.  What I can say is that I consciously try to focus on the positives. There are parts of my body that are pretty friggin' amazing.  I have great skin, which is something I really didn't appreciate as a teenager. While the rest of my pubescent-cohorts were battling acne, I barely remembered to wash my face. I have awesome boobs.  Look, I may never attract a leg man, but I pass the pencil test.  I have thick hair, sometimes I consider this a curse rather than a blessing (like when it takes me an hour to blow dry it thoroughly) but when the styling is over it makes me feel très chic. I have decently proportioned ears...okay, you get the picture.

I've always thought that I knew it all, especially as a teenager. I look back on who I was ten years ago and sometimes want to laugh and sometimes want to shake that girl furiously. It's amazing what we learn in life. Obviously, I do know everything now, but then, not so much. If I could go back in time and take my 15-year-old self out for coffee, I would first tell her not to drink so much coffee, but there are a few other things I would tell her that would hopefully make the road ahead a little easier, like:

1. Eat Something. Like many a teenage girl, food was my arch nemesis. To this day my friends still talk about the thirteen baby carrot and two rice cake lunch that was the mainstay of my adolescent life. On the flip side, when I did eat, I ate complete garbage. If I could change one thing about my adolescence it would be the importance I put on food.

2. Stay Classy. There will come a time when talking about how much you drank and when and where you threw up will no longer be a badge of honor. The earlier you realize this the better. Sexy does not come from the Junior Skanks of America collection at Rainbow Shops: it's internal. Talking about other people does not make you better than them. Class is a true measure of maturity--you're not mature yet, but you'll get there.

3. Your Mom is Right. Oh, this is a hard one to realize, but it's true. And it's not because she garnered a grandiose instruction manual upon entering into motherhood, it's because she is a woman and she's made all the same mistakes you are currently making. Listen to her.

4. You Can't Make Everyone Like You. They won't, and you won't like everyone either, get used to it. The sooner you stop trying to be the person everyone likes, the sooner you'll find people who like you for who you really are. Insert Hallmark card here.

This week, a member of my extended family died unexpectedly. Actually, "unexpectedly" doesn't really cover it. She and her husband woke up, talked a little bit about their morning, then he left the room for a few minutes. When he returned, she was unconscious on the floor and could not be woken up. She passed away in the ambulance on the way to the hospital. She was 39 years old, mother to two sons under the age of 12. All week, I've been struck by the idea of timing. You wake up on a Monday morning, full of expectations of the week to come and before you even get out the door, your entire life changes and before the end of the day on Friday, there's a funeral. I hate to get all metaphysical but wow, time to bring out the corny phrase "live every day like it might be your last" because nothing else cuts it.

This morning, Dr. Randy Pausch succumbed to pancreatic cancer. As you probably already know, Dr. Pausch is most famous for the viral video "The Last Lecture," in which he details his rules for living. Dr. Pausch never expected the video to explode all over the Internet: he was just meaning to give one last word of advice for his students, colleagues and children, but when Carnegie Mellon put the video on Youtube, the world took notice as he talked for over an hour. The Internet has a short attention span (hence, blogs) and his lecture is an uncharacteristically long viral video, but that's because the man's message is profound. He's since written a book, appeared on Oprah, and probably never realized that his death sentence was the starting gun for what has ended up being his legacy. The man achieved so much in his life, but it was his lessons on mortality that affected millions. I know that I learned something from him. If you haven't watched the entire thing, do yourself a favor and watch it. And thank Dr. Pausch for a life well lived.