As a countdown to my 30th birthday on March 18, I’ve committed to offering 30 people, things and experiences I want to celebrate from the last 30 years. Grab a piece of cake and enjoy reading!

A year or so ago my husband and I met up for dinner with my brother Sean and his wife, Andrea. After waiting briefly to be seated, the maitre d’ turned toward Sean and said, “Mr. Gleeson, your table is ready.” I almost spit out my gin and tonic.

That’s because Sean cannot be Mr. Gleeson. He’s the kid I had to bathe with after he puked on the back of my head. The kid I used to fight with for control of the remote. The kid who convinced me to eschew New Kids on the Block, who tricked me into telling Andy that I like him and who tortured me endlessly when I shaved my head. This person, quite simply, cannot be Mister Gleeson.

But, of course, he is.

(While camping, no doubt.)

Sean was born a year and half before me and was my best friend until the time came when all older brothers stop being best friends to their little sisters. I was probably about eight. Even when Sean became a cranky adolescent (and may I state for the record that “cranky” is an understatement?), he was older brother enough to merit a certain level of hero worship. Part of that just comes with the territory. But most of it is because he is one of the smartest, funniest and most generous people I know.

(In 2009)

Today, though, I’m skipping Sean’s great qualities.

I’m celebrating him because we share two parents, the same frizzy hair and an affinity for power tools. Because up to this point in my life, there is no one with whom I have shared more of the same experiences, which means he represents continuity to me and steadfastness.

I suppose a part of me will always be making mud pies on the front steps and trying to get the mean kid in the neighborhood to eat poison berries. The part that  built forts in the living room and switched back and forth between my parents’ houses. And that part of me will always have a best friend. Because I have Sean.

As a countdown to my 30th birthday on March 18, I’ve committed to offering 30 people, things and experiences I want to celebrate from the last 30 years. Grab a piece of cake and enjoy reading!

For those of you who only understand The Garden State’s geography in relation to the New Jersey Turnpike, my stop growing up was Exit 3. Exit 3 dumps you into land that is a beautiful alchemy of rural, suburban and small-town America. You can get a flavor by reading this post.

But this is about The Golden State, which is the place to which I high-tailed it after high school.

I spent six years in Southern California – four of them in college in Azusa (just off the 210!), one of them in Sherman Oaks (porn capital of the world!) and one of them in Pasadena (nothing clever to say about Pasadena!) – before moving to the City of Brotherly Love. On this cold, gray morning, I celebrate just two of the Golden State’s offerings.

First of all, there’s sun. I know this is stating the obvious, but do you know what sun does for a person?!?! It makes you happy, friendly, relaxed. It keeps your color from resembling that of a sheet of drywall. It lightens your hair so the (surprise!) grays blend in. It enables you to dine al fresco with the scent of orange blossoms and bougainvillea. You can live in a world of technicolor.

(The bougainvillea outside my husband's old apartment in Pasadena.)

Second of all, there are real freeways. You are not confined to being on two pot hole-ridden lanes of highway with impatient, angry, sun-deprived drivers. Rather, you have access to six lanes PLUS a seventh for carpools. Yes, the traffic is horrendous and you are just as likely to sit on the 405 at 3am on a Saturday as you are at 5pm on a weekday. Yes, there is no excuse for the lack of public transportation. But when you want to make the world right by going for a Sunday drive, there is no better place than LA, where the lights dotting the foothills lead the way to a sinking sun on the Pacific’s horizon.

More personally, I guess it bears mentioning that I am a more open and friendly person because of my time on the Left Coast. And a less impatient driver. That’s seriously worth celebrating.

But I suppose if you’re feeling a little skeptical and you don’t see how sun and freeways add up, perhaps I can convince you to celebrate with me thusly:  California gave me the gift of losing the Jersey accent. Surely you can at least raise a glass of wooder to that!