If you watched the news today, you saw the strange, new twist in the Christopher Dorner manhunt outside Los Angeles. The former LAPD officer — who’d killed four people, two of them fellow officers and wrote a manifesto promising to kill more — was cornered by police in a vacation house in Big Bear today and then set the place ablaze.

As I write this, the police are pretty sure he died inside the house fire. Pretty sure, but not completely sure. So this might be the end of the biggest manhunt in Los Angeles history. It’s a story worthy of “Law & Order” – angry ex-cop with military survival training, deadly shoot outs with law enforcement, a threatening online manifesto, creepy packages mailed to Anderson Cooper and a $1 million reward.

My heart goes out to the families of the slain officers and the ones named in his manifesto who’ve been living in fear. But I keep thinking that the extreme nature of the story seems almost typical for Los Angeles. Almost every day since I’ve lived here I’ve heard at least one news story that could make it into Lennie Briscoe’s case docket:

• -       A urologist in Newport Beach is shot in his doctor’s office by a former patient.
• -       The Los Angeles Archdiocese releases files with sexual abuse accusations against 122 local priests.
• -       A Canadian tourist, a young woman traveling alone and staying near Skid Row, disappears without a trace.

This is in addition to the regular shootings, car chases and school sex scandals. Now I know where “Law & Order” writers went to rip their headlines.

I know it’s because Los Angeles is a much bigger city than any place I’ve lived before. But I’m no stranger to intense news. I spent five years as a journalist in South Florida, home to the weird and extreme. But rather than a terrifying “Law & Order” vibe, Florida news is more like an issue of National Enquirer crossed with a Carl Hiassen novel and an episode of Duck Dynasty.

There was a man giving butt implants to women in motel rooms using Fix-a-Flat, and the couple that bought street Botox and poisoned themselves in pursuit of wrinkle-free faces. There are pythons in the Everglades eating 70-lb deer, an escaped pet tiger owned by a former Tarzan actor and a woman who got mauled by the cheetahs she kept in her backyard. And there are hanging chads, botched presidential elections and county commissioners busted by the FBI for corruption.

It’s a lighter kind of crazy. More “Castle” than “Law & Order.

And it’s all very different from my last locale. In Minneapolis, it was big news if a company laid off 25 people or a car hit a bicyclist. If Minneapolis were a crime show, it would be “Prairie Home Companion.”

Looks like I’ve traded Garrison Keillor for Jack McCoy!

My Minnesota down coat.

I started this blog when my life had turned upside down. I left a journalism career to gamble on an MBA, a direction I never planned my life to take. The blog gave me a great way to take it all in and process the new experiences.

Now my life has turned upside down again. In the last 30 days, I have:

• Moved from frigid Minnesota to sunny southern California;
• Switched from working in a massive corporate headquarters to a tiny desk at my house;
• Left a job with a lot of process and plenty of guardrails for a job that’s brand new to the company in a market we don’t understand.

It makes my head spin. And it makes for a ton of new experiences to try to understand.

Does it matter if I wear yoga pants and no makeup on a work day if the only one who sees me is the dog?

How do you build something new at a big company that only changes by inches?

Will I become one of those weird, overly chatty people if I work from home for too long?

Why do Californians wear 800-fill down coats on 50-degree days?

That last one is one of the first things I noticed when we arrived. There was a cold spell in January, a run of days in the 40s and 50s with some chillier nights. Nick and I were at Bed, Bath & Beyond picking up all the things you never realize you need until you move. It was about 50 degrees outside and both of us were congratulating ourselves on moving away from the freezing Minnesota winter.

Then we saw her. She was about my age and swaddled in a chin-to-toe layer of puffy down. It was the exact same coat I’d worn all winter in Minneapolis, trudging through -20 degree weather. But she was wearing it in Santa Monica.

Maybe I became a bad ass Minnesotan over the last 18 months or maybe that girl was from some equatorial nation. Either way, seeing her in that puffy coat reminded me of the place I’d most recently called home when I felt tired and a little sad. After a long weekend of moving, it felt good to laugh at this little absurdity.

Except, I learned instead that I was the one who was absurd. Over the next few weeks, I saw dozens more down coats appear all over Santa Monica. I was the weird one, wearing my trench. That’s when I realized: California is a whole new world.

But like any self respecting woman, I usually deny to him that I’m anything like Liz Lemon. Who wants to be like the woman who once said she ate a Three Musketeers bar for breakfast and had a bra held together with tape? Tina Fey, yes. Liz Lemon, no.

And then, today, I went and did the most Lemon thing ever.

You need to know the backstory before you judge me. There are three important facts:

-       One: It’s ridonkulously cold in Minneapolis right now. Single-digit, swaddle-yourself-in-goose-down-or-better-yet-don’t-leave-the-house cold.

-       Two: We have a vizsla who’s been cooped up inside for the last three days because of said cold and was ready to tear our house apart.

-       Three: I was scheduled to give blood today for the first time ever as a favor to my dear friend Ann. It’s not something I would ever do on my own because I hate seeing needles in my arm and I get light-headed if I’m hungry, never mind if I give up a pint of blood.

Our plan for the day was this: take our dog to the park to burn his energy off and then go give blood at noon. I left for the park, unshowered and wearing a down coat, thermal shirt, old t-shirt, dirty jeans and my thickest fur-trimmed boots. I looked like I should be doing yard work or hauling manure. But I figured I’d have time to get pretty before we left for the blood drive.

I shouldn’t figure.

Our vizsla played hard and we were so grateful to see the devil energy run right out of him that we lost track of time. When we left the park, we had just enough time to run the dog home and run to our blood donation appointment.

I gave blood. I got a little woozy. They gave me some juice and a purple bandage and we went on our way. That part was easy.

Since we were hungry, we decided to go to a casual restaurant we like in the Galleria, a swanky mall in the swanky suburb of Edina. It’s the kind of place where Pottery Barn is the down market store. I paused, looking at my manure-hauling outfit and disastrous hair. Then I figured, what the hell? Who was I trying to impress?

I shouldn’t figure.

We went, we ate and then we wandered into a couple stores. And then, standing in the Restoration Hardware talking with a nice man about a nice leather couch, the room began to spin.

I murmured something to my husband and wandered out of the store, looking for a place to sit down. I found an atrium full of tables and chairs, next to the Louis Vuitton and the Tiffany’s. Dizzy and near blacking out, I pressed my head flat to the cool, fake marble tabletop and drooled. The blood drive had brought me down, but none of these people could see my bandage of honor. Oh my God, I thought, I’m wearing a thermal shirt, dirty jeans and nasty snow boots, my hair is plastered to my head and I’m sprawled in front of Louis Vuitton looking like a I need a hit. These Edina people are going to think I’m on drugs. I look like Kid Rock’s younger sister the morning after a kegger. Why didn’t I wash my hair??

I was pouring sweat. I cursed the massive snow boots. Why was I wearing fur-trimmed boots rated for minus 20 degrees inside a mall? I thought about ripping off my thermal shirt in the middle of the atrium. I peeled my face off the tabletop and saw a little girl staring open-mouthed at me. As I lurched toward the bathroom, grabbing onto my husband’s collar to stay upright, I prayed I wouldn’t vomit in front of Tiffany’s. Papyrus, fine, but not Tiffany’s. I could feel people staring and wondering. What do you think she’s on? I’m surprised they let her in here.

“What do you need? Should I call 911? Are you still awake?” my poor husband asked, handing me a bottle of water while I sat with my head between my knees.

“Blurg,” I said.

I ended well. I recovered enough to make it to the parking garage elevator. When the couple inside stared at my dirty clothes, sweaty face and pale lips, my Jack Donaghy husband gave them a charming smile, put his arm around me and said, “Rough first time giving blood, huh, honey?”

If I’m going to be Liz Lemon, at least I’m lucky enough to have my Jack Donaghy.

I started this blog in 2009 because my life was heaving with change. I was leaving the life and journalism career I’d built in South Florida to get an MBA at the University of Virginia. It was nothing I’d ever planned for myself and I didn’t know what to expect.

I started the blog to keep my friends and family up to date on my new life. But it soon morphed into a way for me to process all the new things I learned and new experiences I had. I was lucky enough to be chosen as an official blogger for my MBA class, and soon my classmates were part of the blog, telling me that often I was writing what they were thinking and feeling. I felt like a voice for my Darden community and I liked that. (Check out the current crop of Darden student bloggers here.)

Then I graduated. And I pretty much stopped writing altogether.

I had lots of excuses — new city, new job, wedding planning, blah, blah, blah. The truth was I felt out of my element writing about the working world, especially the corporate world. What was OK to say? Would I get in trouble? I went from feeling like I owned my experience to feeling as if I didn’t really own anything. I experienced all kinds of interesting things — developing a new product, working for six different managers in my first year, living through a massive layoff and restructuring, not to mention ice fishing, learning to road bike and getting married — but I wasn’t sure how or if I should write about them.

It was a frustrating 15 months. I missed writing, I missed sharing what I learned and I missed connecting with others who experienced the same things. I felt more isolated than I expected. So I’ve decided to start blogging again.

The impetus was change. My husband and I are moving from Minneapolis (aka the Frozen Tundra) to Los Angeles in January for his job. I’ll be going from a typical corporate desk job to working from home and traveling occasionally to visit customers. There will be lots of new and I’ve learned writing is the best way for me to embrace that. Striking the right balance between sharing my experience and protecting my company won’t always be easy, but I’ve discovered it’s worth trying.

So this Thanksgiving I’m thankful for change, second chances and any readers who are still hanging on with me. Here’s to getting back on the horse.

Happy Thanksgiving!

We’ll get to the wedding part later. First, the reunion.

The Darden one-year business school reunion was a homecoming. Walking on campus felt comfortable and familiar, like my old pair of Rainbows, and I felt refreshed just being there. I think every place has an emotional memory, a feeling that returns whenever you think of it or visit it. For me, Darden will always be tied to inspiration and possibility.

And most MBAs, one year out of school, need few things more than inspiration.

For those of you who are graduating, interning or entering business school, I’ll confirm it for you – the first year out is rough. You go from thinking big thoughts and discussing big ideas from your vantage point as CEO of Imaginary Company to building timelines, forecasting sales and writing meeting agendas. Cool things happen too, but you also have to deal with a fair bit of in-the-weeds work. And many of us are doing it at large companies where everyone is focused on how to get promoted.

It’s a long way from big ideas.

Many of my classmates are doing interesting things. Many of those same classmates are also doing things that make them roll their eyes. We’re all learning ridiculous corporate jargon that is surprisingly specific to each company. We don’t ask for “some steer” at my company when we need direction; and my friend’s consulting firm doesn’t “have heart” for things they support, the way my company does. It’s a weird corporate world.

Most of us are working long hours, some unhealthily long. Many of us are traveling. Few of us are doing almost exactly what we want. It’s a pretty typical MBA experience.

What was less typical – and more exciting – was the excitement I saw in most people’s personal lives.

There were new boyfriends and girlfriends and new engagements, many of them between classmates. Something like 10 engaged or newly married couples met in our class at Darden. There were weddings. There were new babies and babies on the way. There were people in love with their new cities and people happy to be back where they called home.

It was wonderful to see that the joy at our reunion that had nothing to do with jobs.

It’s something I need to remember as I move on in my career. The job may rock. The job may suck. But what’s really going to get me through is what else I have in my life.

I wrote this yesterday. It ended up being surprisingly timely, considering the news I got today.

(Note: For folks who are concerned, final word on who’s in or out comes in June. Fingers crossed that the next few weeks are as painless as possible.)

My American Girl doll

My childhood came roaring back today in the form of a plastic doll.

The vice president of marketing for the American Girl company came to speak at my office today. I was excited, but I didn’t expect to feel giddy. As we walked down to the presentation, all the women under 30 were reminiscing about their own American Girl dolls and all the women over 30 were talking about their daughter’s American Girl dolls.

During the presentation, Shawn Dennis, American’s Girl’s marketing guru, shared videos, letters and stories from girls and women who felt stronger, smarter and better thanks to American Girl’s dolls, books and magazine. Strangely, I found myself tearing up as I listed to their stories. I was dumbstruck by my emotional reaction.

But it was simple really. They reminded me of myself at age 9 when I was in love with American Girl. I was introduced to the company when a glossy, huge catalog showed up at my house with huge photos of the dolls — Kirsten from 1854, Samantha from 1904 and Molly from 1944 — and details of their stories. I spent hours staring at its pages and imagining those girls’ lives. Soon I was checking the American Girl books out of the library and absorbing their tales of smart, spunky girls.

Of course I desperately wanted a doll. But $98 was a steep price. For months I saved money from my first job — cleaning my dad’s engineering office — in a coffee can bank. Finally I was able to order Kirsten, the Swedish immigrant doll with blond hair, blue eyes and accessories like a school bench made of a log and a St. Lucia’s wreath. I adored her. I still have her.

I grew up before the American Girl brand came into its own with magazines, customizable dolls, huge stores and, last year, a cruise. My interaction was limited to their catalogs, dolls and books, but that was enough. I found out today that my passion for the brand never died.

Working for a marketing company, I sometimes doubt that brands really have significant impacts on people’s lives. It was nice to see today that sometimes they do just that.

PS: Don’t see your old American Doll on the Web site? Apparently they retire them. They “remember” the dolls here.

My fiance and I merged Netflix accounts when we moved in together earlier this year so that there would be one little red envelope sitting unopened on our coffee table instead of two.

The plan was to keep his account and add my movies to his queue. What did I find? Lots of serious, critically acclaimed and intensely depressing movies. The Deer Hunter. There Will Be Blood. Amadeus. Hotel Rwanda. Apocalypse Now.

The recommended movies? Schindler’s List and Requiem for a Dream.

I have nothing against critically acclaimed downers and I’m sure I’ll see most of these at some point. But we were staring down our first winter in the dark, frozen tundra that is Minnesota. That means cold, snow and Seasonal Affective Disorder (SAD, which is how you feel after you watch The Deer Hunter and don’t see the sun for four days.) I knew we were going to need the movie equivalent of cotton candy and Skittles to get us through. So I got to work doctoring the list with such classics as Friends with Benefits, Kung Fu Panda and the complete fourth season of Entourage.

But I didn’t realize how much I’d altered my fiance’s Netflix identity until I logged on last night and saw the recommended movies. Gone were the Nazi dramas and stories of heroin addictions. In their place were these two categories: “Feel-good comedies featuring a strong female lead” and “Movies starring Hugh Grant.”

It’s going to be a good winter!

When you move to the frozen tundra (aka Minnesota) you expect snow. Lots and lots of snow. Drifts of snow that freeze into drifts of ice. Snow that starts on Halloween and doesn’t melt until after Cinco de Mayo.

Serious snow.

And I hate serious snow.

I love the fast falling, fast melting snow of the Southeast, the kind that stops everyone in their tracks. Snow in the Southeast means staying home from work, making hot cocoa and watching snow flakes fall while wearing flannel pajamas. Snow in Minnesota means strapping on your Joan of Arctic boots, scraping off the car and going out into the cruel world as if nothing unusual is happening.

That’s why it’s been a pleasant surprise that so far we’ve gotten exactly three inches of snow. And it melted! That’s right, not only has it been dry, it’s been “warm,” or at least warm in terms of Minnesota Novembers. Today it was 42 degrees! Over Thanksgiving it was nearly 55!

It doesn’t look like we’re going to break the streak any time soon. The local weather guys are predicting a flurry of snow tomorrow and this weekend, but not enough to ski on. And there isn’t any significant snow predicted between now and mid-December, the furthest out the weather scientists look. We could be looking at what Minnesotans call a brown Christmas. That’s a brown Christmas in a state that has white Christmases 72% of the time.

All this warm, dry weather means we’ve already skipped a whole month of winter. For someone spending her first winter in the frozen tundra, this feels like a major win. I’m  as proud as if I’d controlled the weather myself.

But the locals, not so much. Some of my coworkers who are from Minnesota or nearby states, have been lamenting the fact there’s no snow on the ground yet. They want real snow, feet of snow, piles of the stuff. Today someone actually said we “need” some snow.

And that was the moment I realized I’ll never really fit in here. Because I know — you never “need” snow. Never.

Arianna Huffington came to speak at work a few weeks ago. I wasn’t sure what I’d think of the writer turned politician turned online journalism pioneer. I expected arrogant and out of touch and instead found her funny, down-to-earth and insightful.

The core of her talk revolved around her new book, On Becoming Fearless, which I’ll share more on later. But she also shared one of her keys to success: get enough sleep.

In recent years, I feel like it’s become a requirement of success not to sleep at all. Bill Clinton claimed to sleep four hours a night. Martha Stewart came to work to speak a few months ago and also talked about not needing much sleep. Sleep, it seems, is the a lazy man’s crutch; the successful learn to conquer it, health impacts be damned (and there are a lot of health problems that come with getting too little sleep, including heart attacks). As someone who needs eight hours a night, it’s pretty disheartening to hear I’ll be limited professionally by my need for Zs.

That’s why it was so refreshing to hear Huffington praise sleep. She said she spent years not sleeping enough, only to pass out one day from exhaustion and realize the error of her ways. She now gets at least seven hours a night and wishes everyone else would too.

“I was having dinner with a man, I won’t say who, who bragged about only having five hours of sleep,” she said during her talk. “I thought to myself, ‘Well, this dinner would be a lot more interesting if you’d gotten a few hours more.’”

So on this lazy, post-Thanksgiving day, now I can sleep in and feel smart and successful at the same time. And if I can’t follow Huffington’s advice, I’ll take after Winston Churchill. He believed in the afternoon nap. Mmmmm.

I hated networking events as a student. The whole mating ritual felt so fake. I ask questions and make nice and the recruiters answer questions and make nice, but we both know what’s on the table – an internship, and ultimately a job. But most of the time we don’t talk directly about that.

Plus Darden doesn’t allow you much time to research companies, reflect on what you want to know and form cohesive thoughts about them. That makes it hard to have normal, nice interactions. Instead you ask about the corporate culture while not really listening because you’re trying to find a way to shoehorn your awesome analytical experience into casual conversation.

It’s a sweaty, awkward mess. And, yes, it’s obvious from this side too, and we sympathize. Or at least, I do!

How can you avoid the sweaty, awkward mess? Be yourself. Or rather, be the best version of yourself.

That means asking questions you genuinely want the answers to and sharing things about your experience that are relevant.

Don’t try to be the perfect MBA machine. Instead, try being human. Remember small details and try to connect on a normal level, the same way you connect with the barista or the grocery clerk. It works with recruiters too.

I know, I know, this is easier said that done. But remember that the recruiters you can be yourself with are also likely the kind of people you’d like to work with every day. And the recruiters who make your stomach knot up, well, that’s a pretty miserable work situation.

After all, who wants to feel sweaty and awkward all the time? B-school recruiting was enough for me.