My life in costumes: a retrospective

When it comes to Halloween, I'm an all or nothing girl. If nothing major is happening that year, I'm happy to do nothing; but in the years I do dress up, I'm usually remembered as the girl with the most random costume in the room.

In fourth grade, my mom, who is a gifted painter, took a plain cardboard box and turned it into a wearable, identical replica of a grape-flavored Hi-C juice box. At 9, no one had ever seen a costume that didn't come in a bag at K-Mart, and my legacy was born.

In sixth grade, I wanted to recreate the popularity of my fourth grade costume, so my mom and I raided the pantry for inspiration. Among all the canned goods and bags of rice, flour, and sugar, we settled on the biggest box in sight: Cat Chow. Yes, I was a box of Cat Chow that year. Because the box was long, not square like Hi-C juice boxes, it was incredibly difficult to walk in and trick-or-treat. And at 11, I had lost some of the cuteness that maybe helped me pull of the drink box two years prior.

My junior year of college I decided that, rather than be something specific, I would just wear all black and paint my face and body silver. What's more bizarre than the fact that I did this was that I convinced two friends to do it also. When people asked, we said that we were broken glass. (Which doesn't even make sense now that I'm sober enough to think about it.)

My senior year I wanted to continue down my path of non-specificness, and decided I would be a superhero. Only rather than commit to an existing superhero like Wonder Woman or Catwoman, I would be a "mystery" superhero. I had a black cape, black boots, and a Zorro-like mask, and cut a question mark out of some purple-sequinned material to pin on my chest. The costume looked great - sexy and powerful - or at least it would have if I hadn't suffered from a momentary bout of dyslexia and sewed the question mark on BACKWARDS (!!!)

Post-college, I discovered Ricky's, the New York beauty emporium/sex shop/drag den, and bought myself a pink wig for more money than I spent on the rest of my costume that year (black clothes that were already in my closet plus the cape from the year before). But that wig lasted me three years' worth of Halloweens and twice that many parties, until I lost it in 2002 after one too many bottles of Belvedere.

Halloween just hasn't been the same since.

Time keeps on slipping into the future

I've had a burning desire to write all day, but nothing in particular to write about. I've turned on my computer probably 10 times, only to find an empty inbox and little inspiration for a post.

Laura's party on Friday night was fun. We went to Lucky Strikes, where I bowled two rounds of straight 0's before moving in for a strike. Then I went back to 0's. Last night I went out with another friend and ended up at a costume party, sans costume. It was fun, but I have been told I am a curmudgeon when it comes to Halloween. I only have an idea of what that means, but I'm pretty sure it's not good.

I woke up around 8:00 AM this morning, but of course it was really 9:00 in my head, given the change for Daylight Savings. Excited to take advantage of the extra hour of morning, I made a pot of coffee and settled in for a marathon session of the new Real World/Road Rules challenge. For three of the four episodes I thought to myself what crap TV this was and at what point will I maybe get over the lives of these ridiculous people. But then there was the one episode in which Diem kind of freaked out about taking her wig off for the first time since she lost her hair from chemo and then Robin kindly suggested that they all wear swim caps for the challenge so Diem wouldn't feel weird, and I might have cried just a little bit. A little bit too much for a sunny Sunday morning in which I have been given the gift of time and yet another beautiful day to enjoy it.

The extra hour today was supposed to help me catch up on activities much needed to get my life in order: laundry, cleaning, vacuuming, wardrobe upgrading. I did none of those things, although I did manage to make a dent in my magazine reading. And I got a pedicure. As I walked to the nail place around 1:00, I noticed the change in light, that fall was really here.

When I lived on the east coast, back when LA was nothing but a What if..., I used to think that I would miss New England foliage, miss the change of seasons. What I didn't know then was that LA has just as much foliage and quite a distinct change of season; simply without the biting cold or bitter gray the puritan Northeast throws out in exchange for its Rockwell beauty. Here, the leaves change color and form bright piles on the neighbors' lawns, shadows fall down in blues and purples as light springs up in shades of pink and gold, and the difference in temperature between the sun and shadows is palpable enough to notice even midday. But the air is generally warm and the sky is starkly blue and the changes, while subtle, are more complex. It's nice to be able to enjoy them without the dreaded threat of winter looming ahead.

This time last week I was walking in the door from my trip to San Diego. Seven days later, my suitcase still lays open and half-unpacked in the middle of the living room where I left it. I'd say that's a pretty apt metaphor for my brain this weekend: even though I keep tripping over it, I just can't be bothered to deal with it.

Happy birthday, Laura!

Today is my friend Laura's 30th birthday. I think she's handling it slightly better than I did, but that's fairly typical, as she is one of the most positive, optimistic people I know.

I've only known Laura for a little over a year, but I consider her one of my closest friends. I also consider her my first "official" L.A. friend - that is, someone I met and befriended out here and not from my previous life in New York. A mutual friend introduced us, and while so many times the two people being introduced never find any common ground greater than the person making the introduction (George to Elaine: So, uh, I guess I'll talk to you through Jerry, then...) Laura and I pretty much hit it off right away.

It was maybe only the second or third time we met that she picked me up to go to the beach. I was comiserating over a guy and had reprogrammed his name in my phone to a word that is unprintable here, and had been extremely proud of my ingenuity. I had told another friend earlier, and she didn't get it, saying if I had to reprogram his name to something that rhymed with "mindsucker", then I shouldn't be dating him at all. Oh, boo, I said, you are missing the point. But when I showed my phone to Laura, she burst out laughing and did the same thing to hers, to the guy whose name now rhymed with "casserole."

I immediately knew that we would get along.

Reflecting

A year ago tonight I was dining at a five star restaurant in the West Village, tables away from Joe Montegna and Nicolas Cage. But I was pretty much too tired to care.

I was with four other people from work celebrating a highly successful press event that I threw together, almost to my bosses' amazement. When I first told them a month earlier that I wanted to "transform an empty white space," they thought I had lost my mind and questioned their own for hiring me; although, in the end, of course, the space was exactly right.

The doubt my bosses had of me were obvious, and hung over my head for the months of September and October as I worked to put this event together. I've dealt with doubt before, but usually only on behalf of a client; my bosses have always been on my side and backed me up. For the first time in my life, however, my clients were my bosses, and I knew this event would either make or break my position within the company.

It's not a good feeling to be doubted, questioned, and tension rose among both sides as we each fought for control. The night before the event, I had 75 press kits to make, 75 gift bags to be stuffed, and an entire white space to decorate, and knowing this, the bosses pooped out. Now, I would never expect or even ask anyone in a position above me to help with this menial work, but they had offered, promised me even additional support, and all but allowed me to plan on three extra sets of hands to help me the night before.

We had hired a production company to design and implement the bulk of the set, but we took on some of the smaller work ourselves, in the interest of saving money and micromanaging. The smaller work entailed setting a stage with fruits, vegetables, and other natural items that reflected the ingredients in some of our products, as well as shopping for all those items and the containers in which to display them. Shopping had taken up the entire day before the event. So, at 8:00, when the bosses finally came, and then left, we still had the matter of press kits, bags and the stage to deal with.

"We" would be me and Matt, the one neutral person in the company and the one who also has a background in marketing, visual merchandising, and media, and has been my partner in crime on all my New York trips. He and I did the shopping and scouting during the day, and we were both planning on three extra sets of hands that night. When they didn't come, we went into crisis mode and immediately took action. Step 1: Attack the mini bar.

Well, actually, we called room service. We had a big bottle of wine delivered so we could get a buzz on while getting our act together. I started stuffing press kits as Matt stuffed gift bags, all in a hotel room smaller than my living room. Seventy-five shopping bags lined the perimeter of the room, the perimeter of the bed, and nearly the entire bathroom, leaving only enough room on the floor to hop around all the other boxes which were holding the 15 or so products and promotional items that went into the bags. I stuffed press kits perched on the bed, piles of paper all around me: lead release, bios, new product info, FAQ sheets, and business cards, all waiting to be collated and placed neatly in their folder.

After an hour or so, Matt left me to go upstairs to start setting up the ingredients for the morning. I spent maybe another hour collating and stuffing, at which point I went upstairs to check in on the space. Matt, who now had a Jack Daniels in hand, was in full designer mode, styling each ingredient story until it was worthy of a spread in Gourmet, or Martha Stewart Living. I left him to do his thing, and finished the wine - and the gift bag stuffing - myself.

We each went to bed around 3 in the morning, only to wake up at 6 the next day. When the bosses walked in to the newly transformed space, you could see their doubts melt away. When they saw the 75 gift bags bulging with product and press information, guilt washed over their faces instead. I immediately felt them soften toward me, but I was still resentful. When we went out to dinner that night, they admitted their doubts, told me I had proven them wrong. They did that out of kindness and gratitude and wanting to make me feel like part of the team again, but I still needed time to heal. I took solace in the fact that it was a successful event and that my instincts had been right all along. And however many glasses of wine I had with dinner.

After that event, things changed significantly for the better. When the first round of press started rolling in, I was a hero. By March, when the bulk of it came in, I was star. And things are still rolling in, and it has nothing to do with me anymore, but the quality of the products that were launched and the brand behind them; and that, more than anything, makes me feel good about the whole thing.

Even if it took a while to get there, the ride was worth it.

Lions, tigers and bears, but no ghosts

So, after all of my bellyaching on Thursday about rooming with a ghost this weekend, it turned out that I wasn't staying in the Del after all, but the Lowes a few miles down the road! A normal person might have been disappointed with this turn of events, but, nice as the Del was, I would much rather stay in a slightly less fabulous hotel so long as it's not haunted.

Not that the Lowes was exactly slumming it. Here was the view from one side of the hotel:

And here was the view from another:

Life could be worse, I suppose.

We were staying on the island of Coronado, just west of downtown San Diego. When we arrived on Saturday, the temperatures were in the high 70's or low 80's, and so went to the beach, which was unlike anything I've ever seen. The sand was the absolute finest I've ever felt in my life. It had the consistency of baby powder, or, more morbidly, ash. Even more unique, the sand had fine grains of gold something running through it for the entire length of the beach. I don't know what it was, but if a cruise ship carrying industrial vats of micronized glitter were to have spilled its wares ashore, that would seem like a perfectly reasonable explanation.

Saturday night we went into the Gaslamp district for dinner and drinks, and while the downtown area might have seemed fun to me in the years most immediately following college, it was a bit young and overdone for my taste. Not that I didn't have fun, of course. Or stay out until one in the morning.

On Sunday we went to the famous San Diego Zoo, which was very impressive and very LARGE. It took a good four hours to see maybe 80% of the entire zoo; fortunately for you all, I've condensed the best parts into a quick little Flickr album that you can view right here.

All in all, it was a fantastic weekend. Sometimes I just feel so lucky, like I am living someone else's life. Although right now, I wouldn't mind just living a day in his:

If you don't hear from me by Monday, contact 1-800-Ghostbusters

Okay, so, um, I'm going off to stay in a haunted hotel this weekend. And it has nothing to do with Halloween or is anything I sought out. In fact, the idea of me knowingly and willingly going to a haunted anything is extremely ironic, as my number one fear in life is, without a doubt, ghosts. (Sushi is a close second.)

I am headed down to San Diego this weekend, and my friend managed to snag a room at the famous Hotel del Coronado, a luxury beach resort that, to be fair, sounds like an ideal place to hang out for the rest of eternity. The tale goes like this: a 28 year old woman named Kate Morgan checked in on Thanksgiving Day, 1892. She was found a few days later at the bottom of a flight of stairs with a gunshot wound to her head. For a long time it was thought to be self-inflicted, but now some think the husband was to blame. A recent press release on the site claims regular ghost sightings and weird occurances like things flying off shelves and landing perfectly upright, creaking floorboards and flickering lights, pictures that contain paranormal orbs, and basically everything I have suffered nightmares about for the past 30 years.

I don't know why - for as long as I can remember, I have had a strange fascination yet simultaneous debilitating fear of the paranormal. As a child, I would be drawn to books, TV shows, and movies about ghosts; but then I would be fearful for days of something coming after me. I would delve into Stephen King books, watch cheesy horror movies like Poltergeist 2 or even something as benign as Scooby Doo through covered eyes; and then I would lay awake for hours with my lights on, until finally giving in and running up into my mother's bedroom. In between Steven King novels, I became hooked on non-fiction books about the occult, relishing every ghostbusting tale Ed and Lorraine Warren put forth, and then not sleep a wink for days after. I became convinced there were ghosts in my house, things all around me I could not see; but because I was so scared, I must be picking up on something. Right?

This craziness went on until maybe halfway through high school. (I remember running home from JV Cheerleading practice one evening, convinced the clown from It was after me.) Then one day I decided that I had had enough, that I would never open a Stephen King book or watch a horror movie again. I decided that 15 was too old to be sleeping in my mom's bed. Although I still regularly slept with the lights on until I went to college.

Once in college, I always had roommates, and a life, and so never gave much thought to the stuff. Until I went home, anyway, and my childhood memories would resurface. By the time I was 21 or so, I was going to bed drunk almost every night, so I didn't have trouble sleeping, but I've always had nightmares. To this day, I have nightmares. Almost always about ghosts. And quite often they take place in my old house. Often the ghost takes on the form of my old cat, Pookie. I still have this dream, had it earlier this week in fact, way before I knew anything about the hotel and the lovely Kate Morgan.

Have I shared too much? If so, it's only because it's 11:15 PM and I am absolutely terrified to go to bed now; worried that my thoughts on this subject will manifest into fears that will keep me from falling asleep, and then, turn into nightmares that will keep me awake. It looks like I may finish this wine bottle, and then sleep with the lights on. That is, if I sleep at all.

Christmas comes early

I made a new friend at Warner Brothers back when I visited the studio the other week. She gave me a few DVD's, and in return, I sent her a goody basket of beauty products from my company. In return for that, she sent me the entire 6 season collection of both The Gilmore Girls and Sex and the City. I know what I'll be doing all winter. Besides figuring out what I need to send her next.

Breaking up is hard to do

You'd think I really did break up with someone by the amount of carrying-on I've done about this whole trainer thing. It hasn't sat well with me since the weekend and I can't stop thinking about it.

Kevin sent me an email earlier to tell me he found someone else to train me and the guy would be contacting me this week. I replied, thanking him, knowing that still wasn't really what I wanted. So then I revisited his email from Saturday, and wrote the following reply:

And to this I don't really know what to say. I had no idea that I was your only Saturday client or that you agreed to train me out of the kindness of your heart. If I had known either of those things we might had this talk long ago, as I don't ever want to be in a working relationship in which I feel indebted to the other person.

I understand now that the business partnership was not working financially in your favor. But I believe that is an issue you should take up with the gym, not me. If it is something that you have already broached with the gym and there was just no solution, I would have understood if you had come to me earlier and suggested I work out with someone new. Back in the spring you introduced me to a few new trainers, and I asked you point blank if you were trying to get rid of me. You said no. And maybe you weren't but I do pick up a tone of resentment from your email that suggests to me that this has been on your mind for a while.

I have worked out with a few trainers over the years and you were by far the best. I didn't go to the gym that first day intending to buy a package, but by the end of the session with you, I couldn't imagine leaving without one.

Thanks again for setting me up with someone new. I would rather have things go back to the way they were in the spring, but I realize that's not possible now. Congratulations again on your wedding. I wish you the very best.

So at least I feel like I'm not some crazy lunatic overreacting to a sick day. Even though I know there have been far too many sick days. Am I a sucker? No, because I still intend on talking to the training manager to finagle some free sessions. But I couldn't let things end with my original email, if for no other reason than I need all the good gym karma in the world right now.

My boyfriend Gym, the break-up

So, I'm kind of feeling like I just got dumped. Only not by a boyfriend, but by my personal trainer. Only he didn't exactly break up with me, as much as he let me go without a fight. But even if I did play the role of bitchy girlfriend, it's not really what I wanted! Let me explain.

I've written a few times about how much I love my trainer. Aside from being good at the physical part of his job, there is an unmistakable warmth and likeability to him which I was drawn to immediately. I've had other trainers who were just as good at the training part but lacking in the warmth, and others who were all personality but little skill. Kevin is the first trainer who seamlessly incorporates both into the perfect gym professional.

Much as I love my trainer, he has cancelled three out of the last four appointments I tried to make with him. These last three were the third, fourth, and fifth time he has cancelled on me in the short time we have worked out together (since March, with the summer off since I was traveling so much.) The first time was in the spring, and it was for his back injury, I believe. He cancelled the day before or the morning of, and I was bummed, but didn't think much of it.

The second time, he didn't show up. No call, no email, just a no show. Livid, I came home from the gym to see that he had sent one of his "forwards" on email - one of those "do this for good luck" type of things he would send to us every once in a while. I wrote him back asking why he missed our appointment. I didn't get a response until the following day, when he apologized, claiming he had taken his son to the emergency room. I wanted to believe him but it struck me as odd that he had the opportunity to forward a lighthearted chain email but not to cancel our appointment. Regardless, that weekend was my birthday, the following weekend was the alumni luncheon, and the weekend after that started my marathon trips to New York, so it was the last time I saw Kevin until this fall.

In September I booked our regular Saturday morning appointment. He called me an hour and a half before the appointment to tell me he had thrown his back out and had to cancel. I was pissed, really pissed - I had scheduled my entire day around that appointment - but it was his back, what could I do? That Monday, I told the story to one of the guys at the Pasadena gym, and he was mad for me, telling me I should have called the manager and ratted him out and demanded free sessions. I explained that that wasn't really my style - if anything, I would contact Kevin directly and air my grievances, but because it was an injury, I felt there was little I could say that wouldn't make me out to sound like a self-centered bitch. I was happy with my decision when, the following week, Kevin tagged an extra half hour onto our session because he felt so badly about the prior appointment.

But then there was last weekend. When I got the email an hour before my session (lucky I even checked email at 9 AM on Saturday) that he had a family emergency and had to leave the country. It was another excuse I couldn't really fault him for, but the fact was, I literally had scheduled my entire day around that appointment. (It was the beauty-gone-wrong day, you may recall.) Livid, I called the training manager and explained that this was the fourth time I had been cancelled on, with virtually no notice, and I had goals to meet and absolutely needed a trainer for that time, that day. The manager was apologetic, professional, and accomodating, and found another trainer to work with me that morning; however I felt it was just a band-aid to the bigger problem.

Kevin was back from his family emergency this week, and we confirmed early on that we had our standing 10 AM. So yesterday morning, I dragged myself out of bed at 9 AM despite the gray day, threw myself in the shower so I would be somewhat presentable, made myself eat some oatmeal for strength even though I wasn't hungry, and decided to check my email just in case. I laughed at myself as I did it, knowing there was no way Kevin would cancel on me AGAIN. At the last minute. But there it was: an email from Kevin from 11 PM on Friday night, claiming he had just gotten back from the doctor and he was too sick to make our appointment.

I didn't know what to do. I thought of calling the training manager again, but the fact was, I didn't want someone new - I just wanted Kevin to keep his appointments. And now that Kevin was in the country, I didn't have to go behind his back - I could air my grievances to him directly, what I had felt was the right thing all along. So I sent him the following email:

Kevin,
I am very sorry to hear that you are sick; however this is the fifth time you have cancelled an appointment with me with less than 24 hours notice. FIFTH TIME! And I've only been working out with you since last March, with three months off this summer! The only reason I even checked my email this morning (1/2 hour before my appt) is because I have come to expect this from you. Sadly, I waited to check it until AFTER I have showered and gotten dressed, having dragged my ass out of bed extra early on this gray day so as to maximize our time in this appointment. Frankly, if you had time to email this last night, you might have called or sent a text message so I could have slept in this morning. Or made other arrangements. Your cancellation completely affects my day and shows a lack of respect for my schedule.

Much as I enjoy working out with you, I am doing so because I have specific goals to meet. If you need to cancel on me, I expect more than an email or text message, I expect that you will arrange for me to work out with another trainer in the same time period I had scheduled with you. I could, and have, called the training manager to set me up with someone new, but because my files aren't available, it's like starting all over with someone who had no idea of my capabilities. Essentially, a half hour was wasted playing catch up. We all get sick, we all have family emergencies, but I expect arrangements to be made.

I really don't know what to do. I know that you are getting married soon and I wish you all the best. I would appreciate if you could recommend a trainer to take your place in your absence while I figure out how to move forward.

I hope you feel better - I do! I'm sorry for the harshness of this message but I am very upset having received messages like this so often now.

And this was his response:

No problem, you are absoulutely right and you should be taken care of when you would like to train. I would like to recommend a couple of trainers that you might enjoy training with. One of which is [redacted], another would be [redacted], [redacted], and [redacted]. The problem with most of the traners here are the availability to train someone only once a week. I hope that they will be willing to take you on for once a week. I will do my best to find someone to do so. I know that we have recently hired some new trainers over the past few weeks and they are hungry for clients. I would recommend one of them but I don't know them that well and would hate for you to have to go through with them, what you have gone through with me. I will give them your information and hopefully someone will contact you during the week. I just want you to know that I was coming from Lancaster just for you and I had no other clients for Saturday, so I understand your being upset, but at the same time I thought you would be a bit more understanding of the hour long drive that it would take for me to come and see you and then go back home. This will be the best for both of us as I can now spend the three hours that it took me to come down here to train with you, to spend with my family. I just need you to understand that the day that you came in for your equifit and wanted to train, I really felt bad that you could not get the training package that you wanted. I wanted to help you out of the kindness of my heart. Me training you is not a financial benefit to me, I get paid less than what it cost for me to travel here to train you. There is no way that I had any intent to mess up your day because I emailed you the fact that i was not able to come in to see you, in a more timely manner. Needles to say this is best for both you and I, so I thank you for your time and the time we had training together. I hope you hit your goals soon, and your next trainer is more proficient. Take care of yourself and best wishes on your goals.

Ugh. So now he's all professional and shit and I sound like the self-centered bitch I was worried about becoming three cancellations ago. Or am I? He mentions that I was his only client for Saturday - which I most certainly was not aware of; that he has to drive an hour to get there - which is horrible, mind you, but not really my problem; and that it costs him more to drive there than he makes off me - which is none of my business and something he either needs to take up with the gym or could have mentioned to me months ago along with the phrase, "I know a great trainer I'd like you to meet".

I realize that my email was less than professional and I'm not proud of everything I wrote. But I also don't like feeling taken advantage of, especially when I am pouring more money into this gym per month than most people spend on gym memberships in a year. As for me only going once a week, part of that is a money issue, the other is location. I work out in Pasadena on the weekdays, Westwood on the weekends. Even if I could afford it, scheduling would keep me from committing more than once a week. Kevin told me a long time ago that he only had a few once-per-weekers, and he kept me as one of them because he knew I was so committed. I may be giving the gym less money than the people who train two or three times per week, but it's stil more money than those who don't train at all. I would think that would be worth something.

Anyway, like the best of relationships, I am sad that it's over, and part of me wonders what, if anything, I could have done differently. I plan on speaking to the training manager, since he is aware of my first complaint and might be able to help me find a new trainer. But that's the thing: I don't necessarily want a new trainer - I'd much rather have the old one back. That is, if I could have the relationship from our honeymoon stage, back before it was frought with cancellations, excuses, apologies.

My goodness, I have this much trouble with a personal trainer; it's no wonder I can't keep a boyfriend.

Just asking...

Have you ever experienced a period in your life that is just so good, you want to stop the clock and hold time still because it can only go downhill from there?

All four years of college were like that for me; since then, the moments have been more fleeting. But I know them when I see them. Of course, I still don't know what to do with them.

I can't stop time; I can only enjoy it until it runs out.

False alarm

Well, there's nothing like a small aircraft crashing into a Manhattan apartment building to jar me out of my silver-pooled light of happiness.

I know, I know, everyone's comparing this to 9/11. Well, I'm one of them. This time, when I read the news online I thought to myself, until the second plane hit, all the news stations were reporting that it was just a small aircraft. As the live video stream on ABC.com kept timing out before it could launch, I remembered having the same problem with CNN.com five years ago. Only technology was worse, then. I finally logged on today, only to hear conflicting reports: it's a plane, no it's a helicopter; it's not terrorism, it may be terrorism; it hit the 20th floor, it hit the 40th floor. On September 11th we heard all sorts of stories that we took as factual at the time, and only learned later were nothing but speculation.

Like many people, I had terrible nightmares after 9/11, mostly that planes were falling out of the sky and crashing into buildings. Sometimes, when people asked why I was moving out of New York when LA was just as probable to fall subject to an attack, I answered, because the chances of a building falling on my head are far less likely.

Alas, the tragedy today turned out to be very different than last time. And so it's not about me but about a baseball player with a wife and young son at home and a city full of people sighing with relief that this was only a false alarm. Wondering how long their luck will hold out until the real thing happens again.

Everything around her is a silver pool of light

The last week has been quite busy but very interesting and fun and different from my normal routine. A brief recap:

Thursday night a friend of mine flew in from New York to visit. That night was low-key, but kicked off a weekend that was anything but.

Friday we were set up on a tour of Warner Brothers Studios in Burbank. The tour took us around various lots, into the soundstages, and through exterior sets for everything from E.R. to the Gilmore Girls. We passed director James Cameron riding by on a golf cart, but sadly, none of the Ocean's 13 cast members who were filming that day. It was truly amazing to learn how many movies and television programs have been produced on that lot, but the tour itself fell a bit flat. Regardless, it was a fun day and just makes me want to work in television that much more.

Friday night I exercised my social skills and organized about 15 friends getting together at one of our new favorite bars. I felt extremely loved and loving, and excited to see a quasi-celebrity - this guy from Charlie and the Chocolate Factory.

Saturday, we headed up to Santa Ynez Valley for a weekend of wine tasting, where I am thrilled to admit I managed to avoid the flu, this time. We stayed at the Chumash Casino Resort, which I had started calling the Cheesy Chumash before we left, but ended up being much nicer than I had expected. The casino itself was kind of sad - some of the saddest looking people you've ever seen in your life, perhaps - but the rooms and the hotel were great.

We headed back on Sunday and took the PCH from Oxnard down into Malibu, where we shot some amazing pictures like the one I posted yesterday. We then had dinner at Duke's before I dropped my friend at the airport and came home and crashed.

When I woke up on Monday I just couldn't fathom any more driving, and exercised one of the many sick days available to me. (Seriously? I am so anal. Do you know that I haven't called in sick when I wasn't in over 7 years! Well, until Monday.) I spent most of the day watching TV, drinking coffee, catching up on my blog reading... but let's go back to TV for a sec. I'm loving The View now that Rosie is on it. They should honestly just change the name to Rosie's View - it's totally her show now. I caught up on GH, and then got sucked into Oprah, which, as you may know by now, was mainly about, to use her word, poop.

Sure, the show was billed as "Dr. Oz answers your most embarrassing questions" but 75% of those questions were about poop. Again, her word. But the last 15 minutes of the episode featured a gynecologist to answer the 25% of embarrassing questions that had nothing to do with poop. And that, my friends, was my doctor. Lisa Masterson, MD, of Cedar Sinai Medical Center, on Oprah. I'll be lucky to get an appointment with her ever again.

Monday night I had plans to see my friend's boyfriend sing at a club in Los Feliz. I've heard one of his songs on MySpace but was truly blown away by his talent for singing live. It was a really nice experience, and one out of the ordinary for me, as I rarely see live music. What's more extraordinary is that I am going to see yet more live music on Saturday, when another friend is dragging me to see one of her favorite bands play at a place on Sunset. It's not something I would normally do, but I am excited to go and try something different.

I love weeks like this - when energy is heightened and friendships and plans are in abundance and there is a random celebrity-sighting or coincidence that crosses your path. I believe the energy is contagious, spreads like wildfire, illuminating the scenery in a way we hadn't before imagined.

The problem with that metaphor is that, in energy's case, I don't want the fire to burn out.

Good weekend

Playing chicken

I was driving home in stop-and-go traffic the other day, and kept passing and falling behind one car in particular. I only noticed it because at one point I looked in the driver's side window and thought to myself, hey, that guy kind of looks like the Colonel Sanders, and then kept on driving.

A few minutes later (actually, about half an hour later but sadly only a mile or so down the road) the car passed me, and as it pulled ahead, I took note of the license plate: 97 KFC.

Only in LA, kids, only in LA.

Don't hate me because I'm shallow

There was a post on the "Off Topic" section of MediaBistro the other day which asked, "Is being beautiful a burden?" I can't quite claim to know the answer, but I can tell you it's a hell of a burden trying to be.

Saturday was supposed to be a basic grooming/maintenance/pampering day for me: within a five hour window I was scheduled for the gym, tanning, eyebrow wax, and pedicure appointments. But really I should have just stayed home.

It got off on the wrong foot when, an hour before I was scheduled at the gym, my trainer sent an email to cancel. This is the same trainer I have been going to since last winter, when I cried in a crowd because I was so frustrated about the (lack of) payment plans. There are some people you meet and just instantly like and feel drawn to, and my trainer is one of those people. But this was the fourth time he's cancelled on me since May and it's always at the last minute and usually when I've scheduled my entire day and half a week's worth of workouts around the one appointment. I called the gym, irate, only to learn that the reason he cancelled was because he had to, at the last minute, fly off to Guam to annul his marriage. Hmf.

The training manager was extremely apologetic and offered to pair me with a new trainer and comp my sessions until I could find a new trainer that I liked. So that was fantastic except that the first session with someone new is always a waste, with the trainers' time being spent figuring out my fitness level, my likes, my dislikes, etc. Usually I leave the first session feeling like I didn't get a full workout, but after spending an hour at the gym, I just want to get out of there. So that happened.

Then I went for my routine eyebrow wax. My waxer is another person who I met and instantly liked. I've been going to her since I moved out here, but just recently, the salon went under new management. Under the new ownership, they upgraded the wax and upped their prices. Under the new wax, my normally resilient skin got burned in two places. And I paid twice as much for it.

My pedicure was fabulous and came with a delicious and seemingly endless foot and leg massage. But the polish chipped that night.

Is this all karmic payback for my chronic vanity? Should I just throw my hands up and throw myself in the lake like Narcissus? Or should I just consider adopting a new look that maybe isn't so hard to maintain:

To the most beautiful woman I know

Happy birthday, Mom!

When I was in first grade, my mom was doing a lot of photo shoots for her job as an art director. She had taken me on a few shoots and shot me for some ads, so I thought I had a good grasp on the concept. Then we had a career day in school, and the teacher asked us if anyone wanted to share what their parents did for a living. I proudly waved my hand and boasted in what I thought was proper advertising lingo, "My mom shoots people." The color drained from my teacher's face and I explained, "you know, like photo shoots." Duh.

When I was around 8 years old I loved to snuggle under the covers in my mother's bed on Friday nights. We'd watch Webster, Benson, Dallas, and if she happened to fall asleep, I'd stay up late and watch Falcon Crest. Once I stayed up really late and watched a long-forgotton Tom Cruise movie on HBO called Losin' It. It was about Tom Cruise's character taking off to Tijuana to, well, lose it, and I think it was probably the first time I saw naked breasts on television.

When I was around 10, she and her boyfriend at the time would stay up late on weekend nights and dance in the living room to Paul Simon. If I had been maybe two years older I would have counted the ways to die from embarrasment, but at 10, I just wanted to be included in on the fun. They always made sure that I was. (Once there was Kahlua involved).

When I was 16, I went to the DMV for my learner's permit. Nervous, I went to ask my mom for the millionth time if she remembered to bring my birth certificate. Except that instead of saying "certificate", I asked my mom in front of the entire DMV if she remembered to bring my birth control. (I was 16. I was not on birth control.) We burst out laughing and didn't stop practically until I left for college.

When I was 20 and wanted to drop a history course because it didn't work with my bustling social life, she agreed to pay for summer school and tell my grandparents that the class was simply to get a jump start on my senior year.

When I was 26 and suffering from over-achievement, my mom assured me that I would get through it, unscathed and better off. When I turned 28 and told her I was moving to LA, she lied through her teeth and told me that she wanted me to - because it would make me happy. Only it wasn't a lie because she always has wanted me to be happy, at whatever cost to her own disposition.

For years I thought my mom was the coolest person in the world. Then I went through puberty and, well, didn't. But sometime after that I grew up just a little and realized that my mother was a lot more than just "cool" and more than just "Moh-ohm!". She was a woman with complex feelings and choices and a personality and a life that existed outside of motherhood. It consistently thrills me to see a new side of her; to meet her new friends and hear what they love about her; or run into old friends and hear stories I may have been too young to hear wthe first time around. My relationship with my mother is constantly changing, evolving, growing. But throughout the years, one thing has remained the same:

I can't help but want to be just like her.