Attn: HR at VH1

I was browsing my connections on LinkedIn today, and giggled when I came to a coworker who listed "extensive knowledge of pop culture" as a Specialty. I laughed not because I thought it didn't belong there, but because I knew it did! However odd it may seem to others, the two of us live in a society and work in an industry in which pop culture knowledge is, in fact, a marketable skill.

I think it's fair to say, though, that when it comes to pop culture, I'll give anyone a run for their money. Back in high school, my senior prophecy predicted that I would grow up to write a book of Brady Bunch trivia. A similar book had come out around then, and I, an avid viewer more adept at trivia than trigonometry, memorized the whole thing. While the prophecy was literal and lazy on the part of my peers, I always believed there was some truth to it. I'm in no way eager to cover The Brady Bunch exclusively, but writing about my pop culture passion is something I could see myself doing, well, now. Whether it's nostalgic icons and references from my childhood or the "who's wearing who" on the red carpet today, my brain - parched when it comes to politics and stock portfolios - effortlessly absorbs this kind of information like a heavy hydrating hand creme.

Only a few minutes after I left LinkedIn and went back to work, my friend Maria called me. "I have a question," she prefaced, sounding almost sheepish for calling but overcome with the need to know the answer. "I thought if anyone would know, it would be you."

What is it? I asked.

"Is Britney pregnant?"

I laughed again, and, while clicking over to Perez Hilton just to make sure there were no further updates, I explained that while In Touch was reporting that Miss Brit was, in fact, four weeks prego, Britney herself (well, via a friend) sent a text to Ryan Seacrest to clear things up: it's simply not true.

We had a good laugh and after we got off the phone, I pondered which made more of a statement about the state of my brain, the state of my life: that my friend thought to call me about this or that I, naturally, knew the answer.

When all the leaves are brown

I had started a Thanksgiving post last Monday, but, at 9:59 PM, I wasn't loving it, and put it on hold to watch The Bachelor. At 10:59 PM, I discovered I'd much rather write about that, so pardon me for not wishing anyone a happy Thanksgiving. Sometimes I can be such a turkey. Har.

I went home to Boston for the holiday, taking a red eye Tuesday night that delivered me into the 35 degree cold Wednesday morning. With the help of a Lunesta, I'd slept soundly on the plane, so when I saw the Dunkin Donuts by baggage claim, I decided to try and stay awake for the day, to hopefully acclimate to Eastern Standard Time. I don't even like Dunkin Donuts - my Starbucks addiction ensures that virtually anything else tastes like dirty bath water - but the smell of coffee at 6:30 AM was powerful enough to get me in line. I arrived at my mom's house by 7:30 , and by 8:30, I was passed out cold on the couch. I stayed that way til about 1. So much for acclimating.

It was a very low key and relaxing and enjoyable weekend. I saw a high school friend, some old family friends, and, naturally, my own family. Of course, any relaxing I got to do was promptly erased the minute I arrived back at Logan for the start of my six hour flight back to LA, but overall, it was great to see everyone and just have five days in a row in which I did not have to think about work. For that, I am very thankful.

For the last few years, my mom has been talking about moving away from the northeast. It's just too darn cold. Her joints ache more in the winter; the expansive skylight which, in a springtime showing promised a sun-drenched living space, in the winter simply lets in a constant draft that, even when the thermostat reads 70, keeps us both huddled in layers under blankets. And at 57, my mom has spent more than enough winters shoveling driveways, scraping ice off the car, and exerting herself in ways that no single woman of that age should.

A year ago she was looking at Florida and Myrtle Beach. I had suggested Southern California of course, as it would give me great relief to have her closer to me; but, even a year ago, it made me nervous. What if I got sick of it here? What if I wanted to move back? Or somewhere else? Essentially, moving my mom here was a guarantee that I would stick around, and I wasn't ready to make that kind of commitment. A year later, though, I am ready to pack up her house and drive her out here myself.

Why the change? I guess I just realized, I really love it here. And I really don't ever see myself back in Boston. Unlike when I lived in New York, and couldn't imagine where I'd go in a post-single life (New Jersey, Long Island, no thank you), I can quite easily imagine myself in many different areas out here. And I don't just mean the west side! San Diego, Orange County, even further east, I think I'd fit in almost anywhere.

I started looking at condos a few months ago, and that has solidified the fact that, barring any major catastrophes, I am committing to stay. Having my mom out here, too, would only make me feel better about it. But then there is the cost. Her two bedroom house in Massachusetts won't get her much in LA, so she'll probably look further south, closer to San Diego, or maybe up north, in the valley or Santa Barbara. As long as she's within 2-3 hours of me, we'll both be happy. If anyone has any suggestions for neighborhoods we should consider - for an active, sun-loving, adorable little mom - please, please, please let me know. For that I will be most thankful.

In which I read entirely too much into a reality show that should have been cancelled five seasons ago

For the first time in years, I have been so into The Bachelor.

I know, I know, that is extremely uncool. The show has sucked for many seasons, but something about this season sucked me right in. Part of that had to do with the Bachelor himself, Brad. A refreshing change from the last few Bachelors, I thought he was extremely good looking (my type!), seemingly quite down to earth, and could carry a conversation.

Perhaps a testament to the casting director, I thought the bachelorettes were on the normal side as well. Gone were the bleached blond bimbos of seasons past; in their place stood spunky, sassy brunettes who could also carry a conversation, often about subjects beyond swimsuits or body shots. They were fun, cool girls to watch, and I never had that sinking feeling that Brad would let me down by choosing a bimbo. I was proud of ABC for moving away from the Girls Gone Wild theme they seemed to embrace for the past few years; proud of Brad every week when he kept the best girls - Deanna and Jenni - right up until the end. It made me like him more, not that it matters for much besides ratings. I guess it just gave this sassy brunette a bit of hope, is all.

But tonight's episode made me love it, love him even more, when - SPOILER ALERT - he let both girls go home. They were both absolutely perfect - yet neither was perfect for him. And rather than than carry on a fake engagement for a few months to further his own public profile, he was the first Bachelor in history to admit that a few fantasy dream dates does not an "ever after" make.

I believe the girls thought they truly loved him. Don't we, as girls, do that? Look for something where there's nothing, fill in the blanks with the first convenient label we find, so long as there's not an empty space haunting our thoughts, a hole in our hearts we're trying to fill? I can't even imagine how intensified the feelings must get on this show, competing with ridiculously gorgeous, camera-friendly women, or having producers continually ask for updates on your deepest, darkest feelings, but condensed into sound bites, please? Connecting with someone is hard enough in the best of circumstances; attempting to do so with an audience and an entourage is beyond even my imagination.

And yet, I liked it this time because it seemed so real. Even the two finalists seemed the most real on the show - no bleach or silicone or collagen between them. I suppose it's possible, too, that I relate just a little bit too much - that part of me appreciates seeing two other seemingly perfect girls having to wait just a little bit longer for their happy ending.

Karmic balance resting on a five inch heel

When I first started working in PR, I represented a lot of little-known brands. It was the late 90's, so independent "cult" beauty brands were all the rage, but some of my accounts were truly off the wall.

I worked on a skin care line whose all-natural products were handcrafted by a witch and packaged in jars corked with sealing wax; bottled water that claimed to be "super oxygenated;" a "relationship game" that was more a conceptual exercise, yet cost $65 for the packaging; and a washed-up fitness guru trying to get in shape for his infomercial comeback. Editors weren't exactly banging down my door to write about these guys.

Still, I had a job to do, and at one point, I made friends with a newspaper writer in Phoenix. For some reason, no matter what I threw at him, he always found space to write about these challenging misfits, and, as such, made me look good in the process. It's not an understatement to say that he saved my ass a few times, his lone paper atop my monthly placement reports often making it seem like I had made the impossible pitch, possible.

Today, I might finally be able to do something for him in return.

Every week he posts a fun, interactive element to his paper's blog which asks a simple question: Shoe, Hot or Not? Readers are asked to comment on the shoe in question, this week a pair of Louboutins in the new Kylie Minogue video. Each week, a lucky commenter wins a prize from Sam's bag of SWAG, which, judging the rest of his column, is filled with much better stuff than what I used to peddle.

In an effort to boost the blog's readership beyond it's current audience, I'm asking all of my readers to please take a little trip over to Sammit and leave your opinion on Shoe, Hot or Not?. This week's winner will receive a free 8.5 oz. bottle of Jo Malone Nectarine Blossom and Honey bath oil. Guys, if that's not appealing to you, please comment anyway. I'm sure if he looks hard enough, Sam can still find you that fitness guru's best-seller.

Still sending Valentines, birthday greetings and bottles of wine

My paternal grandparents are today celebrating their 65th wedding anniversary. Sixty-five, though!

This picture was taken of them on their 50th anniversary. I found it in an old photo album with a Post-it underneath, stating as such: Gram & Papa's 50th Wedding Anniversary. I don't know which is more astounding to me - that I have grandparents old enough to have been together for so long, or that I am old enough that a picture taken 15 years ago means I was in high school at the time and not, like, two.

Obviously I am very lucky to have two grandparents still alive and, for the most part, in good health. I actually had all four grandparents up until my senior year of college, when, on one spring day, my maternal grandmother suffered a heart attack. My grandfather, who had seemed to be in good health until then, quickly deteriorated and died just over two years later of what I considered to be a broken heart. I still feel lucky that I had more than 20 years with the both of them; sad that that my younger cousins got cheated out of memories that defined my childhood.

My paternal grandparents have four kids, eight grandkids and seven great-grandchildren. With the exception of my grandparents themselves, who spend half the year up at their house on Prince Edward Island, I am the only one that doesn't live in Massachusetts. Sometimes I feel like I was born into the wrong family, like, what's with the desire to live in a desert climate while the rest of them happily settle in for dark New England winters and vacations up north? I mean, it's raining in LA today and I haven't even left my house except to get coffee!

But, then, sometimes I'll catch a glimpse of myself and realize I fit right in.

Riddle me this - with update from Dad!

There are times when I really abhor the three-hour time difference between myself and my parents. Usually those times are in the evening, when I want to call one of them, only to realize they have likely been asleep for five hours already. As such, we tend to only talk on weekends, which, while not hurting the relationship, doesn't exactly make us closer.

Earlier tonight I wanted to call my mom about something I knew only she could help me with. Knowing she'd have already been asleep, I skipped the call, and now my question is a moot point, resolved before she'll ever even hear about it. Only a few hours later, I am wishing I could call my father, because I know he is one of few people in my life that holds the answer to a question that is simply driving me crazy. Or, rather, he holds the question. I already know the answer.

"Well, well, well."

That's the answer. The question is a joke, a riddle of some sort, of which I can't quite remember the set-up. It goes something like, "What did the bucket say to the hole?" But that's not funny, so it can't be right, and when I Google it, all I get are the lyrics to "There's a hole in the bucket, dear Liza, dear Liza". Did that get stuck in your head too? You feel my pain.

(My riddle, by the way, is not part of the series of arms-and-legs jokes, as in, "What do you call a guy with no arms and legs in a hole in the ground? Doug." I know about 10 of those. Art - on a wall; Bob - in the water; Russel - pile of leaves, etc. Don't get me started.)

It's kind of funny. I heard the song Cat's in the Cradle on my way to work today, and, as usual, I started tearing up listening to the lyrics. I know that song is super cheesy, but it always makes me cry, no matter how many times I hear it. It's not on the radio that often, or at least not on the stations that I listen to, so imagine my surprise when I heard it AGAIN on the way home. This has something to do with my father, I thought. I need to call him.

But I wouldn't call him, because it's Wednesday, and we talk on Sundays, and I could wait four days, especially since, at that point, I wasn't being plagued by a series of "Well, well, wells."

And now I am counting down the days til Sunday, when our schedules might connect, and I can find the question to my answer. In the meantime, if anyone wants to tell me, I'll have that much more time to speak to him NOT about fifth grade riddles. Although, truthfully, I think nothing would make him prouder than to know that I finally appreciate his sense of humor.


UPDATED: Did you hear about the three holes in the ground? (To be said after another person utters, "Well, well, well.") Thanks, Dad.

Losing my voice or just learning a new language?

Well, I've been quite the celebrity magnet lately. On Friday, I saw Matthew Rhys, from my favorite show Brothers and Sisters, at One Sunset. Yesterday, I saw Zooey Deschanel at Whole Foods in Westwood, and I swear, I only recognized her because of the tights. Finally, this morning, I crossed one more name off the Willis family Starbucks Bingo card, as dad Bruce accompanied daughters Scout and Tallulah into the shop and directly in front of me on line. While I am easily star-struck, I can't remember the last time my knees actually wobbled. Sigh. You could say that he made my day.

Except that I'm still currently reveling in an amazing television placement my company appeared in last night. Imagine a 20 minute commercial on an Apprentice-like reality show. Where the contestants are literally being challenged to film a commercial for your product, and are expected to deliver the product name and message points on cue. I set this up back in May, and they filmed on my birthday, and if that doesn't say something good about the year to come (oh, was that five months ago?), then I don't know what to tell you.

I know I've been writing about work a lot lately; frankly, it's one of the only topics that keeps my interest. I've talked about maybe slowing down and possibly stopping this blog, as I seem out of words on so many of the subjects that have kept it alive these past (almost!) three years. But I think I just find my focus changing. I am more interested in work-related topics and the PR and marketing industry as a whole. If I hadn't spent the last (almost!) three years spilling such personal thoughts on here, it wouldn't be an issue; but instead, I find myself treading a thin line between promoting myself while maintaining (a relative) privacy.

And then, of course, I would still need an outlet for celebrity sightings.

Not surprisingly, it matches my maturity level

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Random Thursday Goodness

-- You know how a few months ago I saw celebuspawn Scout Willis at my local Starbucks? This morning I happened to catch her sister Tallulah there. Is it weird that I absolutely LOVE that name? Is it weird that Tallulah is 13 and drinking coffee?

-- For the past two days, I have been obsessed with the dialogue generated by this blog, written by Wired magazine's Editor in Chief. The editor, it seems, has been besieged by spam emails by publicists trying to get their item run, and in response, he "outed" their email addresses, in part to embarrass them but also in the hope that spam bots will pick up the addresses and give these "flacks" a dose of their own medicine. This story has been covered to death on all the industry blogs, including my good friend's over at Candyland, and I kid you not - I think I have read every one of them. Twice.

I am so obsessed with this topic because this is exactly what I do. Not spam editors - that's exactly what I try NOT to do! - but pitch editors my story in the hopes that they will want to write about it. As I commented on his post, I can't imagine ever pitching an Editor in Chief. Anyone who has worked in PR for more than a year would know that an EIC has little to do with assigning, let alone writing, stories. They're more about the big picture and direction of the magazine, as well as acting as a "face" of the brand. Part of the problem, of course, is that it's often these junior publicists or even interns making the media lists and sending the pitch. When I worked at an agency, though, senior staff always reviewed the list, and if there was anyone glaringly wrong on there, it would get taken off. I've worked in beauty and fashion my entire career. I've never once sent Anna Wintour a press release.

I was surprised to find how many publicists came out and said, "Well, you make it so hard to find the information. The website only lists one email address." Um, pick up the phone and ask. Or, better yet, read the source you intend to pitch. This, my friends, is exactly why I get so stressed out sometimes. I complain that I'm overwhelmed, that I "have so much reading to do", and while that probably sounds important, often it's just a week's worth of Women's Wear Dailies I need to catch up on. I read practically everything I think is relevant to what I'm doing. Even if it means getting newsprint on my sheets and forgoing plans because Vogue happens to be four pounds that month.

Anyway, the subject has been covered ad nauseaum and I have little more to contribute, but I will continue to watch from afar because I think that this is a significant move that might have some impact on the industry. I do have one question though. In the comment section of the blog, a reader made a reference to the PR people being not "the sharpest knife in the draw." Um, in the draw? Or in the drawer? I always thought it was "in the drawer," but, well, I'm only a publicist.

-- Gawker posted this question on it's site today. Yes. I probably am.