I think my party shoes are orthopedic

Well, I don't know about you, but I loved, Loved, LOVED the Oscars. I thought Hugh Jackman was flawless, was entranced by the song and dance, got emotional with the multiple presenters, and was completely romanced by the razzle dazzle. I don't know if I was the target audience that the Academy was hoping to impress, but their changes definitely did me good.

I spent about five hours in front of the TV on Sunday, mostly having a lazy day. I did manage to hit the gym and do some writing, but I was tired from an otherwise busy weekend. Saturday night I headed out with some work friends to Whittier, which, if that sounds familiar, is home to the Octomom. Whittier is southeast of Los Angeles and the farthest east of downtown I've ever been (by car), and it was quite the adventure. At one point I ordered a vodka tonic and the bill came to $5, so I'm not complaining.

Friday night I went to the Vanity Fair photography exhibit at LACMA, followed by dinner at Osteria Mozza, which was absolutely fabulous. I've been wanting to go there for ages but reasonably-timed reservations are hard to get, though on Friday, the timing worked out in our favor.

Next weekend will be busy, too, as I have a friend coming in from New York. I asked if there was anything in particular she wanted to see or do, and her reply was, "No, I just want to party! Go clubbing - have fun." Since I haven't "gone clubbing" in quite a few years, I think I need to go to bed now so I can start storing up some energy.

It's hard out there for a chimp

I think we can all agree that one of the most horrific stories in the news this week is that of the attacking chimp. I don't mean to make light of it, but in every story I read, I keep coming across this one mind-boggling bit of information:

"Authorities are trying to determine why the chimp, a veteran of TV commercials who could dress himself, drink wine from a glass and use the toilet, suddenly attacked."

Okay, can we talk about this sentence? Granted, dressing oneself and using the toilet are clearly unusual things for a chimp to do, and therefore I understand why those details would be included. But I love how, "drink wine from a glass" is kind of buried in the middle there, as if it's on par with the others. Are other chimps slumming shots out of Dixie cups, or huddled in an alley somewhere swapping sips? While I am impressed that Travis seemed to have a handle on stemware, why is he drinking wine in the first place? Is it to alleviate stress? Loosen up among friends? Does he ever lie awake at night and tell himself, "I can stop anytime I want to"?

I'm so confused as to a.) why this lady would waste good alcohol on him, and b.) what kind of dinner parties she is throwing that it would be inappropriate for the chimp to consume wine out of something easier to clean. And a point I have heard exactly no one discuss: was he even of legal drinking age?

Then of course the whole Xanax debacle came out in the news and it became clear to me the source of his stress - he is a former child actor, after all. We all know how they turn out.

On an oddly related note, I've mentioned before that the people in my writing class are an interesting bunch, most with significant stories they want to share. One of the ones I'm most fascinated by is this guy who was a child actor in the 1970's. He had a popular role on a show that's since become a cult classic, but because that role was a monkey, he is virtually unrecognizable today. His story idea, as you can guess, is to go back and talk about his time as a kid actor, the behind-the-scenes dramas of the show, and his experiences after it ended when he found himself, at 13 years old, living in an alternate universe from the rest of his peers.

The guy has been out of the industry for years, and from what I can tell, at least, lives a completely normal life. In contrast to that, though, is his former co-star, who is the same exact age and worked on the show for the same time period - but has since become a full blown alcoholic. He went to interview her last week for the book, and when he arrived at 11:00 - AM! - she was already a few in the bag.

He told us a funny story that the whole reason he got into the business (as a very precocious ten year old) was to make a lot of money, invest it, and be a multi-millionaire by the time he was thirty. This co-star didn't have nearly as high aspirations - she got into the business simply because she wanted a pony. The irony, of course, is that she got what she wanted, while he's still plugging away, trying to amass that fortune.

The moral of this story, then, I guess, is aim low. And that even primates can succomb to Hollywood's pressures.

A Valentine's story from a former sexting virgin

Perhaps you've heard of this trend called "sexting"? It's basically texting, about sex, usually to the person you'd like to have it with. It's been in the news a lot in relation to teenagers, but last night I became an unwilling participant. The sexter, however, was 32, and up until an hour before, had been a seemingly perfect first date.

Tyler and I had met for drinks, talked non-stop, and agreed to date number two before the bill came. He took care of the check, paid for my valet, and I spent the 20-minute drive home beaming. I've been on a lot of dates lately, but this was the first in a while in which I'd felt a quick connection. It didn't entirely surprise me when he texted me an hour later, perhaps to seal the second date deal. He'd already told me he didn't have plans for Valentine's Day.

(11:15 PM) Him: So what did you have in mind for the second date?

A lame effort, I thought, considering he was the one that had asked me out.

Me: I don't know - dinner? More Tyler time?

Him: You'll get more Tyler time for sure. Question is, what will you do with it?

Oy, vey, I thought. I don't know what he is asking here and I am too tired to find out.

Me: Whatever you let me get away with. (Short and sassy, throw it back on him.)

Him: Interesting. You should know, I'm very forgiving. You could get away with quite a bit. Depends on what you want.

Okay, he's talking in circles here. I need to go to bed.

Me: Hmmm... I'll have to think about it. (Please stop this now.)

Him: I think you know what you want but you're hesistant to say.

I do? What do I want? I want to go to bed.

Me: You do? What do I want?

Him: I said, YOU know what you want. I know what I want, but that wasn't the question.

I'm officially annoyed. It's too late for double talk, and too much trouble to text this much any time of day.

Me: I want to go to bed by midnight. And have date number two in the bag. (So hurry it up.)

Him: So that means I have 18 minutes to flirt with you?

I can't keep this up for 18 minutes. I let five pass before I write him back.

Me: Sure. So make it count. Give me some good text. (Probably, in hindsight, I shouldn't have said this. )

Him: What, you want to know what I want?

Me: Sure. (Not really, but it will keep me from having to type for a while. I think he's going to ask me out for Valentine's Day or at least say something really nice.)

Him: I want to know how you kiss when you can't resist it, I want to know what the back of your neck smells like, and I want to know what you sound like when you lose control... But we all want things we might not ever know the answer to.

Me: *Blink.* *Blink.* What? Was that a line from a movie? Or has he used that before? I suddenly feel violated and dirty, like I did something wrong. I must have inadvertantly sent out slut signals to receive such an assumptive message. Somewhere in the span of an hour I had gone from feeling like an elusive prize to an easy lay. My whole takeaway from the date was suddenly cheapened.

Me: Okay, that's a bit much. I'm going to bed. Goodnight.

(11:50) Him: Well, you asked. Sleep well.

(Actually, I hadn't asked. He offered.)

(11:55) Him: And for the record, you said make it count.

(12:03) The phone rings. "Did you get offended by that?" He's laughing in disbelief, so rather than apologizing for his overstep, he makes me feel like I need to apologize for my prudishness. Because it is after midnight and I've inexplicably been put on the defense, I am not apologizing for anything, and tell him we can talk about it tomorrow. I hang up. This actually makes me feel worse because, clearly, I must be taking things way too seriously. Some people like dirty texting, I imagine. I may even be one of them, albeit not after a single, two-hour date. Scratch that, I think. I'm not a fan of texting in general. I don't discriminate based on subject matter.

I went to bed pondering how it is possible to have a first fight without even being in a relationship. Will I hear from him today, I wonder, or just get another late-night message? I don't have the desire to get into a teenaged-type text war, but I would like him to know that he made me feel cheapened. And that the back of my neck almost always smells like Gucci. That way, at least, he'll have some idea of what he's missing.

Things I am tired of hearing about and what I would rather discuss instead

Instead of: Getting work emails every few hours announcing that another magazine has folded, or that another editorial staff/department has been let go

I would rather: Receive emails that are receptive to my pitches and are dying to write about my fabulous products!

Instead of: Discussing the moral and psychological issues behind a woman who chooses to have fourteen kids and the doctor who implanted them

I would rather: Question the validity of the doctor who gave her those lips, and ask where she got the money for so much plastic surgery

Instead of: Hating on Jessica Simpson because she has the audacity to look like a normal person

I would rather: Hate on the normal people who support obsessive-celebrity-weight headlines by buying these trashy magazines. Gossip is free on the Internet, people. While I don't want to see any more writers losing their editorial jobs, the world might be a better place if the tabloid industry applied their journalistic skills elsewhere.

Instead of: Being told by every relevant media outlet that Jennifer Aniston is needy and pathetic

I would rather: See He's Just Not That Into You

Okay, I kind of want to see that movie anyway. But seriously, give the girl a break. Considering Team Jolie has basically spawned a federally-funded three-ring circus, I'm kind of grateful that the most copied thing about Jennifer is an old haircut.

Fame-dropping

"Did you pick up a Small?" I heard the blond mother ask. "I have an Extra-Small." I looked up to see what grown woman - who was shopping with a daughter around my age - could be fitting into clothes two sizes smaller than me.

Turns out, it was Lisa Gastineau, who was shopping at Zara with daughter Brittny. Neither, for the record, should be wearing Extra-Smalls. I think they both are, refreshingly, Mediums like me.

I've had some decent celebrity sightings lately, which either means I am hanging out in cooler places, or maybe just paying more attention to my surroundings.

Friday night I saw Ian Gomez at Jar in West Hollywood. Last Friday I saw Rachel Zoe at Tower Bar. She was wearing so many layers, I couldn't tell what size she was, but, like her surprisingly-compelling TV show, she has this innate energy and I found myself unable to turn away. Like a Barbie doll, I feel like I should probably hate everything she represents, yet I can't help but want to stroke her hair and just revel in the pretty.

By far the biggest sighting I've had was Ed McMahon, a few weeks ago outside of my doctor's office. I was in the parking garage headed for the valet, when I saw him standing next to what looked like two handlers. Immediately, my brain thought, Ooh, Ed McMahon! Then, as I got closer, and realized that he wasn't just standing next to two people but rather like he was being helped by them, I thought, Wait, no that can't be him. The man in front of me looked about half the size of the Ed McMahon I am familiar with, if not from Star Search or the Publisher's Clearing House commercials a while back, then from the recent press tour he did when his home went into foreclosure. There was no way that the frail, disoriented-looking man in front of me could have been doing press six months ago. This man was wearing bedroom slippers out in public in Beverly Hills.

Alas, just as I was convincing myself it wasn't - it couldn't be - him, another car drove by. The driver gave a big thumbs up out the window and offered some heartfelt praise that implied he was a fan. Ed McMahon acknowledged the remark, and seemed to smile, though it must have jarred him, too. He stopped suddenly, incapable of walking any further, and just stood on the cement with his handlers by his side. I turned away, at that point, and eventually got in my car. It wasn't a scene I wanted to remember.

Light housekeeping required

There's nothing like coming into work and reading an uplifting horoscope for the day:

Clean out your emotional closet and you will be more attractive to other people.

Really? Thanks. I mean, I'm not disagreeing with the advice, and I'll admit my emotional closet has been a little cluttered, lately, but can you be a bit more helpful? I don't think the Container Store sells a filing system for mental archives (do they?), and I imagine the Salvation Army has all the emotional baggage they can handle. Does Hoover sell a hand-vac for mind dust?

(I actually got on the Container Store website as I was writing this, and there was a tab called Organize Your Dorm. Except, I read it quickly, and thought it said Organize Your Doom. So maybe I could use some emotional organization. But until I can find the appropriate storage units, I'm headed to Sephora for a physical makeover. Don't tell me I'm unorganized AND unattractive.)