Something in the air

Okay, lots to talk about this weekend, but it's so hot in my apartment right now I can't promise a cohesive post.

I've written about this before, but I've never bothered to buy an air conditioner. Seeing as I have a freakishly low natural body temperature (I'm always cold), and because LA doesn't really get that hot, and because my apartment gets a great cross-breeze, a fan or two in my windows - especially at night - typically suffice. But the temperatures have been well into the 90's here for the last few days and the thermostat on my wall reads nearly the same, so even I'm ready for some relief. In the time it's taken me to write this, I've sat in a cold bath, dropped ice cubes down my bra, and have compulsively contemplated picking up some beer. Though I should probably wait til my shirt dries, first.

Compounding the heat as well as blowing in the wind and into my open windows is the huge wildfire you may have heard we're having. Here are some photos I took from my office on Friday:

And from Century City, yesterday:

Today, I can still see plumes of smoke from my apartment, which, trust me, is miles and miles away from this thing. On Friday, it reminded me a little bit of September 11th, when, even on 86th street, we could see - and smell - the smoke rising up from downtown. Now, though, this fire has become it's own memory - something entirely unique to LA. File this under one more reason I would prefer to live by the beach. And God bless the firefighters working in this heat while I'm schvitzing just sitting here.

Yesterday, when it was 101 degrees, I had a family picnic/reunion in the middle of a sunny park in Beverly Hills. To call it a reunion would imply that I'd met these people before; the truth is, I'd only previously met two out of the twenty. Most were, at minimum, cousins three times removed (my grandmother's cousins, basically) but it was really nice to meet them and make the connections.

You may have noticed that, over there on the left, I finally have some advertising! Please click on it and help me make a million dollars! Just kidding. I don't really expect it to make me much, if any money. But, I figure, every little bit will help. Maybe I should start an air conditioning fund. Or at least put it towards a beach house.

Last week, I mentioned that we ran into Kevin Connolly up in Santa Ynez. Well, a couple nights ago, I had a dream (cue MLK) in which he was my boyfriend. When I remembered it the next day, I was hit with a strange sense of deja vu - an odd feeling that that was somehow familiar. Then I remembered: shortly before I moved to LA (right around the time that Entourage started), I had a dream back then that he was my boyfriend. He was dating Nicky Hilton, then, though, and in the dream, I was afraid of moving to LA because Nicky was going to be out to get me. I mean, that would NOT be starting out on the right foot! I have to admit, this isn't exactly what I meant when I wished for a "dream boyfriend" but I guess I'll take what I can get.

In other celebrity news, I was so crushed to hear about DJ AM's death. I saw him spin at an event a few years ago, and he was amazing. I say that not as a music aficionado, but as someone who doesn't know the first thing about music yet knew immediately, inherently, that that kid was talented. This summer has been ridiculous with celebrity deaths, and I can't help but wonder if more people are dying or if I'm just at an age where I know all of them.

UPDATED 8/31 - Our Pasadena office is closed today because of the fire. While normally I would be thrilled to work from home, I was really looking forward to the air conditioning.

How's this for sensational journalism?

["Bridge" is a fashion/department store term that refers to brands above Contemporary but below Designer (i.e. they bridge the gap). Label Ellen Tracy has had a rough go of it, and from what I can tell, is about to be forced into liquidation; but truthfully, I was so enthralled with the headline that I forgot to read the rest of the article.]

I know we keep hearing that newspapers are dying, but someone's taking lessons from the New York Post.

Single-handledly supporting the California Wine industry

So, if this PR thing doesn't work out, I'm thinking I could always consider a career change to Tour Guide. This weekend was Tracy's bachelorette party, and, as such, my fifth trip up to Solvang/Santa Ynez wine country. In four years. To recap, I've also been there here, here, here, and here. To even my own surprise, it seemingly does not get old, and, in fact, gets better with every trip.

Seven of us drove up on Friday afternoon; there'd be 15 of us by Saturday night. We didn't carve any cucumbers but we corked a ridiculous amount of wine, ate a week's worth of red meat, and by the time we got back yesterday afternoon, I would greatly have appreciated some fresh produce.

On my drive home, I noticed a police car in my rear view mirror. I was in the second lane, not speeding (much), so just kept my eye on him as he passed me on the left. As soon as he got a couple car-distances in front of me, he turned on the flashing lights, and crossed right, back across another lane or two. I assumed he was pulling someone over, but no. With his lights on, he then looped back left again. Then right. Then left. Then right. This went on across five lanes of traffic, zig-zagging in and out of moving vehicles, for at least a quarter mile down the road. He wasn't in any rush, wasn't pulling anyone over. I couldn't tell what he was doing, other than perhaps interpretive basket weaving.

Whatever he was doing seemed obnoxious, out of place, and, frankly, dangerous; then all of a sudden, I got scared. It must be a stolen cop car, I thought. I'm about to witness a freeway shooting, or perhaps become the next victim. I stopped breathing and started sweating, suddenly aware of my heart beating in my chest. I needed to get out of his path, off the freeway, but how? I was afraid to pass him or pull up next to him, and I couldn't just pull over in the middle of a five lane freeway. It seemed like he was purposely slowing down, slowing us all down while he settled on his target. I saw an exit quickly approaching, but didn't think I could make it. As I attempted to cross over, the cop car pulled ahead and off the exit, lights still flashing, and I sped up and continued along the freeway after all.

Here's my question: what the hell was that? I tried to Google it, and came away with the idea that it might have been some pace-setting system, but I don't really understand why, since traffic was light to begin with. The cop car did nothing but slow us all down, cause some confusion, and scare the shit out of me, so if "pacing" was the objective, that hardly seems effective. For a few minutes, I could have benefited from a Pacemaker.

In other pacing news, I apparently needed to rethink my workouts. Remember that post a few weeks ago, when I was all, I haven't run in over a month and I'm only doing yoga and I've never felt better and blah blah Murphy's Law... It was around the same time that that study came out which said that exercise doesn't actually help people lose weight, which I've always kind of thought but have been too scared to test out. Well, about a week after that, my stomach popped out and over the waistband of my jeans, perhaps to tell me that it wasn't buying that load of crap any longer and that I'd better add cardio back into my routine if I wanted to retain any shred of self respect. So I've run a couple times in the past week and it has been much, much harder than it was a month ago. That actually makes me happy, though, like it's working and that I have something else to keep my body from becoming too complacent.

And speaking of Murphy, guess who we ran into in the middle of wine tour? Kevin Connolly, aka Eric Murphy from Entourage. He was with a date and it was highly inappropriate of us to interrupt them and ask if he would take a picture with the bachelorette, but he complied and was kind of adorable, and this was by far, my favorite moment of the weekend.

Since Tracy and I have known each other, people have always told us we look alike. Would it be really weird and/or noticeable if I tried to pass this photo off as myself? If you see it on my Facebook page, do me a favor? Sshhh....

You know your dating life is bad when

It becomes a measure of national security.

(click to embiggen)

In the spirit of Alice Nelson

I'm the last person in the world to offer housecleaning advice, but I discovered something this weekend I'd like to share with the world. Service magazines, take note.

I've written before about my bathtub. It's old, and as such, I tend to mistake dirt for stains. Stains that have pre-dated my time in this apartment. Because, I'll be honest with you - and this is partly why I shouldn't be offering domestic advice - but I don't really understand how bathtubs get dirty in the first place.

Maybe if I were a bather I could understand the dirt accretion - I mean, it's just sitting there for however long the bath runs and then, as the water sloooowwwwwly drains, probably adheres to a ring around the tub. However, I don't take baths precisely because I don't enjoy being submersed in my own filth. I take only showers, which quickly and efficiently rinses dirty water down the drain - with soap! - so I can't comprehend the physics behind it.

Regardless, I'd been noticing over the past week that my tub was looking more stained than usual. So this weekend I sprayed the Clorox Disinfecting Bathroom Cleanser, let it sit, and then scrubbed. And saw no improvement. So I did it again: spray, let sit, scrub. Nothing. Finally, as the cleanser set during the third go-around, I decided to consult the all-knowing Internet. (Why it always takes me so long to think of these things, I don't know, but I'm gifted in other ways.)

I Googled "How to get rid of bathtub stains" and quickly came across a situation that looked similar to my own. I started reading through the comments, and noticed a handful of people recommending pumice stone. Then I read another site that suggested combining pumice stone with eucalyptus for a more ecological treatment. Then I remembered that I own a foot scrub that's basically just ground up pumice with eucalyptus oil, and decided to give it a go.

And what do you know? In five minutes, my tub was sparkling. Brilliant. Completely stain-free. My sponge was destroyed, and I'm not advocating the regular use of pricey beauty products for something so declasse, but since I'm more likely to stock up on skin scrubs than baking soda, it was the perfect solution in a pinch.

This game brought to you by Band Aid and the Gourd Growers Association of America

So, my lovely friend Tracy is getting married in October, and I'm helping to come up with games for the bachelorette party. In my research, I came upon the horrific-sounding Carve a Cucumber idea posted on bachelorette.com.

Directions: Give every guest a cucumber, zucchini, or squash and a knife.

I'm sorry - a knife? Is that really a smart idea? I have trouble with knives on my best days; I can't imagine actually carving for recreation. Add ten tipsy, knife-wielding women to that equation and it sounds like a recipe for disaster. I think this game is better suited to the "Christian Bachelorette Parties" web link I ignored in my research.

Give each person twenty minutes to carve their veggie into an accurate representation of a male member.

Or, maybe not.

After twenty minutes are up, the bride can judge them all.

You know, once the vegetables have been sufficiently exposed to air and had time to oxygenate. Nothing says suggestive like wilting phallic produce. Sexy!

This game also works well with Play-Do.

Information that would have been useful before that trip to the emergency room. And I imagine the souvenirs would last longer.


(Semi-relevant photo, theirs.)

Cut down to size

So, I can be kind of an idiot sometimes.

One morning this summer, when I went to put on a pair of rarely-worn peep-toe pumps I purchased at the end of last season, I realized that they were surprisingly big on me. I put them on and, with my first steps, promptly walked right out of them.

That's weird, I thought. It's not like I lost any weight in my feet. (Or did I?) My bones haven't suddenly shrunk. (Or have they?) In any case, given that the shoes were suddenly awkward and unwearable, it wasn't a size difference I cared to celebrate.

It also wasn't a size difference I paid any heed to, as the shoes are so darn cute, I can't help but wear them, anyway. After giving the matter some thought, and realizing I had another pair in my closet with the exact same problem, I realized that maybe it wasn't permanent. Here's why:

I purchased both pairs from the DSW about a half mile from my office, which I'll sometimes walk to on my lunch break. They say you are supposed to buy shoes later in the day when your feet are a little swollen, to ensure you don't buy anything too small. I guess that makes sense if you're walking or standing around for most of the day. But considering my walks are mostly from house to car and from desk to copy machine, I probably should have used the reverse psychology.

Either way, I figured, if they fit when I tried them on, they should fit after I've walked around for half of the day. Except, see paragraph above. I generally don't walk as far as the DSW in a typical day - and especially not when I'm clomping around in oversize shoes. Rather than just half the day, then, I spend the entire day uneven and unstable, hobbling like a toddler playing dress-up or a lush pressing her luck. Neither of which are the sophisticated look I'm aiming for.

However. I'm just not ready to get rid of them, yet. So do you have any suggestions for inserts or shoe work that can bring these babies down half a size?

I might need the warm, strong arms of Jake Ryan to get me through this

Hmm... so, how many times have I mentioned John Hughes on this blog?

Oh, wait, only three, apparently. I guess I didn't feel the need to overstate the obvious: he was a big influence in my life. Not because I grew up wanting to make movies, of course; but because I grew up wanting life - er, high school - to mirror exactly what I saw in his iconic 1980's films.

I don't know - there's nothing I can say that hasn't already been plastered around the Internet. I'm loathe to sound like every other mediocre blogger who tries to relate a stranger's passing to the symbolic passing of our own youth. But then, we Gen-X'ers are nothing if not self-loathing, so I guess I'll add my two cents:

Years before his movies became staples on basic cable - years before I think we even had basic cable - I used to rent the same rotation of titles from our local "Movies and More" video store: Sixteen Candles, National Lampoon's (European) Vacation, The Breakfast Club, Ferris Bueller. I never knew until later that they all came from the same brain; I just knew, at the time, that I loved them.

Unlike most girls, I never aspired to be Molly Ringwald - her characters were awkward and insecure. I didn't relate to the stragglers, either - I was much too mainstream. But I LOVED the high school guys in the movies - the jocks, the bad boys, the guys from the poor side of the tracks, the depressed brooder, the whimsical deviant. I was sure I knew them all - sat next to them in social studies, could win them over in gym class, so long as I studied these films.

That, actually, turned out NOT to be the best way to fit into middle school, but I blame that on the rest of my class for maturing later than me. By the time I started high school, slacker culture had set in, and I didn't care so much for floppy hair and flannels as I did for cropped cuts and biceps. But every time I went to a school dance, sneaked alcohol underage, or saw potential for a raucous party, I mentally compared my life to theirs, these lucky characters born of such fun (and badass!) imagination.

Whether it was realistic to expect my real life to mirror these manufactured movies, I don't know. But John Hughes set my own imagination aflame, and I honestly can't picture my adolescence without him.

The M word

After my whole last post about not having done anything but yoga for the last few weeks, I decided it was time to revisit my Pasadena gym for a good old-fashioned after-work run and crunch session. I was feeling really good about myself on the treadmill - my time off had made my 3 mile run a little challenging, but not overly so - and on the mat where I felt long and lean doing my post-run stretches. I was even shamelessly admiring my quads as I came upward with each new crunch. After years of trying to "battle the bulge" the only thing big about me that day was my head.

That all changed as I walked off the mat, past a guy I see regularly, but don't know. He's attractive enough, but not hot, and clearly older than me. "Excuse me," I said, walking by without any thought. Until he gave me pause with his response, "Oh, excuse me, Ma'am."

I'm sorry, "Ma'am"? Do I look 80? Or even 40 - which is about the age I mentally put this guy? In my mind, "Ma'am" is reserved for crotchety school teachers, old women with walkers, or, at the very least, someone no less than my mother's age. And I'm pretty sure even my mom wouldn't answer to "Ma'am."

I almost stopped in my tracks and asked if I'd heard him right. Considered telling him that "Ma'am" was one of the worst names you could call someone, especially someone like me. Shouldn't there be a rule about this, akin to asking a woman when she is due? That, unless you have some sort of confirmation as to her status, it's better to just keep your mouth shut?

But then, this guy doesn't know me, and challenging his etiquette by highlighting my own insecurities probably isn't the best way to make an introduction. So, instead, I tucked my tail between my long, lean legs, and went home to nurse my wounded ego.