In lighter news

It appears that TLC read this post, and did, in fact, remove one half of the Gosselin team from our collective consciousness. (I'm proud to say that I actually had to look up their last name, as I don't offhandedly know how to spell it.)

Now if someone could just forward this to E!, I'm thinking we could reduce our Kardashian intake by at least a third.

UPDATE: And here's one more thing we can add to that post.

Setting intentions

Late this afternoon, after I had settled down to start the new Dan Brown book, I got a phone call from my mother's friend, who informed me that my mom had had what seemed to be a mini-stroke/TIA, and was in the hospital for evaluation. She is fine, awake, coherent, remembers everything - completely fine - but will be kept overnight for tests and observation.

I know many of you are observing Yom Kippur tonight and tomorrow, and I ask if you can just include her in your prayers. She is fine, and I know she will be fine tonight, tomorrow, for the foreseeable future; but, while I'm the least religious person I know and you'll never hear a "Jesus" or "God" uttered out of my mouth in these regards, I do believe in light and energy and the power of positive thinking, and that these powers can be enhanced when used collectively. Somewhat coincidentally, if you believe in such things, the entire story of the Dan Brown book seems to be based around the same premise of manifestations and mind-over-matter. I have to wonder if that means something.

I questioned whether posting this would be too dramatic and unnecessary, as I do believe she is and will be fine; but I know many of you know her, either personally or from her many cameos here on the blog, and I figured it was worth putting out there.

Thanks in advance.

Things I would like to retire from the nation's collective consciousness

1. The Kardashians (see also: Gosslin, Jon & Kate)

2. The French pedicure. Honestly, I've wanted to write about this for years, but feared offending any of my readers. However, after three-plus seasons of staring at toe talons, I'm thinking it's just time to say it: this look offends me. Overgrown toenails are not attractive; why would anyone pay money to get what looks like them? French pedicures do not look clean, they do not look chic; they look like they belong to the homeless vagrant on my corner. For the love of OPI, if you can't pick a color, go bare or go home. I don't want to stare at your crazy clown feet.

(I'm sorry - I'm sure you all have better taste than this anyway. Please, please, please tell me that you do. If not, please feel free to tell me to go to hell. I'll tell you that I'm already there and I'm not going to take it anymore.)

3. The phrase, "I just threw up a little in my mouth." That phrase was popular about four years ago, and only for a nano-second, before everyone started arguing over who coined it. Then we, as an internet nation, agreed it was passe, and anyone who still uses it is a loser who probably sat alone in the seventh grade cafeteria. So, stop saying it. Please also stop saying its 2009 counterpart, "shit the bed." Seriously? That's gross.

4. Along those lines, can we talk about how the word "diss" has seemingly gained a resurgence among the mainstream media? "Diss" actually was a word we used in the seventh grade lunchroom, and I thought died somewhere around sophomore year (along with "Duh!" and "Not!"). Then, about two or three years ago, I started noticing it being used on the Yahoo homepage alongside international news, and on the Today show still into its more serious seven o'clock hour. "Angelina disses Jen!" "Oprah disses Michael Jackson!" "Obama's big diss!" Seriously? What kind of journalistic society are we living in? Even my middle school newspaper knew better than to use that word in print.

5. And okay, maybe I'm too involved on Facebook and Twitter and the blogosphere and PR and apparently every industry in which people find cause to use this word, but I propose an official early end to the (over)use of the term FAIL. Information is moving too fast these days. I'm over trends practically before they even start.

What say you? Feel free to add your pop culture annoyances in the comments. Then I'll print the whole thing out, burn in a bonfire, and pretend that none of this nonsense ever happened.

Those who mind might not matter but they also might have better manners

An hour ago, I left my apartment to go food shopping, and found my neighbor, sitting in her car in our driveway, shaving her legs. Now, I get that the light is definitely better over there, and I admit to using my own rear view mirror to spot and pluck stray facial hairs when they inevitably strike, but legs? In the communal driveway? For reals?

She didn't see, or at least, she didn't acknowledge me. But I sensed no trace of embarrassment or self-consciousness, especially given that the passenger side door was wide open. Once I got past the grossness of the act (my car interior is one of the few places in the world I keep immaculate) I marveled that she clearly could not care less what I, our neighbors, or anyone walking by might have thought of her.

I suppose it must be nice to go through life like that, blessed with the gift of not giving a shit. However, I'm content being slightly neurotic and hyper-aware, and I would imagine my friends and neighbors are thankful.

Back to school with @MrsKutcher

The morning after I'd heard that Patrick Swayze died, I ran into his former Ghost co-star, Demi Moore, in Starbucks. You may remember that I used to see her kids, and one time, Bruce at the same place, but it's been nearly two years without any sign of them, since.

She was two people ahead of me, and I thought, Oh, that looks like Demi Moore. Oddly enough, I just assumed it was a person who looked like Demi Moore - I couldn't quite let myself believe this slight, thirty-something* woman might be the actual Demi Moore. But then she opened her mouth to place her drink order, and out flew that one-of-a-kind, honey-sweetened husky voice, and there was no mistaking it. Suddenly, I saw the big picture - the dark wash denim jeans were the perfect barely-baggy cut, rolled up over some bad-ass black motorcycle boots that I now want to find and buy, accessorized with a black leather bag to match. She was understated and effortlessly chic in that elusive way that only celebrities seem to be. Most amazing to me, her skin lacked any trace of makeup and looked smooth and soft and flawless. She seriously looked younger than me.

Tallulah eventually came out of the bathroom, taller than I'd remembered, but otherwise, didn't divert my attention. Next time, I'm hoping she'll bring Ashton.

*Actual age: 47. Demi is now, officially, my idol.

My life on the guest list

A couple of months ago, I started a Twitter account for my company. I've never gotten into Twitter for personal use, but I realized pretty quickly that it's ideal to use professionally. The entire platform is centered around self- and third-party-promotion, it's a simple way of connecting with like-minded brands, and, if you follow the right people, it's a great way of keeping up with new developments in your industry.

A large portion, then, of the people/companies I follow have some relation to beauty and fashion. And now that it's Fashion Week in NYC, nearly four out of every five Tweets I'm reading are related. When 80% of anyone is talking about the same thing, it feels kind of funny to be left out. It's especially odd for me because for years, I was not only involved in Fashion Week, I was entrenched in it.

In my first PR job, I represented a celebrity/editorial manicurist who would work up to 10 shows per season. For years, I would accompany her while she manicured the models, and coordinate interviews for her with beauty editors backstage.

I would arrive to the show 2-3 hours early, mostly stand around while the models were styled, and then later tried to stay out of the way while they rushed through fittings. While it was secretly thrilling, it was also nerve-racking. No one (except my client and the few beauty editors who trickled through) knew who I was, so if I wasn't actively overseeing an interview, I usually felt awkward and out of place. It could have been a dream come true for a fashion student or someone more in the society scene; since it was only me, however, I always imagined Michael Kors must have wondered about that random off-the-rack girl in the corner.

That reminds me of this one time I was backstage, chatting casually with a beauty editor. We were wearing the same pants! Or so I thought. When I asked, she said hers were some big name designer. My face turned red as I admitted mine were J. Crew. I assumed hers were as well - I hadn't realized girls my age (26?) now had access to "designer."

Who ever let me work in this business?

And that's the irony of the situation. While I can appreciate nice clothes and of course like to dress well, I have never, ever, even at my most New Yorkish, been fashion-oriented. I grew up shopping at Marshall's and being grateful for what I was given. I valued brand names for their status, not their seamwork. And while once I got in the business I could understand the cache, I still preferred to put my money toward my weekends rather than my wardrobe. Through luck, timing, and a random ad in The New York Times, I basically fell into the beauty industry, and through that, dipped a few pedicured toes into fashion. Since then, I've seen more naked model breasts than most men could dream of in a lifetime, and had better access to the shows than some fashion editors ever will. I knew it was cool, sure. But this was all before Project Runway or Sex & the City or The Devil Wears Prada elevated the industry and informed the rest of the world how cool it could be.

In 2003, I moved to a different firm that specialized in fashion. There, I didn't typically get to go backstage of amazing designers, but was responsible for coordinating shows for smaller ones. (Though I did get to work an Isaac Mizrahi show once, which was pretty spectacular. I actually worked the red carpet for that and got yelled at by Iman for hurrying Mike Nichols along the carpet. Note to self: Recognize the talent.)

Getting yelled at was par for the course when it came to fashion shows. I've been yelled at by designers who aren't happy with their press, by the press who aren't happy with their seats, and by random, unaffiliated strangers who request invitations and show up even after their requests have been declined.

Coordinating press for Fashion Week was exhausting. Much of the work takes place in the immediate days and hours before, so there were late nights spent tallying RSVPs, updating seating charts, printing out place-cards, and confirming attendance. I got through it just like any other 27 year old city-dwelling single girl - with lots and lots of alcohol.

There were fun parts, too. My first week at that job, our office held a casting for men's swimwear. For two hours on a Friday afternoon, a parade of male models came through and took their shirts off upon request. I wasn't part of that project, so just watched from across the hall, frantically emailing all of my friends about this unexpected good fortune.

The fashion work, as exciting as it was, was also a big reason I got burned out in New York. The yelling, the intensity, the seriousness of the craft. Beauty people can take themselves seriously, too, but it's always just seemed like a happier business.

I sometimes think that I'd like to work Fashion Week again - I miss the glamour, the energy, the sheer craziness of the week. Forced to ingest so many Tweets about the subject (#nyfw!), reading as everyone simultaneously celebrates and commiserates, I can't help feel nostalgic, but the greater part of me is also relieved. I guess for now I'm still okay just to watch from behind the screen.

The days after

I have a Fashion Week post in the works that I was intent on finishing this morning (work, what?), but since everyone's Facebook status updates have been directing me to "Never Forget", I can't help but remember. I wrote a whole September 11th post a while back, but here are some other memories that have been running through my head this morning:

- The night of the 10th, I attended a Fashion Week after-party. On the bus ride down, I ran into Ben, a guy I had been friendly with in college but hadn't seen in the three years since. We swapped business cards, and he contacted me a week later to make sure I was okay and suggest that his friends and my friends meet up. We did, and I immediately hit it off with Ben's friend Mike. While I was dating Mike, my friend Miya met and started dating Ben. Mike and I fizzled out (and by that I mean he was a total player and blew me off), but through Ben, Mike met Miya's roommate Danielle, and promptly fell head over heels in love with her. That was nice. It's one thing when someone treats you like crap but you can write it off to the fact that they are a player. It's another thing when the person they meet two weeks later knocks their socks off and any trace of "player" out of them. Translation: It's not him, it was me. Gah.

- We had the 12th off from work, and since it was a beautiful, sunny day, I decided to go for a run. As soon as I stepped outside, though, I inhaled the overpowering smell of jet fuel, and headed to the gym instead. I passed the local diner, and, sitting in the window, was the guy I had dated that past spring. (Who, also, by the way, had lost interest.) I was relieved to see that he was okay, so went inside to say hello. Midway through our conversation, I realized that, while he was sitting alone, his table was set for two; I suddenly panicked thinking he was there with another girl. Perhaps reading my mind, he - out of nowhere - mentioned that his sister was off in the bathroom, but I didn't want to stick around to meet her. I offered a hasty "goodbye-glad-you're-safe" and hustled myself out of the restaurant.

- Everyone talks about September 11th, but the days after were almost worse. You may remember seeing the tear-streaked people on TV, holding signs of their missing loved ones. They weren't just on TV for me, they were all over the city. Not in my neighborhood, per se - I was too far north - but I was still afraid of running into one, coming face-to-face with their despair. While the sign-holders may have stayed further south, those Missing posters were plastered everywhere. I was just as afraid to look at them, fearing I'd recognize someone from the gym, from school, from my extended circle; I forced myself to look at every one, though, out of respect and out of guilt that that posters were the worst I had to deal with. For weeks I dreaded going back to my gym. Thinking that someone might be missing, and never return. It was around December when I realized that everyone I'd known was accounted for, and breathed a metaphorical sigh of relief.

Staying in the house wasn't any better. All there was to do was watch the coverage on TV, or read commentary in the newspaper. I bought every newspaper every day that week, and the subsequent magazine specials that were rushed to print. I poured through the photos, horrified but hypnotized, compulsively turning back to the full page picture of the man mid-air, falling upside-down past the windows of the World Trade Center. It was the only image to which I allowed myself to cry. For him for having to make that decision, for his family for having to deal with it, but not for me who had gotten off Scot-free. I still don't understand how they use a similar shot in the opening credits of Mad Men.

I kept those periodicals for years, thought I'd keep them forever. But when it came to pack up my apartment for LA, I threw them away. It didn't make sense to bring those memories with me.

We had Wednesday off from work; went in on Thursday only to be evacuated (again); then had the option to come in on Friday. There was no work to do - I couldn't pitch beauty products in that climate and certainly no one was writing about them - but I couldn't sit at home any longer. I think I left work around noon on Friday, bored, and went to see that movie Rock Star. It was awful, but a million times better than the real world. Saturday, my friends and I went down to the Armory on 26th street, where they had set up an assistance center and a tribute to the lost, and forced ourselves to look at the hundreds of Missing posters. Another day - Thursday? Sunday? - Maria and I, stir-crazy, decided to bring supplies down to the firefighters. Being 25, poor, and living in tiny New York apartments with no closet space, we didn't have a ton of extra "supplies", so we grabbed what we could. For me, that was a few mismatched towels, and the largest, heaviest sweatshirt I owned - which boasted my sorority "letters" in gold and black celestial print. Because we wanted exercise and had plenty of time on our hands, we decided to walk the four or so miles to Chelsea Market, where supplies were being collected. The walk - with everything in our hands and on our back - was grueling, but I, at least, was grateful for the physical distraction so I could justify some of my internal suffering. We laughed at the thought of a big powerful firefighter staying warm in my sorority sweatshirt, knowing we weren't even doing this for them so much as for us. By the time we arrived on West 15th street, conversation had slowed down and the novelty of our adventure had worn off. We took the bus back.

Blue Crush

Overall, I had a nice long weekend filled with sun, sand, friends, and fun; but I would say my favorite moments were between 5:30 and 6:30 on Sunday evening, as I took a long walk along the Malibu coastline with friends.

Drinks in hand, we strolled down the private beach, hoping to catch glimpses of Adam Sandler or Tom Hanks, as some had last year at this time. Instead, we passed only Laird Hamilton with his tow-headed naked toddler, and my knees went weak at the divine, combined vision of cuteness.

Just another day in LA and all that jazz

Because of the ongoing wildfires, our office was closed yesterday and we were all instructed to work from home. While normally I would be thrilled at a free day off (snow day! fire day?) I wasn't thrilled about the heat level in my apartment. I did some basic work and email until around 1:30, when I just couldn't take it anymore. I jumped in the shower, then headed to the gym where I figured, at least, there'd be air conditioning.

(Yes, I showered before the gym. I couldn't fathom breaking a new sweat without rinsing off the old one.)

I actually had a great workout - a running/walking combo that has my knee buckling in pain today but yesterday had me feeling strong and fab about my fitness. Walking out the door, I was engrossed in my iPhone, but looked up at the voice of a pretty blond woman.

"Are you Sandra?" she asked me. "No, sorry" I answered, distracted, tossing out a quick smile of apology. Then I realized that the pretty blond woman was Renee Zellweger. "Uh, why?" I asked, suddenly helpful and desperate to continue the conversation. She answered back something about someone meeting her there about her car, but I couldn't pay attention. She was so adorable, and skinny, and damn you Bridget Jones, how dare you score Daniel Cleaver and Mark Darcy and lose all that weight, to boot?! I quickly scanned the room for Bradley Cooper.

I said "sorry" again and ran down the stairs to post something on Facebook. (Because if it's not socially networked, did it really happen?) By the time I got home, I had a number of responses, including one from Randi, who commented that Renee had just been in a car accident that day. She jokingly suggested that "Maybe *Sandra* hit her car???!!" I hadn't posted the "car" part of the story, so Randi had no idea. But how funny that our conversation clearly had something to do with it.

Well, funny for me anyway. I can't imagine Renee finds much humor in her fender-bender.

It did lift my spirits, though. These fires have put a strain on the city, and I'm not referring to our resources. They're depressing, and scary - not in a My-Life-is-in-Danger kind of way, but just as a constant reminder that life is so fragile and unpredictable. You can't go outside without wondering how many homes are at stake, without wondering why, with earthquakes and wildfires and smog and such, we're all really living here.

And I'll be honest. While not exactly entertaining the "Why am I living here" thoughts myself, I have become less enamored and more disenchanted with this city over time. It's not LA's fault - I'm just drained. I've had more than enough of living single amidst a world full of couples; enough of wondering why, and "working on myself." I'm so genuinely over "putting myself out there" to meet new friends, attract new dates, all to have them move away or move on just when I start to get comfortable. The earnest optimism I felt for four years is gone; in its place are defeat and exhaustion. Bitter, resentful, blah blah blah... basically I'm back to being a New Yorker.

No, actually, thankfully, I'm not.

Since I was high on life after my celebrity encounter, I made plans to meet Miya for drinks at the rooftop bar of Venice's Erwin hotel. The bar opened fairly recently, and, perched on a six-story pier overlooking the Pacific, offers panoramic views of the city and the ocean. Amazing, breathtaking, life-affirming views of the city and the ocean.

And so it was there, against the clear blue sky and drop-dead gorgeous sunset, which betrayed so little sign of the fires burning further east, I was reminded, once again, of why I live here.

Plain and simple, I f*@%ing love this town.


If you look closely, you can see the flames burning in the distance. They were very visible to us, but apparently, not to my iPhone.