Spoiler: Don't Read If You Haven't Read Harry Potter Numero 6

This isn't so much a full post - my computer is missing in action - as a quick question: What's the deal with Snape in #6?! I don't think this was what J.K. had in mind, but I was more upset with his backstabbing than Dumbledore's death.

So I'd appreciate any and all comments regarding this pressing, timely issue: Is Snape really bad? Thanks.

(You too, Anonymous. Golly, I almost forgot you!)

Make It Work

Most people at the magazine wouldn't stoop to watch a PBS special let alone reality television, so I just need to get this out of my system:

Who's gonna win Project Runway tonight?

If you had asked me a few weeks ago, I would have said Michael all the way. His designs are fresh and bright and sassy and he knows how to fit clothes for curves. I also think he's got some serious star quality. There's that gold tooth (although now he has braces - wha?) and can pull off an all white outfit without looking ridiculous. I also like how he talks about his Mama. But. He started drinking some crazy juice right around the time he made that "sensual, sexy" purple dress and it's all been a world of no from there. I fear that all has been lost.

Uli has shown some promise in recent weeks but lawd, she bores me, and her fabric choices are no good. (Paisley? Tie dye? Stop.) I'm sure she's a lovely person, but I don't want her to win and I don't really want to hear her talk anymore.

Laura's craftsmanship is impeccable and I'd definitely wear some of her pieces (to a Cotillion) but she's gotta jazz it up or she'll lose me. Serious golf clap to her, though, for juggling 5 kids and one in the oven while pulling together a full line. I also applaud a good tattle tale.

Which leads us to...Jeffrey. Man, did I spend some serious time hating on him and his fugly, fugly neck tattoo. (Which I recently softened up on when I realized was his son's name. Still.) But suddenly he's gone from an evil goblin designing heinous outfits with leather straps and buckles and other nonsense to a friendly father making soft jersey halter dresses with colorful stripes? Wha happened? It might just be her hormones, but Laura definitely had just cause for accusing him of using extra help. His amazing line (sadly, my current favorite) just doesn't make any sense. I guarantee he won't get kicked off, though. That trailer showing him crying is just playing with our lil' fashionista hearts.

Okay. Whew. I feel better. Even if you don't usually watch this show, friends, I highly recommend tuning in tonight for the finale. Make it work, guys, make it work.

A Jack of All Trades

I fully admit to being the dangerous combination of theater nerd meets "Days of Our Lives" addict. Which made my Saturday night somewhat heavenly and delicious. When I told my brother about it over the phone, trying to sound nonchalant in front of my roommate, he said, "Excuse me...?! I don't understand why you're not laughing manically and couch jumping right now." Quickly escaping behind closed doors, I did just that.

Enough of the build-up. I realize this will only be exciting for my fellow "Days" fans (and I know you're out there), but Saturday night I went to see the show Urinetown (the musical for people who hate musicals but really it's for everyone, because who doesn't love songs about pee?) and the Narrator was played by...Jack Devereaux! As in Jennifer's husband, Patch's brother, Abby's father, almost-as-good-as-John-Black-at-making-a-furrowed-brow, Jack Devereaux! Wha-bam ka-chow! He would probably like for me to call him "Matthew Ashford" since that is his chosen, real-person name, but sorry friend - you'll always be JD to me.

So...seriously. Who knew this was the reason he keeps asking to be killed off? He's secretly doing regional theater, busting a gut dancing jazz squares and singing his lil' heart out before crawling back to Salem when the money runs out. I mean this guy seriously gave it his all - and he was pretty damn good. The whole thing reminded me of my break-out performance in kindergarten when I sang the "Sesame Street" theme song in front of the whole school, and I told my mom I wished I were a boy because I wanted to dress like Ernie, and she said I could wear a striped shirt even if I were a girl and I said...okay. Man, did I belt that number out.

Yup. It was just like that. Minus the fact that Bo Brady was not in the audience to cheer on his buddy, it was a pretty perfect night for me. Don't be jealous.

Solid Goldie

I've been in LA a couple months now and have yet to have a legit celebrity sighting. I used to think Britney was around every corner, ready to drop her Frappucino on my foot, but those days are gone. I still scan the crowd for a familiar face, but at this point it's just more of a casual habit. I thought I was doomed to seeing only D-list stars and I'd started to accept it.

That is, until Sunday night when my boyfriend and I were stuck in traffic, trying to get out of Hollywood. The streets were jammed because of a concert at the Hollywood Bowl; Pink Floyd was playing and people wanted in. As we sat amongst the stoners, bumper-to-bumper, my bf looked to his left, at the car facing opposite us. "Hello, Goldie," he said, kidding. I swung my head to the left and leaned over. He didn't realize it, but the blonde, lippy chick staring forward really was Goldie Hawn, and you know who was sitting next to her? Good ol' Captain Ron (or Kurt Russell, but he prefers I call him Cap'n), cute little horn-rimmed glasses and all. Before we could soak them in any longer, they drove away in their big, gold Mercedes, off to the dark side of the moon.

Columbus Would Be Sad

I can't believe there's no such thing as Columbus Day out here. When I asked my work friends what they were planning for their day off, they gave me the same look I got when I first moved out here and asked where I could walk (no!) to get some good sushi or called the freeway "405" instead of "the 405." My work friends repeated "Columbus Day" a couple times, letting the crazy and foreign words play upon their tongues.

How can the otherwise sunny state of California drop this little raincloud over me? I've been planning my day off for the past month, hemming and hawing over whether I'll watch "Matlock" or "Magnum P.I." come 2:00, whether I'll eat a grilled cheese or a milkshake for lunch, whether I'll take a nap or do a little thrift store shopping in the late afternoon. But Abracadabra - the dream is gone and I'll be plugging away at my computer while you light-hearted East Coasters are watching The Hallmark Channel in my place. Next thing I know they'll be telling me I don't get Patriot's Day off.

Nah.

Oreoh!

I've discovered a new food product that everyone needs to try: Oreo Thin Crisps. In the words of everyone's favorite television personality Rachael Ray: "Yum-o." (Has anyone seen her new show? Is she just shotgunning Cocaine to maintain that level of insanity?) Don't be put off by its somewhat oxymoronic name, my friends; what's inside is delicious.

I think the point behind the marketing of these packets is their "100 Calorie" goodness, but I couldn't care less about that. Although, I must admit I do enjoy anything that comes in cute little bags I can grab and run/drive with. I wish everything edible came in a grab bag: pizzas, hamburgers, spaghetti. Anywho. It's the little bites inside that really matter. At first glance, they look like crackers, and have sprinkes on top that look like salt but - gasp - the "crackers" are actually chocolatey cookies (kinda like Teddy Grahams, but lighter and crunchier) and the sprinkles are actually sugar. De-lish.

To reach maximum enjoyment, I recommend placing the sugary part on your tongue and letting it sit for a bit, before washing it all down with 1% milk. But maybe that's just me. I also eat Junior Mints by splitting each one apart vertically, before eating each half separately. So - proceed with caution. But either way, I think you'll dig 'em.

The Sophisticated Nose Knows

The last time I took the magazine up on an offer to do something "fun" outside the office it resulted in that horrid French/Indian/Hugging debacle with my roommate. I've been reluctant to accept anything since, but my boss had an invite to this product promotion at The Hotel Bel-Air and I figured why not? It'd be worth it if only to see where the Fresh Prince did his thing.

When we stumbled our way onto the (gorgeous) grounds, this crazy hotel manager chick found us and led us to the right room. Along the way, she would periodically stop, stare at us, and squeal: "Look at how much you love it here!" Excuse me? I was walking silently, looking at the flowers, and smiling a small, little Mona Lisa smile. But apparently, I was bouncing off the ceiling. Okey doke.

She finally let us go, and we walked into this (gorgeous) room leading out to a courtyard. There was a fire going and champagne on the table and bottles of perfume everywhere. Romantic? Creepy? I wasn't sure.

The two chicks who run the company were super chatty/perky, running around grabbing bottles and spouting iterations of the word "luxurious" at roughly 85 times per minute. Their luxury logic, though, tended to create contradictory statements. For example. First, they talked about vanilla and how usually it's a cheap, one-note fragrance, created for the untrained nose. But they solved all that by adding "hints" of magnolia blossom and citrus because the urbane nose appreciates a multi-toned scent. On the other hand, their lavender scent is "medicinal" and "pure", not "cluttered with any superfluous falsities" (I sort of made that up, but you get the idea). In other words, the educated sniffer turns up his nose (ha) at both simple and complex smells. Makes sense, makes sense (scents?).

I had to work hard to keep my eyebrows down, but was pleasantly surprised when - after promising them we'd feature their stuff in two of our issues - they gave us each a big bottle of our favorite scent (I picked Orange Blossom, one of those single-note things or complex ones or - whateva it's delicious) and a bag full of smaller bottles. I've already set them up in my apartment, letting the crazy reed sticks diffuse the Orange Blossom-ness into the air. And you know what? Whabam. My room suddenly smells, well, luxurious.

The Real Ladies of Layering

I've been feeling annoyed with Marc Jacobs these days. Taking all this credit for hip, "new" layering - dresses over pants, shorts over tights - that clearly was discovered long ago by some of the most important ladies in fashion: Punky Brewster and Clarissa Darling. That's right, my friends. These chicks had this technique down to a science long before it made the fashion runway.

Punky rocked vest over short tee-shirt over long tee-shirt over jeans (bandana around one leg, of course) while Clarissa sported overall shorts over patterned tights, some sort of shrug, and a pair of Doc Martens to finish it all off. They were fashion pioneers and I worshipped every belt, knee sock, and cardigan they somehow fit together. Can they please get a little credit? And, for that matter, can I?

The looks I fashioned together in 5th grade were nothing short of spectacular. Let me tell you about my favorite one. It started with a long tee-shirt - complete with Earth Day theme - worn on top of white shorts folded two times each side, worn over capri-style, royal blue tights with detailed lace around the ankles. I liked to finish it all off with black ballet flats (still rockin' 'em today) and a long necklace, made of little, clay Earths. Hot, right? Yesterday I wore a tank top over a tee-shirt and the day before that, a dress over jeans, but I'd like Marc to know this is nothing new. I will never give credit to any modern-day movement for these choices. And now, neither should you.

Up in the Air

Flying: I don't like it. I put up with it, because I'd never get anywhere and because I'd still be stuck in India if I didn't, but it's a legit phobia of mine. I immeditately fall into this state of intense awareness, where I notice every minute dip, every subtle noise; I honestly feel that if I notice something wrong happening then I'll be able to do something about it. I find it very difficult to believe they could handle the problem without me.

My dad - a mechanical engineer, mind you - once told me that flying kind of freaks him out, too, and really, there's no exact explanation for what keeps that huge thing off the ground. Oh, okay. So, that's now my mantra as we take off. "There's no reason this is staying in the air, there's no reason this is staying in the air..." etc. etc. I usually combine this with a montage of movie and tv scenes depicting plane crashes and I'm good to go.

It doesn't help that I'm always seated next to a ridiculous person. I've been flying quite a bit lately and I'm starting to think someone is playing a joke on me. Two weeks ago I sat next to a man who cried the whole time. Cried. He wasn't sobbing, exactly, but there was a steady stream of tears and lots of sniffling. Fun. Then, last night, my seating partners were a Chinese woman and her husband who did not speak English, but somehow, with a complicated dance of nods and finger wagging, assured the clueless flight attendant they could operate the emergency exit. I quickly added pushing them out of my way into my montage. As soon as the engines started, the woman covered her nose and mouth with both hands, and began to sing opera. Opera. I turned and faced her, fixing her with my best angry/judgmental/crazy woman stare, but she didn't budge. In fact, she just got louder. I eventually gave up and continued my vigilant watch until we landed.

I'm sure there's some sort of book or pill that could help me with this problem, so anyone who has any tips or prescriptions I would greatly welcome the donation. I've got a lot of places to go.