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.

Foxy, Roxy...Simpson?

Man. At moments like this, it really sucks that I can't teleport to wherever I want to go. Okay, that always sucks. But... Ashlee Simpson in a professional theatrical production? If I were in London (which damn, I just was), I'd hightail it to the West End and gawk at Chicago ASAP. How did this possibly come about? I know that last year there were rumors about Britney making an appearance in Sweet Charity, but that girl can dance if nothing else. Ashlee, on the other hand, has no redeeming performance qualities. I approve of her new nose, and am impressed by the Olympic stylistic team that reworked her into the hotter Simpson, but no matter what they do to the outer package, she will never, ever be a Broadway star.

I don't think.

Just Call Me PicassNo

I'm sitting here watching Miami Ink, that reality show on TLC about tattoo artists and their clients, and I simply cannot imagine what it takes to be able to do that. Not getting the tattoo - I won't do it, but can picture why you would - but drawing it.

I can't draw. I mean - really. My friend Caroline told me the same thing at our sophomore year art class, before she promptly whipped out her pencil, drew this perfect representation of her hand, looked at me, and said: "See? I told you I can't draw." Shut up.

This has happened many times since. People claim they can't draw, and okay, maybe they're no Picasso, but they can draw a horse and make it look like a horse. Me? I draw a horse and it looks like a hot dog. Actually, everything I draw sort of looks like a hot dog, and sometimes a peanut. Maybe I'm just hungry? When I was little, I used to ask my mom what I should draw and - I swear to God - she'd always answer: "A sailboat." I was infuriated, because I couldn't draw a sailboat, and why couldn't she ever come up with something else? I quickly realized, though, that the problem did not lie in her lack of brainstorming capabilities, but with me, myself, and I. People try to give me little tips, thinking they'll be the ones to crack the code, but nope; there's nothing to be done.

I've accepted this means certain professions are closed to me. Namely, anything that requires me to stand before people and try to get across a message pictorially. Art teacher, teacher in general, Win, Lose, or Draw contestant. I used to get kind of depressed about this, but I'm slowly geting used to it. Especially since tonight my meditation teacher (yes, I know, how very LA of me) told me I'm a spiritual healer. Hmm. I think that trumps art teacher?

Chips and a Cocaine With That?

Have you heard of this?

I was watching some primetime show or other a couple nights ago, when the news began its promos to lure me in. Their big tag for the night was "Would you drink Cocaine?" Um - wha? As previously blogged, I have this huge fear of all things sniffed up my nose/cocaine-related, so I was immediately suspect of this "legal alternative" to the stuff.

I tracked down their website and seriously - what a hilarious/disturbing concept. It's an energy drink with something like 3 or 4 times the amount of caffeine found in a cup of coffee, holds a warning for pregnant chicks, and features a numbing (?!) substance that coats the back of your throat to simulate the drug's effects. Okay - really? True, I was fascinated by those Cool Caplets that Tylenol sold (sells?) that created an "instant cooling sensation" down my throat. But - it wasn't trying to simulate the effects of an illegal substance and it wasn't trying to numb me for God's sake.

I also love how there's a link on the website to "Charities", listing AA etc. as if this product is really helping the cause. Get out of rehab and pick up a Cocaine; maybe rehabs will even distribute them upon discharge! Why not? The sad imitation probably won't leave you wanting the real stuff or anything.

Oh, and that letter newly posted on the site by the founder is something to behold. I realize that I, too, added to the "overloading of the server", but isn't there something ridiculous about posting a letter to clamoring fans of an energy drink? All that being said, will someone please try this and let me know how it goes? I don't do the whole numbing thing, but it sounds like lots of other people will...? Thanks.

Hugs and Milkshakes

You know those defining moments with a new friend when you know it's either thumbs up or all down hill from here? I had one of those with my new roommate last night when I invited her to a movie premiere event the magazine hooked me up with. It was for a documentary about this crazy Indian woman (okay, and saint) named Ammah, who hugs everyone. The movie was made by these French dudes who barely spoke English, but found it appropriate to stand before us all and give a big speech about the film. My roommate and I sat in stony silence. The movie began, and at first it was sort of interesting. Disturbing, but interesting. But after an hour and a half of the same fugging hugging scene, all I could think about was finding a bathroom, a cheeseburger, and my bed, in that order. She and I kept sneaking looks at each other to see what the other thought, but no one was giving it up. What if the other one was all about India (like I used to be), all about the hugs?

It wasn't until the very end, when we were forced to sit through 20 minutes of French credits in complete darkness, when we gripped each other's arms in shared despair, that we knew we were on the same page. When we started giggling it was all over; we couldn't stop. People stared, people judged, but the dam had been broken.

We finally escaped the whole affair and ran down Hollywood Boulevard to her car and our freedom. We agreed this had been a crucial test and we had both passed. The deal was further sealed when we shouted "Milkshake!" in almost perfect unison as we spotted McDonald's. Ah, bliss.

(Broken Down) Streetcar

I am not Blanche DuBois, and I do not like to depend on the kindness of strangers.

Last night in a parking garage, upon returning from San Francisco, I found my battery dead. This was clearly my fault, since I'd left the lights on for three straight days, but I still felt very sorry for myself. I was alone, it was late, I was on the open, abandoned roof of a garage, and my car was broken. And I really had to pee. Just as the lip started to quiver, I saw a car drive past me, and down the ramp towards the exit. Without thinking, I sprinted after it. (Sidenote. Me running = not a pretty sight.) Like that creepy dude from the one ghost story my mom knew, the one with the hook who stalks couples making out, I frantically rapped on the side of their car. After they recovered, they turned the car around and helped me jump the battery. It was nice of them and I was grateful, but being friendly and thankful at 11:30 p.m. is not my idea of a good time.

Then came this morning. I packed my little lunch, picked out my cute little outfit, and bounced down the street to my car. Some days I actually look forward to work, and today was one of them. Until I turned the key and nothing happened. Had I left the lights on again?! Nope. It was just dead and dead. Who'd I get to jump it this time? I jogged down to a group of construction workers (cuz who doesn't want to stop and chat with them, really?) and pouted my lip in a way I hoped was pitiful/alluring. My luck had run out. No, they didn't have the cables, no they couldn't help me. Ugh. Even worse than putting myself out there is putting myself out there and getting rejected. It was time to surrender; I shuffled back to my car and called Triple A.

After a couple fun rides there and back, jam packed with awkward small talk, riding high in the tow truck, I'm at home and my car is in the shop. It'd been nagging me with a couple of other problems too, so it's getting a full makeover. I won't get into the office today, but I'll try to get as much done as I can from here. Just as soon as Ellen is over...

I Didn't Know About This Why?

How come nobody told me about this stuff before? I've spent my whole grocery-shopping adult life purchasing separate jars of peanut butter and jelly, while I could have had the one-stop experience of Goobers? My God, I'm in love. I'm currently enjoying the strawberry jelly combo, but rapidly burrowing my way through; soon it will be time to try the grape. I love that I don't have to work to get even parts pb to even parts jelly - I just dip in, scoop, and let my tongue enjoy the flavor dance. It's rare to find such a convenient convenience food.

I'm mourning all the years we've missed together, but I'll surely make up for them somehow. The only thing I've got left to try in the peanut butter aisle is that Milky Way concoction with the happy black and white stripes giving me that come-hither stare. I'll keep you posted.

A Big Dose of Birth Control

Sometimes after a stressful day at the internship, where I've been writing beauty blurbs like a mad woman, or tripping down the street to catch the last post, or reviewing DVDs about people who speak to elephants, I think to myself: I want a baby. I know this is a ridiculous thought, and not really appropriate for my stage in life, but at times it seems like such a peaceful, little idea. I could ditch some products because of that whole glowing thing that happens, eat 4 turkey hotdogs instead of 2 (okay, 3), and hold my belly in that "I've got a secret you can't know" way. Maybe I'd suddenly like scrapbooking and stencilling and I'd fill my hours with both. Maybe I'd get into that nesting thing and actually clean my bathtub, or at least the sink. I'd pick out crazy names and little shoes and the world of crazy animal chanters would be far behind me.

But then days like today happen and I realize those cozy times are a ways off. My bosses (husband and wife) have a new baby boy who's cute as heck, and I love when he's around; I coo and gurgle and kiss his feet, greedy for a baby fix. Today the 'rents had an important meeting and they needed a last minute babysitter. I jumped at the chance, happy to smush those fat little cheeks against mine. The first half hour was great, everyone all "Look at Amy, she's a natural!" I nodded knowingly and continued the rounds. Then he started fidgeting and crying and fussing and the only thing that made him stop was holding him like a football, at a very specific angle, while walking very quickly up and down the hallway. This got old fast. And even though I was helping out the Big Bosses, my Little Bosses wanted me working and kept shooting me isn't-that-cute-but-not-really faces. I tried to sit and write, jiggling him on my knee while I typed with my left hand, but he wasn't having it. By the time his parents returned, very grateful, I was shot. I know I'll love being a mom one day, but I'm definitely not there yet. I handed the little booger back, very happy to ease back into my comfy chair cross-legged, turn on my Nano, and feel responsible for only myself.

Britney's Baby (One More Time)

Everyone's favorite train wreck delivered a baby boy early this morning. No one's reporting on a name yet, and I'm not letting myself get excited about the possiblities. Although she's lost her mind in most other ways, in terms of naming, Brit has remained true to her "country" roots and stuck to the basics. But maybe, we can only hope, she envies those A-listers with their Apples and Hazels and Suris and Shilohs and Moses(es?) and will choose something that puts a little bounce in my step. Frappucino? Scrunchie? Cheeto? The world is her oyster.

Glazed Over

As I think I mentioned before, I dyed my hair dark brown last week. My hair - I think? - is naturally a medium brown color, but no one really knows anymore. Either way, this is a nice change from all the overgrown, overdone highlights I had before. I stalked the drugstore aisles and considered just doing the color myself, but stopped when I had visions of my eighth-grade self and the semi-permanent stains I left all over my hands, forehead, and bathtub. Nevermind.

I ended up finding a supercute place in Venice Beach (which I'm now realizing is a hike from the new digs) where my stylist chatted away to me about the East Coast and kept me in a constant supply of Cokes (not Diet). Here was someone who finally listened to me, looked at my picture (Maggie Gyllenhaal - swoon), and did what I wanted. She told me to come back in two months, handed me another Coke, and sent me on my way. As happy as I was, though, my cheapskate mind got to thinking. Two months? One of the reasons I went to an overall color was to avoid the constant touch-ups highlights demand.

Enter my new product find to the rescue: Luminous Color Glaze by John Frieda. Created for natural or colored brunettes (they've got a red and blonde version, too) this stuff kicks up the color you already have, while slowly depositing more. It's like the Natural Glow of hair care. You apply it in the shower after shampooing, and although it's a tad smelly and a little messy, it's a breeze compared to all those gloves and scary tubes from a box and a lot cheaper than the salon. You're supposed to use it every wash to maintain the color and shine, (and softness - your hair is like butta afterwards), but I'm still experimenting with that. For now, I'm just happy to have found a product that will keep my color looking fresh, carrying me to that four month mark before I have to return to Venice.

I Want to Live at Ikea

I do. People tell me I just haven't visited enough to hate it, but I don't think that could ever happen. All those fake apartment layouts get me thinking like the kids in From the Mixed-Up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler - I want to hide from the yellow and blue people and sleep over.

Today I went to Ikea by myself for the first time and could finally go through at my own speed; it got me thinking about a couple potential improvements.

1) Ikea should really consider hiring people to pretend they live there. I'd like a mom baking at the counter, a kid playing NES on the couch, and maybe a teenage girl lying on her bed and talking on a rotary phone. It'd be like everyone's favorite Disney ride, "The Carousel of Progress," except I could stay and stare without being electronically pushed along.

2.) Expanding on this idea, I'd like to see snacks provided along the arrow-guided route, Costco style. The cooking moms could put their cupcakes or pigs-in-a-blanket on the kitchen table and we could hop in and grab a few before journeying on. I do like wrapping up my trip with some Swedish meatballs at the cafe, but I could use some sustenance along the way.

Ideas aside, I have a kick-ass platform bed coming my way tomorrow. I can soon pretend my room is inside the store and I've cracked the code of how to stay after hours.

Thin is Good

The first time I saw our model today I gasped. Not because of how attractive she was - yes, she was pretty - but because when she turned to the side she disappeared. She was literally a two-dimensional being. I tugged on the stylist's arm and whispered, "She's so thin." Before he could open his mouth to comment, the photographer interrupted. "Thin is good." Really.

Our magazine isn't supposed to shoot skeletal, heroin-chic models - it doesn't support the healthy, real-person image we want to project. Admittedly, I get frustrated sometimes with the homespun, earthy feel we have, but on this one point I agree. At the casting last week, I pointed out the model's toothpick legs, but no one wanted to listen. Fast forward to today - everyone alternately praising her bony collarbone and then trying to hide it so our Editor-in-Chief doesn't freak when she sees the photos. Mixed messages don't make me happy.