The same guy.

Earlier today, the following question was posed to me by Catherine, an expert in celebrity doppelgangers.

Catherine: I have to get a new computer because I clicked on some celebrity look alike thing and it loaded viruses. Is Channing [Tatum] aware of the fact that he looks exactly like Josh Hartnett?

Which is an excellent point.

Why did Josh Hartnett change his name to Channing Tatum? I know LUCKY NUMBER SLEVIN didn't go over as well as everyone might have hoped (I'd venture to guess that the reason for this is because it featured Morgan Freeman and Ben Kingsley as villains. No one can suspend their disbelief THAT much), but really? And Josh, just as a heads up, Channing Tatum isn't a name. It sounds like a law firm or MAYBE like you're taking attendance in a freshman seminar and looking for a girl named Channing, Tatum. When I saw Pearl Harbor in tenth grade, I loved it. I'm not afraid to admit it. And I still think you're very attractive. My straight brother does, too. In fact, he regularly calls me to check up on your career and well being. Why? I'm not sure. But people care for you. The real you. JOSH HARTNETT.

Spaaaaaaaaaaaa.

So I've never really been much of a spa girl. In fact, whenever I say it, I feel the need to draw out the 'a'. Spaaaa. Reaaaaally top draaaawer. I appreciate massages and skin care and the importance of having cuticles that are trimmed to reduce the urge to peel off layer after layer of my thumb skin. I get it, and I enjoy it, but at the same time, I feel a little awkward and bourgeoise about strangers exfoliating my face or painting my toes and my aversion to strangers touching me naked most definitely gets in the way of most professional massages. I'm not used to it. Growing up, my mom and I never did the thing that some women do where we go and sit in robes all day and take baths in tea. Though if we did, it'd probably be fish-out-of-water comedy hilarious. The closest I ever came to any of that was convincing my parents to let me sign up for a gym membership my junior year in high school. The closest I ever came to using that gym membership was running around a track and stomping on an elliptical machine with Liz every now and again, and we'd almost always close out our sessions with a trip to the local ice cream barn.

However, far be it for me to posses a gift certificate and not use it. After all, aside from my general dismissal of all things time consuming and high maintenance, the only thing that really keeps me from being a bourgeoise wench is general lack of funding. So when I was given a gift certificate to a spaaaa for my birthday recently, I decided to investigate. Get a load of this description:

Cross the threshold of SPAAAAA THAT SHALL REMAIN NAMELESS and be transported to a sprawling, sumptuous oasis where the ancient techniques of a world-class European spa blend with modern advances in health and science.

Slip out of the real world and lose yourself in a delicious, over-sized robe. Breathe in exotic scents. Sip cool drinks that echo with ethereal flavors. Surrender to the desire to indulge your body and delight your senses for an hour or two. Or spend the entire day.

A sprawling, sumptuous oasis? In West Hollywood? You don't say. And well, if it's European, you know it must be good. No one would ever brag about their American spa. There's nothing luxurious about America except, you know, freedom. And a delicious robe? Are we supposed to eat it? Nothing grates on my nerves quite like an inappropriate adjective, sarcastic or not. Robes are not delicious. Tater tots are not sexy. Robes can be fuzzy, they can be plush, they can be luxurious, but unless that robe is made out of Chipotle burritos, it is far from delicious. And I guess I'm going to have to find out what exotic scents I will be breathing and what ethereal flavors will enhance my echo-y beverages. If I didn't know better, I'd think I was headed to Narnia.

LOST.

Me: I thought my days of festively themed lunches were over in high school. Then I started working at Disney. Today is LOST day.
Liz: Did they make you wait in a bunch of different, random lines for food, only to not serve you anything at all?

And scene.

What

It is, is.

A crock.

Here's the magical, not so revolutionary thing about crock pots: you throw a bunch of crap in them, run away for a bunch of hours, and then come back to deliciousness. It's like stone soup. Kind of.

My problem is getting motivated to throw the crap in. And buy the crap. And look up recipes so I know what kind of crap to buy. One of the many stereotypical things I struggle with as a single girl in a major metropolitan area is how accessible take-out is. If I were the type to swing bats, I could demolish five or six restaurants in one swing without ever leaving my bed. And the last incident we had with this crock pot ended with what seemed like forty pounds of chili being chucked down and ultimately choking our wheezy garbage disposal. Chipotle does not result in a week of haphazardly self-plumbing a clogged sink and doing your dishes in the bathtub, that's for sure.

But the past five days of rain have put me in a mood for stew. Granted, I wake up today, Stew Day, and L.A. is back to normal with the blue sky and the sunshine and the crows blasting their sweet, sweet melodies with extra vigor. But still, it is January, and winter is a time for stew in other parts of the world.

I think I'll call this one boeuf bourguinon, in light of my recent random decision to be as Francais as possible at all times. I blame the rain, it's just so conducive to Edith Piaf and cafe lattes avec le pain au chocolat. Magnifique, non?

No Questions Asked.

Me: I want to call Leonardo DiCaprio tonight.
Catherine: Do it.
Me: He's working at that telethon [to benefit Haiti], in case you somehow didn't know. It makes it slightly less random.
Catherine: I would never find you saying you wanted to contact Leo random.


The closest I have come to this in the past is finding his e-mail address in my old boss's Rolodex. As I am a professional, I made a point to only remember that it's @aol.com. Who other than my mother still does that, Leo? I guess he really isn't looking to be taken seriously in people's inboxes, which I can respect. He doesn't have an agent either, the man lives outside the box. Since 1998, Leo has joined Julie Andrews and Steven Spielberg as one of the three (live) celebrities I am allowed to be flustered by in the event I ever actually meet/speak to them.

Clearly, my friends already know this.

Parental Guidance Suggested

These are my adorable grandparents. Their names are Grandpapa and Grandmaman. Grandpapa likes watching movies, Grandmaman does not, unless they are in French, somehow involve a French speaking country, feature someone she knows, or are written by a certain granddaughter's boss' fiance. Distance from the source does not matter, as long as there's no gratuitous, non French sex, action, or violence of any kind.

The following is a conversation between my mother and I, via IM, one fine Wednesday morning.

Mom: Is that bastard movie [read: Inglourious Basterds] ok for Grandmaman?
Me: Hell no. Are you kidding me?
Mom: Oh kay, we're off. Grandpapa is watching it, and I could tell things were going to get ugly.
Me: Yeah they scalp people in that movie.
It's about Nazis. But not ACTUAL Nazis, Quentin Tarantino Nazis
Mom: Oh gosh. Grandmaman says, "I hate dat, it's NOT-TING good about dat."