Jasmin

I drive a company car. It's not my company car -- I don't work for the company -- it's one of two leased to accommodate my parents. But in the last three months I've come to think of it as my car. And that's not a good thing. I'm territorial.

Last month, I was involved in an accident in my father's company car -- the second one -- while driving it home from the airport after my father had gone. When he is not required in San Diego, the company reclaims my father's car, but while arrangements were being made to repair his, it was mine that the company called home. While tooling around in my father's car, I had no problem with that; but when mine was returned to me, the predatory instinct kicked in: someone's been steering in my chair!

What I noticed first and foremost was the smell. I am very sensitive to smells, and this was a strong one. Perfumey. Not at all acceptable. I surmised that it must have been a woman that had borrowed the car, and after I found a forgotten bit of concealer, it was confirmed. It had been a woman. And she liked her perfume.

On day one, I simply noted the offending odor, but by day two I was getting annoyed that it didn't seem to be fading. I rolled down the windows in an attempt to air the place out, but to no avail. By day three, I was disgusted. Did this woman pour the stuff on? I couldn't stand it. It was not only offending my nose but was also disguising a rather lovely new car smell. How rude!

She'd left a bit of tell-tale garbage for me, too, so by the fourth day I was concocting images of the woman who must have driven my car. They weren't flattering, these images of the water-guzzling harlot who splashed herself with come-hither juice and painted her pores in my cockpit. Shameless hussy, keep your eyes on the road!

By the end of the week, I'd collected some tell-tale garbage of my own and went about removing it. That's when I saw it -- a piece of cellophane stuck between the console and the driver's seat. More garbage. Lovely. Except... it wasn't garbage. There was something inside the barely opened wrapper... shaped suspiciously like a tree. A pine tree. A cardboard pine tree. You've got the image, but instead of the give-away pine scent distributed by the green version, this one was yellow and coated in "Jasmin." I removed it post-haste and left it to freshen the mail room.

Given a day to air out, the car smells much better now. And I've revised my opinion of the woman who borrowed it. I'm sure she's very nice. But why put an air freshener in a new car? Maybe she's a smoker....

Have You Called Jenny Yet?

My good friend Kirstie Alley lost 30 pounds!

Okay... I don't actually know Kirstie Alley, but she's in my living room chatting with me about personal issues more often than any other person on the planet, so I figure I've got a case. Or not. But she did lose 30 pounds. What interests me about her weight loss success isn't that she's done it -- though, cheers! -- it's the marketing of it.

Two pounds per week is considered a healthy rate of weight loss, so if Kirstie has lost 30 pounds and we assume she's doing it healthily, we've also got to assume that she's been on the plan for 15 weeks. That would take us back to January, which sounds about right; but it seems like only yesterday that she was telling me that together we could get really, really skinny. And that's my point. She's been on the plan for almost 4 months, but who would guess that? For the first month or so before Kirstie announced "I lost 15," we were being encouraged to START the program with her while she was already kicking serious butt. And for the next month, while we were celebrating her 15 pound loss, she was losing another 15. It feels as if, in no time at all, the weight just melted away. And isn't that the way you want your weight loss program to look if you're soliciting buyers? Brilliant.

I've got to give the folks at Jenny Craig some credit, because my first reaction to Kirstie's 30-pound announcement was that it wasn't possible. That she hadn't had the time since we first saw her. I had to do the math to realize that JC wasn't pulling a fast one. Now, instead of suspecting they'd held back the first commercial to shorten the marketing span, I'm impressed that they didn't.

And I've got to give Kirstie some credit, too, for sticking with it for 4 months. (We'll forget here that the camera thrust in her face might add incentive).

I didn't join Jenny Craig when Kirstie asked me to. In fact, I'm not planning to join, ever. But Kirstie is cool with that. She's doing a good job on her own. That's what makes her such a good friend -- I can ignore her advice and she'll still tell me all about her success. Way to go, Kirstie! You're doing great.

Now pass me a doughnut.

Chapter Two

My uncle Pat passed away this Saturday; his memorial is scheduled for May 15th in Michigan. He was not lucid enough in his last days to accept my final phone call, but I spoke to my aunt instead and have memories of Pat from a healthier time. Honestly, I prefer it that way.

I am still in San Diego, which is a source of some confusion for those who expected me to return to Nashville after The Odd Couple completed its run early last month. I chose to stay a few extra weeks before going home to catch some attractions I'd previously overlooked and, on a lark, I auditioned for another show. I was cast. I have accepted a role in the British sex farce Move Over Mrs. Markham at the Poway Performing Arts Company, further extending my visit.

The show is set to open June 24th -- one day after my Nashville roommate begins a months-long acting contract on a cruise ship. With half the rent headed toward international waters, a number of my Nashville ducks need to be corralled; and with plans to make the memorial trip to Michigan, I'm plotting a rather travel-heavy week for mid-May. I will be meeting with my new cast and director for the first time this evening. As I am not the lead in this production, I am hoping that I'll be graciously excused from the three or four rehearsals I'd have to miss to make the traveling possible. In an eight-week rehearsal schedule, I can't imagine that'd be a problem. But you never know.

And so here begins another chapter in my San Diego experience. Or, with my determination to miss a week of rehearsals, here it ends. We shall see.