I went into The Life-Changing Magic of Tidying Up - the New York Times Bestseller that's getting a ton of attention in the press and spawning entire movements - with a healthy dose of skepticism. Partially because...well, "life-changing"? I mean...come on. But mostly because I'm huge on throwing stuff out - it's literally one of my favorite things to do - and I suspected that her tips wouldn't be all that revolutionary to someone who's already drunk the "if you don't use it, get rid of it" kool-aid.

I mean, really: I'm constantly paring down the amount of stuff I have (which is considerable, I admit, in large part because I'm always picking up props and such for shoots). I give things away to friends; I sell them; I donate them to Goodwill. I can't stand having items that I don't use or need laying around. And yet, after maybe three hours of culling through my possessions using the philosophies contained in this book:

(I'm putting the photo after the jump because it's ridiculous and I'm so excited)

XO Pillow

We have a super-romantic Valentine’s Day planned this year. It involves a trip to San Francisco, dim lighting, music, and probably french fries.

That’s right, kids: it’s a four-year-old’s bowling-alley birthday party! Now, if we’re going to be totally honest, this sounds like a pretty spectacular Valentine’s Day to me. I mean, I really like bowling. And kids’ birthday parties (cupcakes! pizza! YES). And I can’t think of any people I’d rather spend the day with than Kendrick, Indy, Goldie, and some of our best friends, whose son we’ll be celebrating.

(me & dad; photo by indy)

A long time ago - a lifetime ago, basically - I graduated from college, bought a little white convertible from my aunt, packed all my possessions into the trunk, and drove across the country with my dad, finally landing at the one-bedroom apartment in West Hollywood where I'd kick off The Actress Years (yeeks). To this day, I consider those two weeks that we spent driving out two of the best of my life; the car is just where we get along. It hasn't always been easy for us to talk, but in the car we can.

This weekend Dad moved out of the little Pasadena apartment he stayed in part-time, so Indy and I drove down to help him pack everything up. The plan was for the three of us to drive back up to my place together, but instead of going the fast (boring) way, we decided to take our time and do a little wandering.

Wandering in some creepy mannequins.

If you're approximately my age and have ever read an US Weekly (or if you were in Los Angeles at any point in the mid-2000s), you definitely remember Kitson. I'm not sure how to describe it, other than "Paris Hilton." It was all Juicy Couture sweatpants and sparkly overpriced everything and paparazzi lurking outside and general moral decrepitude, and it was simultaneously SUPER obnoxious and kind of fun. You had to just dial down the old self-awareness for a second and go browse hot pink dog purses.

But now - like bedazzled tracksuits - Kitson is over. Gone.