And so June gloom officially begins. I love it. Love coming downstairs to white mist floating against all the windows. Sometimes it burns off by the middle of the day; sometimes it doesn’t. Fine with me either way. (I did, however, endure a severe version of June Gloom when I lived in Nara, Japan. Six weeks straight of grey skies and rain. By the end of it I thought I might kill myself).
My mother-in-law breezed into town today to shoot a commercial for Revlon. She’ll be a blonde woman in the background (her distinctive South African accent interferes with her ability to get speaking parts). The company was putting her up in a hotel in Beverly Hills and after overshooting the address and getting lost in the little maze of streets below Santa Monica Blvd and thoroughly pissing off a few drivers in the process, I joined her there for lunch. She gave me the lay of the land: she gestured to a distinguished-looking Ben Kingsley out on the patio, and then said in a low voice, “That young woman sitting over there talking at the top of her lungs?” I saw the back of a dark-haired head that could have belonged to anyone. “That’s Sarah Michelle Gellar.”
And it was then I recognized that voice — Buffy’s voice. And yet not. Ah, shame. I can understand why actors (or writers, for that matter) want to grow, move on, and get frustrated when fans won’t let them do that, especially since I can also understand that weird pang of longing for a character, a show that actor inhabited, that eclipses the actual human being you see right in front of you: hanging out, breaking off pieces of breadstick and chatting with her friend.
She was carrying a great bag, though.