Like everyone else in this part of California, I spent most of yesterday and part of today with sniffles and red, irritated eyes.

It�s frustrating, but more than that, it�s heartbreaking. When you walk outside, it smells like a party, a giant barbecue � such a Pavlovian trigger for me until I remember why.

We went to the UCLA game at the Rose Bowl this weekend, and a man sitting a few rows behind us chatted amiably on his mobile. "Yeah, my house may or may not be burning down right now," he said pleasantly.

Our ears perked up, curious and greedily eavesdropping. He seemed so calm, so unbelievably and improbably fatalistic and rational about the whole thing. He told his wife, or his partner, or his kids, or whomever, to grab what they could if it became necessary and not worry too much. He watched the game and fielded occasional calls; never once in his demeanor did he betray the fact that his home might be on fire. I guess there must be a point at which you just sit back and come to terms with the fact that there�s very little you can do to prevent it, and you might as well exhale and be somewhere that makes you happy when little else in the world can.

Good thing UCLA won.

It feels so shallow to sit back and think, "Wow, what would I take?" Because I don�t at the moment have to worry about fleeing my burning home. But between this and the horrible misfortune of Allison and Chris -- who lost everything, including their beloved dog, when their apartment burned down -- there�s a definite morbid curiosity about what of my belongings actually constitute essentials. What�s the measure of me, based on what I see on my shelves and in my closets and shoved under my bed?

Jessica correctly pointed out that, at times like this, she thanks herself for buying a laptop. I�d have to agree.

I guess I�d take photographs � some from my trip, college, and the two old photos of my father as a baby that aren�t replaceable. I would say snapshots from my sister�s wedding, but she has the negatives. I�d take my needlepointed pillows and the picture frame I just finished but can�t afford to have made up � all things I�ve poured my heart and my labor into, and as dorky as needlework might sound, hey, even we utterly nonartistic types sometimes want to create.

I�d find the ring willed to me by my father�s late mother, given me on my eighteenth birthday. I�d grab the little clown from my mother�s late father, from his prodigious collection � the only reason I can even remotely tolerate clowns is because of his inexplicable attachment to them, and my complete love for him. Definitely, I�d grab the journal Doug made for me while on deployment. Even if we don�t end up together, I�d want to keep it. Same goes for the box Hunky Cameraman brought from Jordan, which now contains love notes and memorabilia from our time together. That stuff can�t be replaced. And I'd attempt to grab the clip file that's under my bed, a Tupperware bin of every newspaper article I've ever written.

I guess I would just look around and see what I�ve got that can�t be repurchased or duplicated. Easier written than done.

The air is heavy with impurities. All these little particles, now almost invisible, once were a chunk of someone�s life. It might be a fragment of Jack and Diane�s wedding photo that�s in my eye, or Jenny�s christening dress that burned up and whose ash floated up my left nostril.

I curse the sneezing fits until I think about why I�m having them. The prospect of inhaling the windblown microscopic remains of a person�s memories makes it hard to even go outside. All you can do is stare up at the hazy sky and pray they find a way to control this thing before anyone else�s treasures go up in smoke. Hundreds more families are homeless because of the blaze, more and more every day that it rages. I�ll gladly rub my eyes and sneeze if it means I was blessed not to suffer that fate.

Someone got here by searching for: sluts in sunninghill Watching: Alias Eating Indian food from my favorite delivery place. Hooray for fatty meals!