Yesterday was one of those days that can leave your eyebrows pinched together wondering: how can life be so odd?

Today I walked past Matthew Perry; Drew Barrymore bumped into my lunch table, and Bradley Whitford nearly drove over my co-worker Sam with a bike while I stood nearby.

Even that wasn't as strange as yesterday.

Today I wrote a memo that will be distributed to people in the Netherlands.

That too was not as strange as yesterday.

Today my car did not growl like the "machine gun" my neighbor likens it to......and even that was not as strange as yesterday.

Because yesterday, shortly after a co-worker walked off the elevator with a spoon on his nose right into one of the music lawyers, and right before receiving a fax that was nothing more than an incomplete sentence scrawled on a piece of paper in nearly illegible handwriting from one of the department heads here, (what?!) I found someone.

My life, for whatever reason, has left me with quite a few interesting stories in my back pocket to pull out at those awkward social moments when no one has anything to say.

“So, uh….I lived with a Luftwaffe reconnaissance pilot,” is one such story.

I had a higher income when I was seven than I do now, is another. One of those quirks was a dancing career, as anyone who read my scandal blog (or actually knows me) understands.

For awhile I danced in Santa Monica with a girl who later became my closest friend when we both danced in NY. We have pictures together-- two knobby-kneed, far-too-thin-dancers with our hair pulled up into elaborate braided creations. We challenged each other to work on certain things like turns, and she taught me a funny little mind trick to spin like she did. After that summer we wrote each other along with a third friend, and sent trinkets in the mail. Eventually the letters dwindled to nothing.

The next thing I knew about her was that she was a background dancer in the movie Center Stage, like the other girls with whom I trained. That was until yesterday. Yesterday I learned something else about her.

She married Walter Matthau's son, Charlie.

Hugh Heffner was at her wedding.

Ew.

The first thing one of my friends said when they saw the above pictures (click on "she") was: "she looks like a trophy wife."

My friend became a trophy wife.

I stumbled upon her again while doing research at work. My mouth dropped open. Occasionally I find people with whom I danced or did other things on www.imdb.com. I have to use the sight to obtain information for my work. But I've never found them to be married to men old enough to be their father. Rarely have I found pictures of them on the red carpet. Granted, one girl (who danced with the girl mentioned above and my younger sister) was on the West Wing as Zoey, the President's daughter. But she was never very nice and even back then she was doing Disney movies when she wasn't trying to be a dancer. So no big news there.

Staring at her picture left me thinking—what just happened here? How is this my childhood friend?

Later that night I tried out a little device that is supposed to make your pores cleaner, smaller and more lovely. I live in LA where everything gets clogged in your skin and occasionally one must use things much like a vacumn cleaner to get it out. The stupid thing gave me two slightly large red, purple-ish welts that sort of resemble hickeys in certain lighting.

My old childhood chum marries a Hollywood director and son of a legend.

I give myself a couple hickeys on my own face.

Sometimes life is just too strange to keep a straight face.