Cheers, mate!

I would look around filled with anticipation and take a quick little sip. I'd follow that will pulling a face, spluttering and then trying my hardest to look like nothing had happened. I was somewhere in the age of under 10 years old and waiting for my Popi to momentarily walk away from his Saturday night can of Old Milwaukee or Miller High Life. It was disgusting and I silently fretted over the fact that I was the offspring of a crazy person.

Fast forward to those drinking-formative years of college. And not just any college, but the University of Colorado, where we not only like to pump out the most NASA astronauts, but also some hardcore partiers. Actually, it's the latter that CU is most notorious for - and if you don't like beer, then you gulp down Cosmopolitans in Nalgene bottles during tailgate parties (of which, it must be said, I recommend nothing LESS). I never really took to either.

And then, at the age of 20, I was off to Australia for 5 months. After 24 hours in my new country I hadn't had enough water - in fact, dehydration was the technical term - but I couldn't worry about that. I made a new friend and we went out for a lunch of pizza and beer. I'd read parts of the oh-so-fabulous In a Sunburned Country on the flight over, so I knew exactly what I wanted; I would be ordering a VB.

In one sip, my mind was changed. This beer had taste. Actual taste. It was the sipping experience of singing the Aladdin favorite, A Whole New World. There was flavor in a chilled beverage with an alcohol content substantially greater than that of American pisswater... I swoon; I pine; I lament the fact that VB is yet to be exported from the magical land of Oz.

To my great delight it wasn't just VB (though my first love remained my true love, to be sure). There was Toohey's New, Coopers, Emu Bitter, XXXX...and those are the ones that 7 years later I still remember off the top of my Aussie-beer-loving head.

And then...I moved to Boston. Home of obscure microbrews (Magic Hat #9, I await our reunion with a thirsty longing) and Sam Adams, my time in Boston cemented that I wasn't just an expatriate beer lover... I was on the road to becoming a beer snob. Me! the daughter of a mother who wouldn't touch the stuff and a father who loved whatever was on sale for the cheapest price!

After college there was a period of time where I was working in Minnesota and living with my parents. On summer nights when I had just battled over an hour of traffic and the sun was still shining down warm rays, I would thrust the car into park, breeze through the garage door and kick off my heels while prying the cap off a cold bottle of Sunshine Wheat, my Boulder contraband that had crossed state lines in the caravan between Colorado and home. More than once my Popi exclaimed during this 30-second routine, "My god! You're such a LADY!"

I would always try my hardest to belch a response, but in lieu of that would settle for something along the lines of, "HELL YEAH I AM."

Since then I've cooled my consumption of carbonated brew in favor of wine. But there's nothing like 3 weeks in Europe to reignite the passion. And there's nothing like 3 weeks in Europe with your snobby-beer-loving-daughter to persuade a Mother who has spent her entire life shunning it, to not only try it, but to LOVE it and become a bit of a snob herself - correctly claiming upon first sip that one particular brand in Prague was "shit."

We tried it all. In each city - a new beer. In Amsterdam and Prague where we spent more time, we would sight-see...take a beer break; museum visit...find a sidewalk cafe for a new beer tasting; shopping...beer break; dinner time...beer time.

When Christmas came this year Teen and I were met with a case of Beck's bottles. It was the beer on tap during our river cruise portion through Europe and now Mom's bev of choice. We drank it out of champagne glasses while getting gussied up for the Christmas Eve festivities. Mascara on!...Cheers! Clink! Gulp! Hair dried!...Cheers! Clink! Gulp! Hey everybody, Popi put on his fancy shoes!...Cheers! Clink! Gulp! Needless to say, it was utterly fantastic.


Then, a few weeks ago during a mini-break in San (read: Man) Diego with Teen, my beer-loving life came full-circle. On a cloudy Saturday afternoon we abandoned window shopping for the cheap thrill of bellying-up to a bar to drink Mexican beer and blather on like the silly twits our fellow belliers might guess we were. But this was not just any dive bar. THIS was the "Sleazy Bar Scene Location" made famous in Tom Cruise's epitome of hotness, Top Gun. THIS was Kansas City Barbeque, where the beers were cheap, multi-sized bras whirl off the edge of ceiling fans and a gal can enjoy it all while sitting across from the aviator helmet (mask?) of the Holiest of Hotties, Maverick. GOD BLESS MAN DIEGO.

But there was more in store...of course there was. There was a little spot of heaven called Bondi Bar, where cross-my-heart-and-hope-to-die I found for the FIRST time, Australian beers (besides the dreaded Fosters) for sale on American soil. IF YOU WISH FOR SOMETHING HARD ENOUGH, IT JUST MAY COME TRUE. It wasn't my beloved VB, but it was Tooheys New, which had been the beloved of many dear friends and which I had always found completely acceptable to get myself pissed with.

I DO have respect for beer. Hell yeah I do! So does kissy-face Teen...

Teen didn't know what to do with my euphoria... OVER A BOTTLE OF BEER. She's so used to watching me try to pull my hair out from career-induced stress during my normal life, that the amount of smiling a mini-break + Aussie beer induced was rather startling. So she settled for taking an obscene amount of pictures. It is a fact that grannies don't take as many pictures of kiddies dressed up for Halloween. The first Tooheys New I'd laid eyes on in almost 7 years was subjected to a full-on photo shoot.

My friends from Australia will be so jealous.

Oh yes, I love beer. I love the way that it has peppered my memories of this last decade. And I love the vision that I have, of me and Teen, with white puffy little hairdos, taking photos of VB's triumphant arrival to the States, in what I grimly imagine to be many decades from now. A girl can always hope...

Le sigh.

The things I hear...

Brunette: What's a PCP? What the hell am I supposed to write in here?
Red head: It's a primary care physician.
Brunette: A what?
Red head: You need to write in your doctor's name.
Brunette: I don't have a doctor. Can I write in my gyno's name?

(Red head takes a pause to let her mouth gape open.)

Brunette: (shouting out in a loud voice) Sorry everyone! I said, "gyno."

(Pause)

Brunette: (mumbling under her breath) Shit. I said it again.

The manly man that I love most

If Sex and the City and my own experience have clearly taught me anything, it's that it's hard out there for us single gals; a good man is damn hard to find.

However, my search has ended. I've found him and...not to brag...he's perfect. He's everything me and my girlfriends have ever said we've wanted, including...

Being nurturing and unafraid to tackle the roll of caretaker...

Appreciating those little things that women hold so dear...accessories...

Oh yeah, he's a keeper all right. And now with this new hairstyle of his, ChaCha is on the fast track to break not only my heart, but hearts all over the world.

I saw the sign & it opened up my eyes

I was late already. Traffic wasn't moving, as clearly it's completely reasonable for it to take a half hour to traverse the 2 miles from my house to the freeway. And all I wanted to do was take my travel mug and throw it (and my coffee) at the head of the driver next to me...the one who was listening to his heavy metal so loudly I could feel my earrings vibrate.

It was one of those mornings where you can't help but think, "My god, this day is going to seriously suck." I wished that I was in the midst of a Saturday, or still in bed...or at least still in the shower. And then, while stopped at that red light, the universe sent me what I like to think was a little sign.

First, my mouth dropped open. Then, I suffered a full-body shutdown as I was trying to laugh my ass off while also manically digging with my right hand to find my camera buried in my bag.

Now, usually I would never do such a thing...trying to take pictures while also driving on a L.A. freeway...but THIS was too good. Plus, Teen would NEVER believe this without photographic proof, so sometimes a girl's gotta do what a girl's gotta do.

Sometimes, a girl has got to take 6 pictures of the truck in front of her - and say THANK YOU UNIVERSE FOR MAKING ME LAUGH.

Maybe there was someone traveling on the 405 that morning who saw this and thought I DID ALMOST FALL THIS MORNING. AND I WAS WEARING MY TOWEL WHILE IN THE SHOWER TOO. SHE COULD BE ME! Or, maybe I wasn't the only one taking pictures while wiping tears of laughter away.

Click. You won't regret a close-up.

On the side of a truck a picture of someone slipping in a shower would have likely been worth 1,000 words, it's true. But a fully portable mock-shower complete with green curtain, shower head, shampoo placed in a shampoo caddy, yellow loofah and a mannequin wearing a towel who is about to stiffly slip and crush in her plastic head? Well, that is absolutely, laughably, make-my-crappy-morning PRICELESS.

Modern day Cinderella

When she wears a sandwich board on the side of the road it reads: WILL WORK FOR PARTY DRESSES, PINK HEADBANDS AND A DORA THE EXPLORER DOLL. You'll recognize her as the one who's waving and blowing you kisses. Should you still have reservations, her resume speaks for itself.

Family adventures in food: Part 2

Bless this family of mine for always accepting one of my childish quirks; I play with my food. Still. Though I do restrain myself for all but one yearly occasion, Christmas Eve. On this holy night my family sits around the table of dirty dishes forever, sipping wine and patting full tummies. This is when I get out my fork and knife and get to work creating the yearly snowman.

Always based in mashed potatoes, he often sports a beef toupee, beef smile and green bean arms...with flecks of pepper rounding out the details.

The Christmas that Paige turned 2 the snowman was used as Christmas Day decoration near the all-important cookies. Paige was "helping" me in the kitchen for an actual minute, and when I turned around I saw that she had crawled up to the center of the table and was now grinning as she chomped away on something. Wondering which cookie had caught her eye I asked, "Whatcha eating Paige?" With crumbs spluttering, she let me know, "Potato." My eyes quickly darted to the only crumb of snowman left behind. OH MY GOD, THAT'S FROM LAST NIGHT! SPIT IT OUT! LET ME SEE YOUR MOUTH! HELP, HELP – I MAY HAVE POISONED HER!!!

She of course was perfectly fine, not to mention quite pleased with herself for causing so much commotion.

This past year the snowman was kept far out of the possible reach of curious toddlers. And yet, snowman did not go unscathed. No, no, this year he was firming up in the sub-zero garage when mom went out with some cardboard and without turning on the lights, put it all right on top of him. His beef toupee smooshed into his head a little bit, but otherwise the damage was minimal. Snowman is a sturdy work of art.

Gavin was so sweet to snowman... no squishing or attempts at eating

Family adventures in food: Part 1

When did it start? It's hard to remember. Maybe it was the time that mom went to cut the Dairy Queen ice cream cake, only to discover that ice cream cake straight out of the freezer is about as solid as a cement block. We still have the antique knife that was only used to cut the cake because it was a family heirloom and it was a very special birthday - but now that the knife is practically bent at a 90-degree angle...well, it's retained its status as heirloom for different - and funnier - reasons.

Or, maybe it was the time that wedges of cake were being dished out and one was promptly served straight to the floor. The carpeted floor, that is. Squashy.

Whatever the starting point may have been, I suppose it doesn't matter as much as the fact that there seems to be no end in sight. This family has had more than our share of comical mishaps with all things edible.

There was the german chocolate cake that Shell made me one birthday that involved a mis-measurement in the frosting. Result? Unveiling the cake revealed that every drop of frosting had slipped right off the 2 tier cake and was now pooling around the sides. Gorgeous.

(Is anyone else noticing a cake pattern here?)

And though there was no actual food involved in Popi's infamous incident, the packaging took a big enough beating for mention. Picture this: in the wee and pitch-black hours of a Minnesota morning, Mom and Popi and I were picking up some relatives so that I could drop them all off at the airport. The streets were abandoned but for one inexplicable empty milk jug in the middle of a wide open road. "Dad! Milk ju..." SMOOSH. "Never mind. You killed it. Well done." Popi's big brother and his wife were picked up a moment later and as we drove away from their house, someone looked out the window and asked the black morning, "What's that sound?!" Being the helpful child that I always am, I replied, "Oh, that's probably the empty milk jug that dad ran over. I think we're dragging it." So, as Popi pulled over on the side of the highway, cursing the entire time, I started laughing in the back. By the time he had tried to reverse the car at the same time his brother was trying to jump out to dislodge it, I was in fits of giggles. The circus had come to the side of the road - and ran over, then DRAGGED a milk jug in the process. Ridiculous.

Of course their blood is my blood, so I'm far from innocent. I'm the genius who left an entire 12-pack of diet Coke to freeze in my car - only to exclaim at first sight, "How did that dirty street slush get onto the inner roof of my car?! Oh wait, there's bits of diet Coke cans all over the car too.... SHIT." Refreshing.

And one of our greatest moments was a few Thanksgivings ago when mom sat down to the dinner table and "just felt like something was missing." She found the canned sweet potatoes in the oven 5 days later. And I'm still laughing.

Food on the forehead proves he's one of us

What got me reminising of the many memories that we still laugh at, was the addition of the newest misadventure. Mom and Popi bought a new refrigerator/freezer and when it was delivered and installed, the old one was hauled away. The only problem was... they forgot to empty the freezer... the freezer that contained the newly produced family-secret Swedish Sausage. Phone calls were made and the chase was on. Mom and Popi drove all over town in search of their freezer contents. Knowing how silly it all seemed while she was telling me this story, Mom capped it off with some wise, wise words, "Oh, you know, fuck me."

Scenes from a friendship

Boy and Girl are escaping the ungodly heat of the day by heading out for drinks at the Viceroy on Sunday night. Boy is driving with the windows down and Girl is so distracted by the wind whipping her hair around that she is constantly giving him directions a second too late, resulting in a total of 5 illegal turns. Still, she takes it upon herself to yell at other drivers who insist on proving their status as Grade A Imbeciles.

Girl: For crying out loud, grow a pair and turn! What are you waiting for, a blessing from God above?
Boy: So, your road rage comes out even when you aren't driving? Huh... wouldn't have guessed that one.
Girl: Well, that guy was a moron. There is no oncoming traffic to wait for when the intersection is shaped like a T.
Boy: I think he was trying to avoid mowing over the pedestrians.
Girl: But they didn't have a signal to walk. In fact, the big red hand was specifically indicating that they should NOT walk.
Boy: I can't believe you just said "grow a pair"...
Girl: Call it like I see it.
Boy: Look, the ocean... and the sun is setting!
Girl: I see what you're doing. I know you're trying to distract my road rage with something soothing and it's not going to... ooh, pretty!

Later - and finally off the mean streets of Santa Monica...

Boy: I felt like such a poser.
Girl: Nobody says poser anymore.
Boy: Why is that? What happened to poser?
Girl: I dunno. It's out. We're all posers now. Even the people who in the early 90's were all grunge and "individual" - declaring the rest of us posers - even they are wearing designer crap now and watching the same junk on TV, listening to the same Clear Channel-approved music. Look at Courtney Love. Calling someone else a poser now would be a serious case of the pot calling the kettle black.
Boy: (Long pause to stare at Girl like she has 6 eyes and 3 feet)... What goes on in that head of yours?!

Later still and after a few mojitos...

Girl: Look at that guy! What a nimrod!
Boy: Talk about outdated words. NIMROD.

Oh, did I mention that "Girl" is me? And that "Boy" constantly calling me out on my ridiculousness is what makes him one of my most likable friends? Just another night that turned out to be unexpectedly fabulous...

If you're lucky, into life a little Ara will fall

In my time as a California resident I have limited my cab rides, almost exclusively, to an as-needed ride to the airport. Last night, however, I was instructed by Stacy and Adriann to meet them at Lola's and to take a cab. Half an hour before meet time, I dug my phone out of my purse and dialed up the taxi company. Yes, I was ready now. Send your man and his automobile.

I stepped out onto the balcony and waited, tipping my head back and drinking in the lovely night. It was dark, but it was still in the gorgeous 70s with a breeze to push the curls away from my face. When the minivan cab pulled up and I saw that the windows in the front were rolled down, I was urged by the night to stick my head through the passenger side and ask, "You mind if I ride up here with you?"

We'd only gotten about 3 blocks away from my apartment when we'd exhausted the topic of the fabulous weather. I sat there thinking, "hmmm... another 20 minutes to go... what are some other benign topics?" After a moment of silence, we pulled up to a red light and the driver turned to fully look me in the face before blowing my mind with, "I remember you. I think I take you to the airport once."

L.A. is a city with over 4 million people hustling about. The last time I took a cab anywhere was when I needed to get to the airport for my flight home at Christmas. And he was right, he was the man I'd chatted with the entire way to LAX.

Me: You're right! How could you possibly remember that? It was months ago!
New friend: I remember a Sara. I remember picking a Sara up at that apartment. I liked you. You were nice.
Me: I can't believe the odds of that happening... I NEVER take cabs.
New friend: So, you going out to a club? A restaurant?
Me: Um, more like a restaurant-slash-lounge.
New friend: You got a date.
Me: Ha! Hahaha! Oh, no. Better than that. I'm meeting my fabulous girlfriends.
New friend: So, who you going to vote for in the election? Hillary?

So much for benign. I don't even talk politics with most of my friends, afraid that I'd be unable to stop myself from sucker punching. I tried to steer the conversation elsewhere, but Ara was not to be deterred from such landmines as...

New friend: Guess what nationality I am?
Me: Oh god. I never do that. THAT is just a way to offend people with my ignorance.
New friend: Go ahead, I no get mad!

OR

New friend: How long you live in L.A.?
Me: Coming up on 2 years.
New friend: Where is boyfriend tonight?
Me: No boyfriend.
New friend: You move here for job? You have job you love?
Me: No. I don't love my job at all.
New friend: Then why you do it? Why you not do what you love? You should love what you do.
Me: Well, that's the trick, isn't it?! I can't figure out - still - what it is I really want to do. So for now, job pays the bills.
New friend: Fair enough. So, why you live in L.A. then? You all alone?
Me: No, I'm not all alone. I'm meeting girlfriends that I love and I live right near my sister, who is my favorite person ever.
New friend: Oh yes! You tell me that before! How is your sister?

At this point his phone rang, giving me a moment to stare out the window with my mouth gaping open at the absurdity of it all. FOUR MILLION people. I can't find the cute guy I saw at Starbucks that one day, but I can find Ara, the cab driver who likes to prod around in my soul and make me scowl at the probing questions he considers small talk.

This was even more bizarre than when Laura and I were in D.C. totally sweaty and disgusting on a sweltering, humid summer day and we needed to get to her apartment for the fastest showers and wardrobe change ever to make it to the Lincoln Center less than 2 hours later. We finally found a cab to get us to her place, and not long after, waved down a cab to get us to the Lincoln Center. It was the same dude. Apparently, we were previously so foul and showers were so transformative that he didn't recognize us and had a truly difficult time believing that were were the same mongrels he'd dropped off not long before.

When we finally pulled up to Lola's I was digging around in my purse for the cash I'd tossed in earlier. Ara's accent sometimes made it hard for me to make out every single word, but I swear our send-off went like this:

New friend: You can pay me tonight, or not. I can get you next time.
Me: Ara! I'm going to pay you right now, I just have to find my money in here.
New friend: Ok, well if you want to, but you don't have to.

I handed over the $30 and wished my new friend a terrific evening. As he pulled away and the suited men with clipboards waited for me to walk over with my ID, I stood paralyzed for the second it took to absorb an insane half hour...

I'd found Ara, the nicest cabbie in L.A., not once, but twice. He remembered me. He remembered me telling him about Teen. And then, in the most bizarre twist of all, he told me I didn't have to pay him - that he'd get me next time... as if I was Norm and he was Sam and this was Cheers, instead of a chaotic city of millions that I could easily disappear into.

Moment of absorption complete, I spun around ready to see my girls. I love this city.

Tell me lies, tell me sweet little lies

This past Saturday morning a certain niece of mine (Name: Paige. Age: 3) called to rouse me from my weekend sleep-in to tell me something of great importance. She was at the zoo - and the last time she was there was with me and we watched the giraffe pee. Pause... to wait for me to confirm that I too carry this memory with me during every waking moment.

Aah, yes. I remember it fondly. I had her slung on my right hip, using my left arm to point out how tall the giraffe was... how big his tongue was as it reached for leaves... how he had 4 legs and 1 tail... and then she was screeching the most important characteristic of this particular giraffe - he was, "PEEEEEING! PEEE!"

Once we had that one out of the way our totally sophisticated conversation moved on to other topics, such as the fact that she dressed herself that day AND that she saw a kitty cat, but that he DIDN'T HAVE A BABY.

Seeing as phone calls with her pretty much rank as my favorite way to spend any minute of any day, I was desperate to keep her chatting. I proceeded to ask her about all of the animals that she saw. Yes, I heard you the first time about the kitty cat. No baby - got it. What a jerk that kitty cat is for not having a wee one with him! The rest of it went like this:

Me: Did you see...a ZEBRA?!
3-year-old: No.
Me: Are you sure? They're the ones that look kinda like horseys but they're black and white?
3-year-old: Nope, no zeebahz.

Crap. What else do I remember from that zoo last year? I remember zebras! Zebras are cool! Clearly I didn't impress that upon her enough last year... stupid giraffe and his stupid need to relieve himself right in front of her...

Me: Did you see any monkeys?
3-year-old: Um... oh... No.
Me: WHAT? ...Ok, fine... So, what's ChaCha doing right now? Is he with you? I hear the Easter Bunny brought you a plastic lipstick... how's that working out for ya?

It was right about this time that my sister took the phone to tell me that they were about to leave the zoo so they all had to hang up on me, but not before she took "the cutest picture" of Paige talking to me.

Le sigh. Now I was awake, remembering an enormous animal having his bladder seemingly explode right in front of me, and there's no more 3-year-old to mumble about it all into my ear.

Today the newest batch of pictures of the kiddies came through, signaling that my Tuesday was not a total loss. I closed all heinous work files and turned on some good tunes in preparation for flipping through images of smiling babes running around in diapers with food all over their faces. And then the zoo pictures started to appear.

Awww! There was that picture of Paige and me chatting it up like girlfriends on Shell's cell. Long pause to consider that she is the cutest thing ever, and that she really isn't too dang bad at dressing herself.

And then it happened. I flipped to the next picture, first wondering how Shell can ever hold the 2 of them like that for any length of picture-taking time...and then realized exactly what animal it was that they were standing in front of. ZEEE-BRA. PAIGE GRINNING IN FRONT OF IT. Someone had been feeding me spoonfuls of nonsense!

The next picture just confirmed that I'd been had for a fool - by a 3-year-old. Because you know and I know, if it weren't for that thin bit of glass, Paige and that goateed monkey would have been photographed in a full blown cuddlefest.

Damning evidence, indeed. Now I'm left to wonder what else she's been hiding from me. I mean, did that Easter Bunny really get her some plastic makeup and a humming 'hairdryer' - or did she really get a basket full of spy gadgets and manuals on how to call up your auntie early on a Saturday morning and mess with her hazy head?

Eh, who am I kidding? She can tell me whatever she wants, just so long as she keeps calling to fill my hungry ears with her sweet little white lies.

CREATE & STYLE: Cluster Necklace

Six years ago I spent a summer living in Boston with a group of friends I met while previously living in Australia. We pretty much just wanted the fun we'd had in Sydney to continue for as long as possible, so seven of us packed our suitcases and moved to Beantown, each landing jobs that covered the bare minimum of expenses: rent, pitchers of beer, passes for the T, the occasional shopping excursion and the rare day trip to the Cape or Providence. I've never been so broke, and I've never regretted one second of that summer.

That was the summer that Joyce and I couldn't afford to indulge in our jewelry addiction, so we got creative and started making our own. I haven't stopped. Lots of my stuff goes without mention from anyone else - and that's okay. Most often if someone compliments something I'm wearing that I actually made I will just say thank you. It is only when asked specifically where I got it that I'll confess that these new earrings are the reason that no one saw me for two nights in a row.

This necklace was a happy accident. I didn't mean for it to be in two parts but the chain broke about two weeks in to the bead work when I was nearly done. I had a moment of panic before binding it together to form two separate clusters. That was three years ago - and it's still the piece that garners the most attention from others.






















As much as I love it, I'm ready for it to be knocked from its pedastal. Sure, I haven't had the time to do much lately, but I would hate to think that I peaked three years ago!

La vie en rose

The weekends make it so much easier to look at life through rose-colored glasses. Even right now, as the view out my window is of an overcast day, I can't help but smile. Billie Holiday is singing the blues, there is a vase of fuschia wild flowers right next to my computer, and plans are formulating for a hot latte... maybe a trip to the Beverly Center for some shopping... maybe an afternoon movie... and there are magazines to read and a new book to dive into... It's Saturday; it's destined to be a good day, not matter what I do.

Hope you have a wonderful weekend, too. Two days full of pink light and big smiles.

Kelly, meet Betty

Teen and I did something utterly fantastic this past Saturday. We got into the car just before 6 in the evening and started driving east at Teen's insistence of being "sick of the Santa Monica scene." It was a cruddy, chilly day - a day meant for exploring...or as we prefer to call it, 'sploring.

After a series of, "Which way? Left? Right? Wilshire or Santa Monica?"...we found ourselves at the intersection of Santa Monica Blvd and Fairfax, warming our hands over hot lattes and me eventually dishing out every coin I could find to a homeless man who patiently beat out the wait time with an empty Pepsi bottle into his palm, all the while listening to me mutter, "Wait! I have some more!" With warm tummies and cold fingers we finally hustled back to the car still unsure of our next destination.

Now, let me explain here that Teen and I have a devout faith in the religion of Weekends Are Meant For Trying Something New. So after a quick discussion centered around, "where haven't we been yet?" plus, "let's go drink wine!" as well as, "um, it's effing chilly outside. where can we sit indoors?"... the car was quickly pointed toward the Sofitel. It was still only 7:00 p.m., so we should have no problem securing a seat in the swanky Stone Rose lounge, right?

Right. More like we could take our pick of seats, do a dance, belt out some tunes and rehearse every single move from Thriller. The place was ours. But there was no time for Michael Jackson impressions because we had some serious gabbing to do - and this is Hollywood, so what else would it possibly be centered around then some shrewd "industry" career moves?

We bellied up to the bar...and talked...s.l.o.w.l.y. sipping our way through spendy glasses of Matua, one of our favorite white wines (try it!). Neither of us looked at the time after glass one, but hey, we were having a fabulous time, so Mr. Bartender, please bring us round two!

More sisterly yapping with each other and our new friend, the cute bartender from Pittsburgh, led to glass number 3. At some point, we pulled out a phone to check the time, both almost falling off our chairs when it flashed back that it was already 10:30. No wonder the place was starting to get uncomfortably crowded with wankers in sports coats and giraffes in one-shouldered cocktail dresses...

We had a decision to make: do we stay or do we go? We were having an unexpectedly fabulous time, but these drinks weren't cheap, and one more round would mean that in the coarse of the evening we would EACH DRINK A BOTTLE OF WINE, GLASS. BY. EXPENSIVE. GLASS. We hesitated. We looked at each other out of the corners of eyes. We both silently imagined our checking accounts... And then I experienced the moment of clarity that makes you say, "Screw it. You only live once. And I brought lunch to work 4 days this week, so clearly I am a financial genius. Yes, we will have one more!"

It turned out that round 4 was purchased by our new best friend, Mr. Bartender, making our smiles even bigger. The only thing that could damper our mood now was...oh wait... here he comes... ah, yes...of course...the entrance of the inevitable Jackhole-who-considers-himself-to-be-Mr. Suavo. Gah.

Why any one guy ever thinks it's a good idea to try and hit on two girls at the same time is beyond me. I'm sure in their minds it has something to do with playing the odds, but I really don't care. Unless you are George Clooney, I just want you to go away. The music was louder now and the crowd was huge now, so when Jackhole-would-be-Suavo tried to introduce himself, it was done through a series of shouting into each other's ears while continuing to shake hands. When Teen leaned in to scream her name to him, the corner of her mouth curled up with the hint of sinister humor as she screeched, "I'm Kelly."

Excuse me? What? Kelly. KELLY?

I was so thrown by the introduction of a name I consider synonymous with '80s-licious Tiffany and Brittney, that I couldn't push my own pseudo name out of my mouth. In a moment of holding-back-sheer-laughter-panic, I opted for the truth instead. Kelly and Sara might actually be sisters. But Kelly and Betty? No.

That's right. Whenever reaching for another lady name, I inexplicably go with Betty. When there were 5 Saras in a class of 18, I instructed everyone to refer to me as Betty for simplicity's sake (though no one ever did - bunch of assholes). My mini-fridge in college had the full name of Beautiful Betty. I don't know why. I've never questioned it much; I just go with it.

And I think this says a lot about the difference between Teen and I. When confronted with a situation where a fake name is warranted, Teen reaches for a name that many of her friends currently posses, whereas I grab at the one that hasn't been in use by anyone born after 1943. Realistic meets quirky. Sanity meets a 26-year-old senior citizen.

So there we were, Kelly and Betty, finally elbowing our way out of the crowd over 4 hours after staking our claim on 2 bar stools. Cheeks sore from smiling, mouths dry from too much yapping - 2 sisters out on the town having a great time on a mini-L.A.-adventure that started out with getting in the car as Teen and Sara, not knowing where we would end up.

As someone from Betty's era might muse, "Aint life grand?"

The answer, of course, is YES.

The beautiful people start young

Looking totally uninterested? Check.
Pouty lips? Check.
Holding still in what appears to be a leisurely lie-around? Check.
Girl lovingly draped on boy? Check.

A toddler and her baby brother working on their model status? Check. Check.

And all while at Grandma and Grandpa's house. Aah, the glamour! If they keep this up they'll be trashing hotel rooms in no time.