Ode to L.A.: Neighbors

There have been times when we've lived thousands of miles apart after a childhood of living across the hall. My toddler self once got in trouble at daycare for "rescuing" her from her crib so she could nap in the "big bed" with me. It's always better to be close.

She's my bestie and as adults we now live 5 blocks away from each other. And I have to love L.A. for making Teen my neighbor.

Ode to L.A.: Variety is the Spice of Life

One city, so much to offer...

Great hiking

Fantastic beaches

Spectacular music venues

The best movie theaters

Sprinkles cupcakes

and endless summers

You have to work at being bored in L.A.

Ode to L.A.: What Light

I will never tire of the light of L.A.'s setting sun. Depending what part of town you're in, it may be reflecting off the windows of a high-rise, creating sharp shadows in the canyons of the mountains, or bouncing off the Pacific and casting a pink glow on the sand and palm trees.

Everyone needs a bit of time in the pink now and then. Rosy glows are just so very flattering...

Ode to L.A.: Spoiled and Stuffed

Maybe it has to do with getting older. Maybe it's about the location. Maybe it's about why I am where I physically am and what drives me. Maybe it's a combination of all these things. It probably is...

When I lived in Boulder I had the eating habits of a typical college student: I occassionally cooked, sometimes had pizza, sometimes went out for sandwiches or burritos, and most days lived on whatever I could quick grab in between classes.

In Sydney food was the last thing on my mind. There was a whole country to explore. Beer to drink. Trips to take. Fascinating people to meet. Absolutely impossible classes to struggle through with a packed Nutella sandwich to tide me over in between - along with a flat white from the beach side cafe to wake me up. I lived a block from the beach... 75% of the time I could not have cared less about whatever I ate to sustain me through the day.

Very different was my summer in Boston, where I was just so broke that my meal budget was about $2. The roommates all contributed to the communal pot of what could be salvaged from our miserly jobs - leftover fake Italian and Starbucks pastries. I remember eating at maybe a handful of proper restaurants and not once making a meal that involved multiple dishes or fresh vegetables. That was the summer I learned to combine rice, a can or corn and a can of tuna - dry, unflavorful and nicknamed "cat food" by Joyce. It got me through... and since she lived off Easy Mac I didn't really take her critiques to heart.

San Diego taught me to appreciate the small places that are off the beaten track... The bizarre burrito place in the strip mall, where the tablecloths are bolted to the tables. The hole-in-the-wall Italian restaurant that lets you linger at your table for hours. The breakfast place on the main drag surrounded by surfboards and run down apartment buildings, with the sounds of the waves crashing from a block away providing just enough distraction to keep the tourists from swarming the place. Still, every time I take a mini-break in San Diego, I make sure to eat at all of these little gems.

But L.A. has maybe surprised me the most, because this city has managed to bring out the food snob in me. These days all I ask is for a free night, an engaging dinner companion, a coveted reservation and a few glasses of wine. Oh... and bites of food that habitually make me pause before murmuring OhMyGodYum under my breath. That, my friends, is my perfect L.A. evening as of late.

It took my parents coming into town for me to realize how much of a food brat I had become. Everywhere Teen and I wanted to take them they saw as either extravagant or a huge inconvenience. Teen and I simply saw it as, "if we're going to eat, we're going to eat something good." To them, the drives were long, the parking impossible, the waiting time totally ridiculous, the crush of people insufferable, the noise level obnoxious and the prices completely outrageous. To me and Teen?...just another Saturday. Naturally.

It all got me thinking about how incredibly spoiled I had become in the restaurant department. And also, how incredibly tollerant. Let's examine the recent evidence, shall we?

Dolce: Maybe slightly past its prime, but still delicious, still fun and still one of the best places in town to spend a Monday night, thanks to their 50% off food special. Teen and I have both spent a birthday here, and Mom and Dad were treated to the full-blown Monday night madness.

Dolce: the Monday night favorite

Pizzeria Mozza: Currently so very, very popular that a table is still impossible to be had even when you call a few weeks ahead of time. But on a very, very good Saturday recently, Teen and I went to LACMA to see the Vanity Fair exhibit and later found ourselves on two bar stools at Mozza. There was delicious wine, drool-worthy pizza and the most divine caprese salad ever created. I kid you not. I'm a caprese maniac and this was like no other.

Caprese has never had it this good. I'm not kidding. Not even in the slightest.

Melrose Bar & Grill: Cozy, great wine, friendly staff, with homemade pita and mussels that are worth the work, this place is my idea of casual-devine. Sometimes Teen going on dates with wonky weirdos has a total silver lining...like discovering this little beauty for us to return to.

Melrose Bar & Grill: Grab some friends and let the good times roll

Duke's: I don't know where you head for a drink on a gorgeous day, but I'm curious if it can top Duke's in Malibu. More than once I've sat back, enjoyed a cold Mexican beer or chilled glass of white wine and watched the dolphins arc across the water's surface. Sundays in my life have never before been so lovely.

Seriously? Malibu earned its reputation. Nevermind...you can't top it.

Cecconi's: Well, I saved my favorite for last. This super new hot-spot I discovered during its first week of being open to the public (the one and only time I have accomplished something so monumental and simultaneously insignificant). Teen and I scored a reservation for a Friday night at 10:00 - the last night of their 50% off food opening celebration. And let me tell you, at 10:00 I had to wait in a massive line just to check-in, only to find that our table of course wasn't ready yet...so we happily bellied up to the gorgeous bar for a glass of wine. (Those blue chairs are HEAVY, so bellying required a bit of muscle...meaning that dragging my chair closer to the bar counted as my daily workout. And yes, I realize it's a very good life when this is your workout.) Anyway, the Scallops, Pancetta & Rosemary and a glass of wine is something I plan to return for again...and again...and again... Imgaine the arm muscles I'm going to have after dragging those blue bar chairs around so much?!

L.A.'s most beautiful restaurant...

...and our favorite table in the city

But, hey, when I need to be brought back to reality, you need not worry, I'm totally capable of doing it myself. Afterall, my other favorite and often-frequented establishment is 100% delicious-kitsch...

In Studio City, Hugo's Tacos is home to my "Burrito Bowl with Chicken & Honey Chipotle salsa"

L.A. has the oddest things in the weirdest places - and Hugo's Tacos is one of these: An organic-friendly fast food place in the middle of the valley near the on-ramp to the 101 freeway. Or, as it is known to me, "Burrito Bowl Heaven that Makes My Head Sweat. Every. Single. Time."

And herein lies one of the many ways that life in L.A. has changed me forevermore. Dining out will never be the same ho-hum experience it was before. Food will never be hoped to be anything short of gorgeous. Setting, decor and scenery will from now on always weigh-in. An expectation has been set. A standard to be met.

Dear L.A., you culinary cornucopia, you... you have spoiled me, stuffed me and quite possibly made me a bit of a snob. And I absolutely adore you for it.

Hugs and kisses,

Me

Ode to L.A.: The Cool Girls

I read once that wherever you may be, it is your friends that make your world. And that means that Larry, Curly and Moe here make my world in L.A. Actually, their names are LO, WetHead and Blondie…or Adriann, Stacy and Ashley. And even though Ashley now calls Chicago home, she’s still my L.A. lady.

This city of celebutantes gets a bad rap for being the holding pen of the world’s most shallow. I won’t refute that completely, I’ll just say that you have to weed your way through the muck to find the good ones. And they’re so worth it.

Day trips to Santa Barbara. A whole vineyard of wine drunk happily. First dates, blind dates, breakups, makeups and breakups again. Packing up, moving, unpacking and decorating. Horrendous roommates. Great birthday celebrations. Entire conversations spoken in code. Fights, pouting, huffing, pointing and laughing. Shopping. Cursing like drunken sailors on leave. Tequilla shots. Grocery store runs. Long dinners at the taco stand near the freeway. New jobs. Sharing hair appointments. Dancing. And always - always - laughing.

You have to love a city that gives you such loveable friends. I love you, L.A. (when I’m not loathing you, that is.)

Ode to L.A.: Star Sightings

It’s been brought to my attention that I have again neglected my blog and all 4 of its loyal readers. I’ve also started receiving emails asking if I am, in fact, still among the living. I am.

Keeping in touch? Yeah, not one of my strong points. I come to terms with it slightly more with each passing year and each frustrated voicemail by those I love most.

It is Monday and I have a plan. I’m thinking that maybe if I have a theme for this week, I’ll post more. And maybe – just maybe! – I’ll post every day for a whole stinking week! Half the trouble with posting to this thing on a regular basis, is that at the end of the day, when I theoretically should write, if I’m even home, my brain has turned to mush. I’ll sit down and think, “What to say? What to say? Hmmmm…. Budgets. Referral program. Loyalty program. Purchase orders. Invoices. …. Crap, look at all that laundry! Did I pay that bill? Screw this, I’m getting a glass of wine.” That’s how it goes. And then I ignore the blog until my brother-in-law drops it into conversation on a regular basis that I happen to be the worst blogger ever. *Sigh*

Not this week though! Because this week, which is extra lovely with breezes carrying the scent of flowers and sunshine lingering into the early evening, is my love note to my city. My ode to L.A.

And because L.A. often means celebrities to those that live here – and especially to those who don’t – here is my list of celebrity sightings as best I can remember. And I’m not including any cheats of those that I’ve met or seen through any kind of “industry” connections. These are simply what the city has offered up to me (plus one San Diego sighting, because it was my favorite). If you know someone I've left off, go ahead and remind me. I'm happy to make this an ongoing list.

Adrian Grenier – being his totally laid back self at my favorite San Diego breakfast spot, The Mission
Robert Downey Jr. – skipping (I swear) into Toscana to pick up a takeout order
Kevin Bacon & Kyra Sedgewick, Marcia Cross – perusing veggies at the Brentwood Farmers Market
Tony Danza – chilling at the bar in Drago
Milo Ventimiglia – lifting weights at the gym (thereby explaining to me why girls ever wear makeup to the gym)
Whoopi Goldberg – sitting on a bench waiting for a bus in the valley (Ashley can back me up here)
Fergi & Josh Duhamel – on a flight from Minnesota to L.A.
Seth Green – flying Southwest from Phoenix to L.A.
Kevin Dillon – stomping around a Starbucks parking lot in Malibu
David Hasselhoff – giving the “peace” sign to Pinkberry employees
Luke Wilson – driving a snazzy car too fast in Brentwood
Natalie Portman – looking like a lost 12 year-old while checking in to the Palihouse in West Hollywood
Justin Chambers – buying the most hideous Christmas ornaments The Grove could provide
Henry Winkler – chatting with diners as he left Pizzicotto
Donald Faison & CaCee Cobb – getting in my way at The Grove
Isla Fisher – uber pregnant and buying ingredients for spaghetti bolognese at Trader Joe’s
Victoria Beckham – leaving Cecconi’s with her entourage
Fisher Stevens – going through security at LAX (I’m a big fan of the movie Only You and I bit back the urge to beg him to say, “Ittly!”)
Scott Adsit – dining at Swingers

Updates:
Christina Applegate - buying books at a West Hollywood Borders
Hayden Panettiere (with Milo Ventimiglia - again) - pushing food around at Cheesecake Factory in Brentwood

What's a dollar really worth?

I have 2 soft spots that go hand-in-hand here in L.A.: Starbucks and the homeless. At a couple different locations I even have some "buddies." The Starbucks I stop at before getting on the 405 comes complete a pal who upon seeing my car approaching waves maniacally and then stands in a spot in the street to save it for me. As I park he jams change into the meter, buying me enough time to drink a landslide of lattes. My other favorite one walks miles around Brentwood and in our exchanges we've high-fived, made small talk and he once asked if he could stand at the street corner with Teen and me as we waited for the light to change. These men I will give money to without hesitation. I believe that they're good people who have stumbled into a hard life. (I guess it could just be a minor case of yuppie angst, but I don't think my lifestyle quite qualifies me to be a bonafide yuppie.)

Most who are with me as I hand my hard-earned and meager money over to the homeless on occasion usually just shake their heads quietly, signaling that my behaviour isn't exactly the norm. I've never minded. I've always understood that maybe they've chosen to believe the stories about the "fake" homeless people who at the end of the day jump in their SUV, or believe that everything you give is just spent on alcohol. I don't deny that those things may happen... I just don't let it deter me.

And then Friday happened.

I decided that because dreaming of work woke me up in a cold sweat at 5 a.m. I deserved a latte before heading into the office extra early. I saw a homeless man as I was parking and he looked extra sad and dirty, squinting in the bright morning sun. As I walked toward him I was fidgeting with my wallet and realized that I was fresh out of any change other than stupid pennies. I dug out a dollar and folded it up, passing it off with a, "Good morning!" before he could finish asking.

Ten minutes later as I was trying to drink latte, walk and put on sunglasses at the same time I saw something that startled me enough to make me stumble slightly. No, no, no. That can't be the same man I just gave my last dollar bill to... talking on a cell phone!

How do you have a wireless plan? Where did you charge that thing? Who are you calling that is not willing to help you out or take you in? I realize I shouldn't judge because I know absolutely nothing about this person and I won't let it stop me the next time I meet someone who makes my heart hurt... but he, in particular, won't be getting anymore from me should I ever see him again.

While I did spend the rest of that day wanting my dollar back, I'm mostly annoyed at him now for making me just a little more suspicious... a little more cynical. Goodness knows, I'm plenty cynical as is.

Down the street and across the universe

At around 10:15 tonight I wandered out onto the balcony for a bit of fresh air and a little quiet that only comes from sitting in the dark. My laundry was humming along inside, the Oscars had finished a bit ago and the pots and pans from dinner were soaking in the sink. It had been a good day; a slow, peaceful day where I actually took each moment as it came. A welcome change from the days where I'm constantly trying to plot what ideally should come next.

I sat outside sipping on a moderately priced cabernet, observing the apartment building across the street that is practically begging to star in a movie. With its buzzing, rickety gate, decades-old hanging light fixtures and giant, swoopy apartment name on the side, it screams, "I am the home of a struggling L.A. genius! Someone on their way up or on their way down will nurture a brooding, yet often hopeful outlook on life from within my depressing and totally missable, slightly dilapidated walls."

Totally missable, that is, if you're anyone other than the girl who lives directly across the street, who often has nothing better to do than watch the comings and goings of people who buzz themselves in and slam their ways out of "The Saltair."

Tonight my eye was caught by the angel-like lights circling above the neighbors' retro home. It was a signal that just a few miles away, at locations I pass on a regular basis, the city's chosen few - the world's chosen few, really - were out celebrating the night away at lavish parties across town. So close, yet an entire world and reality away.

My mind started drifting, thinking how nice it was that the weather had stayed mild, maybe even warm enough that the actresses in their slinky gowns wouldn't be too cold. Then I realized that they were probably freezing after all, as their body fat was likely around only 20% of my own.

With a grumbling, "Screw them!" I threw back the last sip of wine and marched inside to retrieve the last bits of laundry. Maybe there isn't a snowball's chance in hell of me ever looking like the dowdiest one of them, but I read half a novel today, did 4 loads of laundry and made a fairly tasty dinner in one pot out of the misfit ingredients I could find in a kitchen that hadn't been treated to a grocery run in about 3 weeks. I challenge any one of them to say they've done the same anytime recently. So there.

A cynical kid at heart

There are few advantages to living in L.A. around Christmas time. The palm trees swaying in the background only make a mockery of the front lawn Frostys and if you stare at the Christmas tree at The Grove long enough, you start to wonder where exactly they had to truck it in from, because it surely isn't local. This year has been more festive-feeling due to the "winter" weather we've had the past week or so. Temperatures in L.A. proper have dipped into the 40s and people have totally lost their shit over it.

It's about as plausible for Santa to make his L.A. rounds in the slightly warmed driver's seat of a Lexus SUV, his sack made by Louis Vuitton and his fluffly white eyebrows styled by Anastasia - as it is for him to glide around the solar-panneled roofs in a sled hoisted by flying cousins of the moose.

But then again, there is Disneyland. And a chilly day spent dodging strollers at the happiest place on earth amid the lights and decorations is just what I needed to lift my Christmas spirit.

Truth be told, it was even better than I was hoping for. It's shocking to discover how wonderful it is to feel like a kid again - if only for a day.

Blowing hot air

While parts of the country are starting to feel the cool of Fall and other parts are being pummeled by hurricanes...here in Southern California summer rages on. It's hot. Oven hot. So hot that it makes this look completely enjoyable.


There's no such thing as acting like a dignified lady when the heat is on full blast. In my case though, weather has never really factored in. Lady? What lady?

Californian geography

The fact that there's some truth to this made me laugh... and so, I had to share. Of course.





I live in the land of Awesome, am originally from Canada (apparently) and this fall will be headed to a wedding in Coffee.

August 8 is closing in

I heart the Olympics. Especially the summer Olympics. Swimming, gymnastics, beach volleyball, synchronized swimming, soccer, diving, water polo and the completely quizzical rhythmic gymnastics... yes, bring it on. These are sports that I love to watch and that are often hard to come by unless it is the blessed 4-year mark of the Olympics. Woo. Hoo.

My all-time favorite athlete (the type where you Google News his name to see if anything of note has been going on lately) had the audacity to retire last year. In his early twenties. My allegiance will now have to shift from Ian Thorpe to Michael Phelps. We all must come to terms with it; we all must continue on with our lives. The Thorpedo would want it that way.

And in following Ian's spirit of always moving forward and trying something new... Teen and I have spent a couple of sunny days at the beach recently with a volleyball. Turns out, the tablespoon-full of skill I acquired back on the seventh grade team of wusses who ran from the ball has been completely diluted over time. After our first go at it, I had sand in crevices I never knew existed and my arms were so horrendously bruised that for a week after I could see strangers fighting back the urge to encourage me to get out of that abusive relationship. You can teach an old gal new tricks though, and we're going to keep getting better... because it's summer and we belong at the beach... plus, the sight of the other one flopping into the sand never fails to entertain, meaning we keep going back for more.

This last weekend we slathered on the sunscreen and headed for the AVP Tour in Hermosa Beach. We were ready to watch the pros in action...ready to be inspired...ready to see some real, live Ken Dolls soar through the air to spike the ball over the net in the manliest of fashions. Happily all of those pre-set hopes came to fruition, and even better, the team that had me glued to the TV in 2004 with my eyes inexplicably welling up with tears was also there for my viewing pleasure.

Yes, when Teen and I bought tickets for the women's semi-finals and finals, we had no idea that the gold medal winners from Athens would be there. Kerri Walsh and Misty May Treanor pretty much put the rest to shame. Trying to compare them to Teen and me... well... imagine a baby giraffe strapped into roller skates versus a cheetah charging across the Serengeti. It's worse than that.


Good thing we weren't trying to compete, but instead were just spending a gorgeous day being fans. Fans who wished that the shirtless foreign wankers in front of us would stop using their uber-zoom lens to take pictures of the silicon-injected Corona girls on the sidelines...

Olympic fever is on the rise. Are you ready?

The journey is the reward

Here's the thing: I'm tenacious when it comes to doing what I've set out to do. I moved to California almost three years ago by myself - no friends, no idea what I was doing, only the resolve that I would figure it all out and make it work. It turns out that figuring it out and making it work is a never-ending adventure.

After all this time, I still think to myself on a disturbingly regular basis, "What am I doing? How do I still not have a plan?" I'm all about plans; not having one drives me insane. But the little devil on my shoulder is constantly reminding me that the unplanned events in my life have usually been the most fun. So, I try to take a deep breath and go with the flow. Maybe a couple deep breaths...

Two weeks ago I gave up the fight at work at 8:00 p.m. for the third night in a row and dragged my tired self out into the dark night toward my car. Since my phone doesn't get any reception in the office, it beeped back to life in the freedom of the outdoors that I had a voicemail. It was Teen. "Hey, you want to go to Nugget's this weekend? Let me know. We'd leave on Friday night." I hung up, dialed Teen and responded with an unwavering, "Of course. I'm in. Hmmm... I'm going to need to find my bikini..."

That Friday night when I finally arrived in Palm Springs I was met with an 80's dance party, a glass of wine and a smorgasbord of gas station candy bars. Things were looking up...

The next morning we sat with our hosts pouring over the morning papers and cups of coffee before heading out to the Jacuzzi in the front yard to take advantage of the crisp desert morning air. As the jets worked on the small of my back and I laughed with Nugget and Teen while constantly throwing the dog his tennis ball, I realized that I wasn't having to remind myself to take those deep breaths.

The rest of that Saturday passed by in a blur of swimming laps, cannon balls, grilled shrimp and blended margaritas, reggae and disco blaring through the house and yard, moments of dozing on pool floats and relaxing in the late afternoon shade with a couple of Coronas while wrapped up in beach towels. If only every day could be so wonderful...

By the time we were having pre-dinner cocktails and watching the sunset, I was totally exhausted; truly relaxing can really wear a girl out! But it was the good kind of tired - the kind where you want nothing more than to stay seated, sipping champagne and grinning through heavy eyelids.

On the drive home Sunday night I realized that I may not have the husband and the kids that so many of my friends are starting to acquire. And maybe I am still fighting and pushing to reach that turning point in my career, but I am constantly collecting experiences...and I remain hopeful that someday I will have that husband and those 2.2 kids. And just maybe, for 10 minutes of their lives, they will be impressed that crazy Uncle Nugget has a fancy award and that I've tested out just how hard it is to raise it above my head in mock-triumph (though by that time, Auntie Teen will probably have a whole house full of them herself)...maybe they'll think it's cool that mom and Auntie Teen used to jump in the car for weekend adventures in Palm Springs and San Diego...or maybe not.

For now though, I'll just keep reminding myself that the current stretch of my path seems to have me in the role of a wanderer - collecting stories, friends, pictures and experiences in a million different destinations. And when I put it like that, well, that doesn't sound too bad at all. Deep breath...

"To dream of the person you would like to be is to waste the person you are."

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.

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.

Mother Nature & Me... we're like one

Yes, I know that the higher beings of calendar wisdom have already declared today to be the first day of spring, but I would have known, deep in my weather-telling bones, even had the calendar not told me so. Spring is here.

A few weeks ago the scent of lilacs in bloom overtook the air in LA's west side. As soon as I would drive over "the hill" on my way home from work each night, the vents of my car would blast into my face the pungent scent of flowers. Step outside of my sister's apartment: FLOWERS. Open the window anywhere in my own apartment...and BAM! FLOWERS! Not a wafting, but a smack you in the face while slapping you upside the head, lovely floral scent. Which, when I finally cleared the sleep from my eyes one morning while filling the coffee pot, I saw through the hazy window to be lilacs. It appears that the world's largest lilac tree/bush wraps around the corner of my apartment - half sweeping to the east side to smear its scent around my bedroom window, and half brushing up against the south side, allowing itself to be some kind kitchen light dappler in the morning hours. I swear to god, this heavenly, omnipresent scent alone is worth hanging around LA during the last few weeks of February.

Plus, the sun has done a shift. It's no longer the, "Oh look! The sun is shining... but wait, it's-barely-in-the-50's-we'll-freeze-if-we-try-to-eat-lunch-outside" kind of sun. It's the much more fantastic, "Holy shit. It is NICE outside. Where are we going after work that has both cocktails and a patio?" kind ...and I LOVE IT.

And while I was technically, physically, alone tonight, I came home from work in the waning daylight hours while talking to one of my favorite friends, Tuck, and with the phone pressed into my shoulder, I grabbed a glass of sauvignon blanc and headed for the balcony for an hour and a half of gabbing and laughing under a pink sky. Oh yes, it is spring.

But really, the clincher was just now. While folding laundry something shiny on the floor caught my eye. Without a second pause I was rolling it in between my fingers, at first guessing that it was an earring back...but it was squishy...wait, what is this thing? Closer inspection revealed that it was a bug...the kind with the silvery semi-transparent backs and about 36 little legs writhing around. First thought: "Ew. Smooshed bug...on fingers! Blagh. Stacy would soooo be freaking out right now if this were happening to her! I need a tissue..." But then it suddenly all came swirling into my little head at once: the scent of flowers, the warmers days, the daylight stretching into those fabulous post-work hours and now the bugs crawling around everywhere. The seasons have definitely changed. Hallelujah!

Get outside! All the cool kids are totally doing it.

Now someone just needs to tell Mother Nature to ease up on the rest of the country and let them have their fun, too. Minnesota remains buried under snow...or so I hear. Poor, poor them...What do you mean, "stop smirking?"

Friday joy at The Viceroy

One of the simple joys in life is meeting your best friend for an after-work drink on a Friday night. An icy cold beer, bar stools, dim lights and neon signs decorating the walls... yes, I am a fan of dive bars. Toss some writing on the walls and ceilings and I'm in love.

Yesterday, however, was pure LA sunshine with temperatures warm enough to kick spring fever into overdrive, so a confining dive just would not do. No, on a day like that the white leather chairs, cabanas and cocktails of The Viceroy were calling out to me and Teen long before we'd even left work. How could we possibly say no?

Laughing with Teen and sipping my refreshing $15 mojito, I felt my shoulders unclench and my breathing slow down. I love those moments where it suddenly hits me how lucky I am to be exactly where I am. Sometimes they're too few and far between all of the other moments where I'm wishing this or that was different somehow.

Who new that an overpriced cocktail and a trendy setting could bring one a slight moment of inner peace? I'll chock it up to what I know to be true: life is funny.

Don't stand so close to me

Teen has always been...cool. She goes her own way, has her own style and is seemingly fearless.

Me? Not so much.

Case in point: we went out for a birthday party and drinks in Hollywood a few weekends ago. All dolled up in our snazzy duds and designer jeans, we had reached the point of the evening where you're contemplating sprinting the blocks back to the car if it means you can get out of those stilettos one minute sooner. But I was given another reason to contemplate running when a group of punk kids and one lonely-looking, middle-aged weirdo started following us a little too closely - close enough for me to realize that they were entertaining themselves by making horse noises at us under their breaths and then bursting into laughter at their own cleverness as our heels click-clacked on the sidewalk even more. I muttered my discovery quietly to Teen, who replied with, "Are you kidding me? What a bunch of bored losers!" At the intersection of Sunset and Vine, the punks went one way and Mr. Weirdo continued to follow...soon making the mistake of laughing when I stumbled in the middle of the intersection.

Teen whirled around so fast the guy almost walked right into the finger she was now pointing at his face. "What exactly do you find so hilarious about her stumbling in the street?! We're just minding our business! Who do you think you are?!" It went on from there... with me worrying that the light may change and we'd all still be standing there: Weirdo fumbling for the words he'd lost to shock, me reaching for my phone to call someone if needed and Teen looking like she was ready to rip a clump of his hair out and toss it to the wind just to show him she wasn't kidding. As he finally stammered that the hilarious part was that we were both wearing high heels Teen guffawed loudly, stuck her hand in his face to shoosh him and stated, "We're done here," before spinning around again with me trailing behind her and Weirdo purposely staying at a long, long distance back.

People can pick up on cool just as easily as they can detect that they may be about to get their ass kicked by a 5'7" spunky beauty. That's why I wasn't at all suprised when the paparazzi were so clearly tracking her down at the Brentwood Farmer's Market back in November while we shopped for Thanksgiving ingredients.

Wouldn't you know it though?... The one chance I've had at peripheral tabloid fame and Marcia Cross and her babies jump in the shot and totally block me!

Don't you hate it when Marcia does that?

The rock, the sea and this year's me

2007 was a dang good year, providing more happy moments than I could have wished for. The last couple of weeks kept in tune with the rest of the year and were like the big shiny bow on top of the Lexus in those cheesy Christmas commercials I always wish I was starring in.

Christmas at home in Minnesota was full of surprises…quiet, lovely, smiley surprises. Setting the pace for the week was a girls lunch years in the making where a couple of hours of laughter and stories and getting acquainted with the current versions of each other all served as a reminder of why I’ve loved these friends so much for the past decade, regardless of the fact that I’m not the best at keeping in touch.

And the snow, oh, the snow! While a white Minnesota Christmas is nothing new, it was the first time in a long time that I actually got out into the stuff… Teaching Paige that when the snow is too deep for her shorty toddler legs, I'll walk in front so she can walk behind in my footprints. Making snowmen for the first time in years. Standing outside chatting with Popi, buried under layers, feeling the tickle of the falling flakes and loving how silent a slow snowfall makes the world...allowing only for the crunching of boots and the distant scraping of shovels. White peace.

I spent the whole week thinking, “I love that this is my family.” (Now, that wasn’t a surprise, but is just too wonderful a sentiment to go without mention.) We did some coffees at The Bean, a couple of dinners with a couple of drinks, a movie, Chicken Salsa Chili at our favorite St. Paul haunt and Paige’s birthday party, but that was it for activities. For the most part, we were hanging out at home, playing in the snow, making each other laugh and doing nothing in particular. It was fantastic.

When we got to the airport both Teen and I had the blues. It had been too good and gone too fast. We weren't ready to go just yet, so we consoled ourselves with the knowledge of how remarkably refreshing it is to see the palm trees of L.A. after a week of cold; it would be good to be back, we were sure. However, standing at baggage claim in the wee morning hours of Dec. 29, we were both starting to feel rundown, both whining about a sore throat threatening to damper our post-Christmas glee.

And so it was that on New Year’s Eve we were not feeling up to any kind of grandiose plans. Seeing as I am not New Year’s biggest fan to begin with, a quiet night with Teen sounded perfect. And it turned out to be exactly that.

We began our fond farewell to 2007 on the Santa Monica Pier at sunset, each with a rock in hand. After watching the last bit of sun drip down into the ocean, we poured into our rocks everything from the past year we were ready to let go of – everything we wanted to change. I silently visualized it all going in until the rock felt just a little heavier…and then the toss…in that split second while my rock was airborne, I exhaled and my hopes for the new year were swept out into the wind, now swirling around the city with those supposed angels. The things from the past year that brought us down were now just tiny ripples in the Pacific. With them lost at sea, we were free.

So, with freshly lightened hearts we doubly indulged: we tried a new restaurant and it was The Lobster. The last peachy tints of daylight were spent with drinks and tuna carpaccio, sitting under twinkle lights and watching the ferris wheel spin and the waves roll. Then, as supper time rolled around, we headed off for our reservation at our favorite restaurant, where we again treated ourselves – this time to three scoops of gelato for dessert.

A couple of hours before midnight, feeling as though we’d already had a complete evening, we were back at Teen’s, happily popping open champagne, having a PJ dance party and gabbing the rest of the year away. As New York’s 3-hour-old confetti began to fall on the TV screen, we heard loud, distant booms outside. “Fireworks! Get your shoes on. I’ll grab our wine glasses, you grab the keys! Hurry! Get to the rooftop before they’re done!” So, the first few minutes of 2008 were spent on a rooftop in West L.A. wearing my pajamas with polka-dot ballet flats (i.e. looking ridiculous), clinking glasses of Sauvignon Blanc with Teen while fireworks went off all around us. And I thought to myself, if this is an indicator of things to come, it is going to be a spectacular year. But oh, how the mighty do fall.

The next day I woke to what turned out to be the beginning of strep throat hell. By Friday afternoon I was too loopy with fever to drive myself to the doctor (I was too weak to even walk or stand for more than a few minutes at a time). As the doctor said of my “severe strep throat” and 102º fever, “Wow. You’re really sick!” And while good old 102º had me clammy with sweat and my head resting on the wall behind my chair, my days-of-fever cooked brain was screaming, “Stop pointing out the obvious and give me drugs! NOW! Or so help me I’ll get my sister from the waiting room to come in here and slap you around a bit!”

That’s been the best thing about 2008 so far. Teen. My savior in a little red Honda picked me up and drove me to the doctor in the mess of rainy L.A. traffic, sat in the waiting room with no good magazines for company, took me home, made me soup and burrowed into a nest we made on the couch for hours of Sex and the City, handing me tissues at the beginning of episodes where she knows I always cry. If it wasn’t for her, I’d be back down on the pier right now with another rock, hastily jamming the past 4 days in, demanding that the universe allow me to start the year over and imagining myself as a major league pitcher while flinging that thing as far away from me as I could get it. But my worst bout of illness in years opened my eyes a little more to how lucky I am to have Teen…and that’s just too good to toss out to sea. That, I’ll keep with me for quite awhile.

So, this year may have gotten off to a rocky start, but I believe that it’s salvageable. I remain hopeful. And dear little newborn 2008, I’ll give you some advice patented by Popi, “Shape up, meatball!”

For last year's words belong to last year's language

And next year's words await another voice.

And to make an end is to make a beginning.

- T.S. Elliot, "Little Gidding"