Girl About Town

To Live and Date in LA: The Sequel

2011-05-21T08:44:00.000-07:00

I met him at my favorite grocery store. Johnny. We didn't say more than 20 words to each other...but we had scheduled a date.

Or so I thought.

He pulls his shiny black Porsche in front of me as I walk out. He'd been eying me in the canned foods section and I'd given him a smile as I passed, thinking he was kinda cute.

"You have a fantastic smile," he says. "You have a fantastic car," I say. "Can I take you out for a drink?" he says. "Sure!" I say. We exchange first names and phone numbers and before I finish my five-minute drive home he has texted. "Awww, that's nice," I smile.

Johnny- Very nice meeting you :)

Me: thanks, you too!

Johnny is a writer on a very popular television show and was a writer on a #1 show that ended a few years ago. Johnny is also a writer of text messages. Johnny wants to know everything there is to know about me from birth to present day, via text. I avoid questions, attempting repeatedly to meet him out (at a very public place) to talk instead, but Johnny is having none of it. He wants to text. And text. And text.

The next night...

Johnny- What's your last name. Are you on Facebook?

Hmmm. Weird. We haven't even met in person yet and he wants to Facebook me. Ok, I reason. Everyone's on Facebook; I guess this is normal. I stupidly give him my last name (instantly regretting it and flashing back to a Lifetime movie involving the murder of a girl who stupidly gave her full name to an on-line predator.)

I search for Johnny only to find that he is not actually ON Facebook. Johnny has a Facebook page. But, his page has no picture and absolutely no information (except that he's a television writer, which is how I know it's him), wall posts or activity at all. I am irrationally relieved that there aren't three names on the profile (John Wilkes Boothe, John Wayne Gacey, Lee Harvey Oswald...you get the gist.), but it's a stalker page, nonetheless.

Awesome.

Feeling like the girl in the horror film whose murder you want to assist with because she's THAT stupid, I quickly make my name unsearchable.

Johnny- hey, i can't find you on Facebook. Friend me so I can look at your page. I'm going to google you now.

Hold. The. Phone. Or drop it...which is what I did.

Me: Um.....what? You want to google me??? That's a little creepy.

Johnny: What? Why? That's what people do these days. Why are you freaking out? (oh, I don't know...I guess the kill room in your basement wasn't what I had in mind when we said we'd meet for drinks...)

Crap, I've pissed off Dexter.

I put the phone down and back away slowly...expecting him to actually walk through the screen holding the length of rope and roll of duct tape he purchased earlier today. You know, the evidence the police will later find in his trunk along with my DNA.

Johnny: Where did you go? You haven't answered. Are you on IMDB? Where did you go to college?

I can't block him...and I can't even ignore him. Because, Johnny is a writer on a very popular television show. And, in television, the writer is God. And, God better not have an axe to grind with you (or into you) when you audition in front of him or you'll never been seen again. By anyone. Ever. Much less book his show. You never piss off the writer. Or the psycho.

Thinking of my acting career and the fact that it will be slightly harder to book while in pieces in his freezer, I decide to respond.

Me: Early day tomorrow...gotta run. But, have a good night and pen something brilliant tomorrow.

Cordial. Acknowledges his talent. But, not encouraging. Not engaging. Perfect.

Johnny: Oh...ok. Yeah, you too. I'll try.

And, just like that, the horror film ends. For the night.

Over the next 2 months, Johnny randomly texts the word- hi. I don't know why, but I have always found it eerie when people just text- hi. I wait the appropriate you're-so-weird-but-I-can't-be-rude-to-you-in-case-you-kill-me-or-worse-yet-blackball-me 24 hour period and text back, hi. (hey, he started it!)

Silence.

A week later...

Johnny- hi.

Goosebumps. Check the locks.

Me- hi.

Silence.

At this point, I know he's either losing interest or plotting my demise. I give up my favorite Beverly Hills grocery store and keep an eye out for shiny black Porsches. There are almost no black Porsches in Beverly Hills. (That, Miss Morrisette, is irony. A fly in your chardonnay, is not.).

Two weeks later...

Johnny- Where have you been? I haven't heard from you. Wanna meet me for a drink?

Annnnd, there it is.

So, i do what any strong, capable, woman of the new millennium would do. I make up a fake boyfriend. A big one. One whose bodybuilding competition has kept me away from my phone for a while.

Johnny wishes me luck with Arnold Fakezenegger and disappears. Just like that.

If I do ever audition for him, I won't know it. I can't even remember what he looks like anymore, but I no longer think he's kinda cute. He, however, will definitely know me, as he sits with a panel of producers, my name in block letters on the headshot in his hand.

At least he won't be holding my actual head.

Where Once There Was None

2011-05-13T19:26:00.000-07:00

(I rarely...never...post product reviews. But, this little black tube deserves a little blog love. so...)

The top ones...would suffice. They didn't spread like black spiders approaching the lid-ville county line, as they did when i was twenty, but they were decent, adequate. The bottom ones were another story. Sparse, unless onyx-drenched, and even then there were gaps, empty foxholes where now fallen tress once lay. Wounded, i assume, in a past assault with a deadly curler.

Then came Josie.

Waving a wand of enchantment and argan oil across the battlefield, restoring life where once there was none. And, now, life. sprouts. hope.

Hope's full name is Josie Maran Instant Natural Volume Argan Mascara. You can find her, this angel of eyes, atop a shelf at your local Sephora. And when you do, never let her go.

http://sephora.com/browse/product.jhtml?id=P268208&categoryId=C19270

10 Things I Learned in 2010

2011-01-11T21:22:00.000-08:00

1. Christmas goes by too quickly.

2. Everybody is on Facebook. Or, as the film industry likes to call it, "Cha-Ching!"

3. Twitter is the new Facebook. Or, as the film industry likes to call it, "2011's Cha-Ching!"

4. P90X was actually designed by Kim Jong-Il as a means to torture Americans. And, who owns a chin-up bar anyway.

5. The Secret can suck it. I've been "secreting" snow in LA for 3 years and have yet to see a flake. Not a snow flake, anyway. Perhaps, I should have been more specific.

6. Not having a roommate is Heaven. Having a roommate is the place below hell where the people who fail hell go.

7. Comedy is hard.

8. I may not be a good redhead.

9. Parking garage columns are strategically placed in your car's blind spots...by Geico.

10. "Dogs don't say goodbye."

RIP Ginger. I will never stop missing you.

The Secret Life of the American Actress

2010-08-08T12:32:00.000-07:00

Once upon a time, an aspiring young actress (hey, young is a relative term) received many, many bills in the mail, all at once. It went down something like this...

Dear Girl About Town, you owe $81.56 MORE to the incompetent doctor who already charged you $100 to look at your tendinitis-ridden knee and say, "I have no magic for you."

Dear Patient, you owe $122.72 to Cedar Sinai for "fee not covered by insurance and over and above fee for incompetent doctor who had no magic."

Dear Girl, you owe $69.51 to Time Warner Cable for your snail-slow Internet and your six TV channels. Yes, six.

Dear GAT, you owe $214 to the DMV for your car registration renewal and for our efficient, friendly and unparalleled service during your recent eight-hour visit.

Dear Actor, please pay your Comedy Class tuition or or live your life as a talentless bore.

The girl, unable to keep up with her expenses, had no choice but to take to the street. Being a big proponent of the positive attitude, she decided to think of it as a grand adventure. "I will be the best gamine ever," she thought, "I've always liked the outdoors and sewer rats are perfectly good companions!"

For every hardship, the ever-hopeful actress found a benefit: being car-less (no more LA traffic!), homeless (shelter is like, so 5 minutes ago!), TV-less (it's all reruns anyway, so whatevs!), Internet-less (no more breaking news alerts on Lindsay Lohan's court case!), credit-less (no more pre-approved credit card junk mail!), and without comedic timing (pity, as a sense of humor might come in handy on the street, but alas, I shall be marvelous at crying on cue!).

The happy-go-lucky girl adapted well to her new environment and spent her days on the Hollywood Walk of Fame, joyfully polishing the likes of James Dean and Marilyn Monroe (I guess you can take the girl out of the clean home but you can't take the home-cleaning out of the girl...) At night, she conducted corner-classes on the importance of personal hygiene, even taking her students on nightly field trips to The Grove to bathe in the fountain.

The girl had the cleanest, most organized box on the block. She made shabby so chic, her fellow vagrants named her "Guttersnipe of the Month." And, she discovered some wonderful street perks: being outside all the time, she never lacked for vitamin D (Dr. Oz would be so proud), she was able to host a scrumptious dinner party using only a discarded French fry and a partially-used packet of ketchup (take THAT MacGyver!), and she became very adept at breaking and entering.

But, the BEST part of her adventure....

Al Gore made a personal visit to her box, awarding her the Medal of Honor for her extraordinary efforts to end Global Warming by using less electricity...and for having a 100% recyclable home ("I would have preferred a sandwich," she mused, "but I suppose it's best for an actress to stay thin!")!!

THE END.

UPDATE: Legend has it, the girl, while dumpster-diving one day, happened upon a ratty old copy of The Secret and used it to land a role in the latest Tarantino film. Thus, as every good story goes...she lived very happily ever after.

10 Things I Hope to Learn in 2010

2010-02-04T22:01:00.000-08:00

This post requires no introductory paragraph as the title is self-explanatory (ok, I'm watching Gray's Anatomy and I am too lazy to think of an intro).

Ten Things I Hope to Learn in 2010

1. Why should I use a water-saving shower head when, due to its penchant for sputtering out insufficient trickles, it takes me thrice as long to rinse the shampoo out of my hair? Personally, I think it's a wash. Pun intended.

2. I can't believe it took me this long to realize that Bill Clinton closely resembles one of The Muppets. But, which one...

3. I just blew through $70 worth of Starbucks gift cards in under 2 weeks. At what point does does this become something I should be hospitalized for...?

4. Is it better to waste water washing dishes, or waste paper using paper plates? Saving the planet is some tricky business.

5. My dog is 13 1/2 and walks at a snail's pace. Slower, maybe. In fact, often, I have to carry her outside because she can barely walk at all. Until she sees another dog. Then, suddenly, she can canter. Something is rotten in Dogville.

6. I will never be a truly fulfilled person until I learn all the words to "We Didn't Start The Fire." It has been taunting me from 80's radio for years...

7. What is all the fuss about Lost????? Is it really THAT good?

8. Where is my Bluetooth? Where are ALL the things that go missing from my apartment? I'm an extremely neat, organized person. So, I either have a poltergeist or a mental disorder. I'm not sure which I prefer.

9. Wikipedia. How do they know everything. Seriously.

10. In light of the vet telling me Dog About Town will likely only be with me for a few more months, I need to know- Do all dogs, in fact, go to heaven? I'm counting on that to be true.

Ten Things I Learned in 2009

2009-12-29T21:35:00.000-08:00

I know you've all been glued to your computers watching and wondering WHEN I would post it. So, here it is.

Finally.

My annual, and particularly inane, Ten Things I Learned list .

Read 'em and weep, my peeps.

1. Being "on-set" is a very nice thing to be.

2. Roommates are overrated.

3. Pickled beets are underrated.

4. Texting is the downfall of the dating world.

5. No matter how much your prepare yourself, watching your wonderful, sweet, loyal, quirky, beautiful dog lose her mojo is just sad.

6. All men are not created equal yet...but we're making progress.

7. Nanas never leave you...even when they're gone.

8. Elton John's version of Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds is better than The Beatles version.

9. You can be wildly off-your-rocker and still sell 8 million albums.

10. Turns out it's true. All you need is, in fact, love. And, a really great pair of boots.

Freak Out

2009-10-13T18:52:00.000-07:00

As a follower of this blog (or a potential future date...) you should probably familiarize yourself with this list of things that freak me out. Why you ask? Because I'm too lazy to write a full post, obvi. (I learned that word from Gossip Gir...I mean CNN)

23 Things That Freak Me Out

cottage cheese, Blue Man Group, intoxicated elderly, that miniature corn that comes in Chinese food, Rosemary's Baby, Ben Stiller, the Theme Song to Jaws, flan, talking dolls, moms who wipe their kids' noses with their hands, perfect symmetry, liver and onions, long toe nails, death metal, cruelty, filth, intolerance, the smell of rotting flower stems, ant hills, The Exorcist chick's inverted crab walk thing, the humorless, former members of the Bush Administration and waking up before 7am. Oh...and the entire insect kingdom.

Let Freedom Ring

2009-10-05T20:14:00.000-07:00

I'm all about freedom. In fact, I'd say freedom is a driving force in my life. And, there are laws that I find archaic and oppressive- The ban on gay marriage, for instance,or the fact that I am not allowed to paint my nails while driving....so unfair. But, there are some things that are not illegal...that really need to be.

Case in point.

1. Over Zealous Sprinklers Systems- There are sprinklers that spray out onto Sunset Blvd. during my commute to and from work. Thus, every day, I have to SWERVE around the streams of water that threaten to splatter my nice clean car...while going 45 mph...and dodging on-coming traffic. Not my happy place. 40 lashes.

2. The "Poo and Run"- Beverly Hills is a virtual mine-field of doggie dooty. Which, over time, biodegrades into the ground and into the water systems. yum. Book 'em Danno.

3. Beepers- No, not pagers. Beepers...of horns. On my way to work this morning, there was a car that had broken down in the middle of road. I could see the driver inside, an older man who was clearly distressed. So, we're all patiently going around this poor man's ailing Toyota (and hoping he had help on the way) when this misguided diva in a white Mercedes decides to LAY on her horn...as if THAT would magically make the man's car move out of the way. If I hadn't been in a hurry...and a-scared of being shot at by a road-raging Real Housewife...I would have gotten out of my car and slapped her upside her clueless clip-on extensions. 30 days community service and no manicures for a year.

4. Scooters- No, not Razors. Vespas. Formerly known as Mopeds. Don't get me wrong, there is a place for scooters in this world. It's called Key West. It is not, however, called Santa Monica Blvd in rush hour traffic. Move along, little doggies. 12 hail Marys and 3 days in the clink.

5. Gum Drops- If there is gum on the sidewalk, my shoe will find it. Like magnet and steel. Since littering is already illegal it's time it was properly enforced. Off with their heads!

This concludes Part 1 of Things That Should Be Illegal. I realize this post makes me sound a tad petulant. So, if after reading, if you prefer not only to unsubscribe but to block my IP address entirely, I completely understand. If you would, instead, like to add to the list via the comments section- God bless your prickly soul ;)

There's Gonna Be Fireworks

2009-07-04T09:14:00.000-07:00

ok, everyyyyone is bugging me to post something since the last post was a tribute to MJ and Farrah and today...is a time to celebrate. Nothing is coming to me. So you're going to get whatever tumbles out of my head right now. Yay for you!

here goes...

Don't know much about history. fact. But, what i do know I learned not from history teachers or field trips. No, every important educational particle that penetrated my little pea brain came from another undeniably powerful source.

School. House. Rock.

Had it not been for the brilliant lyricists of team SHR, I would not have memorized the entire preamble to the Constitution (information that has proven to be extremely useful throughout my life...k, I'm lying.), know how a bill becomes a law or how a conjunction functions or that a noun is a person, place or thing.

Had I NOT spent a good portion of my childhood watching t.v. until my eyes bled (I feel I must mention that I was surely in the basement playing with my Barbie Town House during every math jingle. It's not their fault I still can't do long division), I would have missed said musical interludes and would, at this very moment in time, not know that an interjection shows excitement, or emotion, generally set apart from a sentence by an exclamation point, or a by a comma when the feeling's not as strong.

So I wouldn't be able to effectively do this...

Hooray! It's the 4th of July today! Rats, we have to work on Monday.

Thus...in honor of Independence Day...I leave you with this SHR video entitled Fireworks. Not their best work...but apropos to the day. Happy 4th! Enjoy...

And then go unpack your adjectives.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CvH7ySQi37E

Oh and one last thing...VOTE for Girl About Town for Funniest Blog. Unless you think I suck. In which case you should VOTE anyway in honor of School House Rock. Or something like that.

R.I.P.

2009-06-25T19:27:00.000-07:00

Usually, this blog is filled with whimsical stories and lighthearted folly

but today, I am extremely saddened by the deaths of both
Farrah Fawcett and Michael Jackson.
So, today, I pay tribute to each.

One battled fearlessly against an insufferable cancer and
the other died suddenly, much, much too young.
Both are loved by many, both will be remembered...always.

R.I.P.
Farrah Fawcett
Feb 2, 1947- June 25, 2009
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Zh_v8IIRk2s

R.I.P.
Michael Jackson
Aug. 29, 1958- June 25, 2009
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ber5DrM6dG8

head case

2009-06-23T21:22:00.001-07:00

I recently read that people who have suffered concussions actually have permanent brain damage. Usually mild, but apparently permanent.

This explains a lot.

As a kid, I was a tomboy. Of course, I played with barbies and stuffed animals and used Play Dough to make pretend hot dogs, which I served at my pretend restaurant... and I adored my Easy Bake oven (I ingested a LOT of raw ingredients. It is simply not reasonable to expect an 8 year old to wait for a light bulb to bake brownies.). But, I also played in the mud, built forts, climbed trees, jumped fences, rode bikes, played softball, skateboarded, ice skated and roller skated. Along with such activities came sprained wrists, crutches, stitches and...concussions.

Four, to be exact.

One occurred while ice skating (I naturally suck at all winter sports), one while roller skating with a cup of Kool Aid in my hand, one while skateboarding down an insanely steep hill in an attempt to impress the cute boy who lived at the top...and who didn't know I existed and probably wasn't even home at the time, and one while playing "run and slide on the ice patch" during 8th grade recess. We were 13, what do you want?

The ice patch fall was a doozie which caused temporary blindness (No, Mr. Thomas, God rest your mean old soul, I wasn't faking it to get out of math class that day. But, I'm not sorry I missed it.) and, I now believe, a whole host of other issues including, but not limited to, the following:

-Last week it took me 4 full minutes to figure out how to get a travel toothbrush back into its case. yep.

-My math center doesn't work. I'm not even sure it exists. I don't know exactly where it is located in the brain, but I'm pretty sure I fell on it during the skateboarding incident. Stupid cute boy.

-I utterly adore brand new jars of peanut butter. Specifically, Skippy. If i get to be the first one to break the unnaturally smooth surface, my life feels complete. Tell me that's not brain damage.

-I once forgot my dog's name. The vet tech said, "Who do we have here?" and I said, "um..." followed by a blank stare and head tilt. uh huh.

-I have watched all three seasons of Rock of Love. And, I'm hoping Brett breaks up with Taya so there can be a Rock of Love 4. God help me.

-All these years I thought Michale Jackson was saying, "keep on, do the bus stop, don't stop 'til you get enough." Figured the "bus stop" was a kind of dance. Astonished I had that wrong.

-I continue to throw myself into the horror that is the LA dating pool. I think the use of the word horror is explanation enough here.

The list goes on...and on. But, I'll stop now for fear of scaring off...everyone single one of my readers.

***This post is dedicated to my childhood partner-in-crime, Charlotte, who bore witness to many of my mishaps and who got side-swiped by a speeding car while biking to DQ with me via a highway we were NOT supposed to be on...something we manged to hide from her parents despite cuts, bruises and limping. Hopefully, her mother is not one of my followers... ;)***

2009-06-10T12:23:00.000-07:00

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Diary of a Madwoman

2009-06-09T17:47:00.000-07:00

Sometimes... quite often...all the live-long day, I think deep thoughts about nothing at all. It's a gift. I was born with the enviable ability to obsess over things about which most people don't give a tiny worms knuckle.

Don't be jealous.

Today, I have decided to post said random crap. Lucky you.

Things That Don't Belong Together

Going Commando and Mini Skirts- Now, young Hollywood Starlets, I am hardly a prude. but, it's just bad manners to show your lady-business to the paparazzi. Keep it under wraps, yeah?

My dog and Rain- Dog About Town resides in the perfect climate because she despises rain and it hardly ever rains in Southern California. Her distaste runs so deep, she actually refuses to even cross the threshold onto the porch if the sprinkler system is on. She can't hear me calling her name from 2 feet away but she can hear the lawn being lightly watered one-story below. I think I'm being bamboozled.

Spam and me- I do not now, nor will I ever, desire to enlarge my penis. I like my penis the way it is. So, hotloveforyou@biggerisbetter.com, know your audience..and know when to quit.

Children and Electronics- I find it interesting that my mom-friends find themselves missing calls, placing involuntary calls and even replacing entire cell phones because of their children. "My son gave my Blackberry a bath...in the toilet," "My 3 year old must have dialed your number," "My 4-year-old turned the ringer off," "Little Lauren covered it in play dough." K, I don't have a child...or a blackberry...but when I do, I'm thinkin' never the twain shall meet.

Ectomorphs and Running- for details, see prior post (yes, that was a shameless plug).

Blind Dates and Men Who Don't Speak English- for details, stay tuned for future post (hey, I just installed Ad Sense and a girl's gotta eat).

And my personal favorite...

Cottage Cheese and Human Consumption: It's curdled milk, people!! curdled. milk. I rest my case.

Last Minute Addition:

Blogging and Blogspot- There is a ghost in the machine. Hence, the crazy font sizes and styles it chooses against my will. Trebuchet, damn blogspot, Trebuchet!!!!!

Running on Empty

2009-05-20T21:47:00.001-07:00

When it comes to eating well...I try. My daily diet packs a lot of fruits, veggies, legumes and whole grains. I drink Acai juice, take probiotics, keep red meat to a minimum and avoid fast-food.

But...there exists for me, a kind of kryptonite that is able to out-maneuver most carrots and kick the asses of virtually all brussel sprouts(except those really really big ones). Thus, occasionally, I slip (swan dive) off the health wagon and land squarely in the middle of a puddle (Lake...one of the Great ones) of butter.

Short pause while I undergo a bypass.

Shoveled onto mashed potatoes, applied the-opposite-of-sparingly to a warm ear of corn, tempting lobster chunks to bathe in it, suffocating unsuspecting pierogies...one taste and all I can think is, "you, complete me." And, I have come to realize that I even prefer the taste of butter to that of chocolate.

Dear Friends and Family Members who have, throughout the years, talked me down from the ledge of many a Whitman's Sampler as I stood clinging to the last dark-chocolate caramel, I sincerely apologize for the concussion you each just incurred upon falling off your respective chairs'.

To combat the ill-effects of all things churned, I work-out at the local gym- lifting weights, doing sit-ups and walking uphill on the treadmill. But, upon hearing from several friends that running is the fastest and easiest way to stay in shape...I decided to try it out. I have never been a runner, except for that time in high school when I joined the cross-country team and then quit (was asked to leave) after the first day (1/2 hour) because I got yelled at for bending over to tie my shoe in the middle of a run (fell over from a side stitch before reaching the end of the school campus), but my brother was an accomplished cross-country runner back-in-the-day, so i figure it’s in the genes. I'm gonna be great at this.

My Jogging Diary:

Day 1: Left apartment at 3:40 pm and set about on jog through lovely Beverly Hills. Returned to apartment at 4:03 pm and set about lying on lovely floor trying not to cough up lovely blood.

Day 2 (technically day 4-took 3 days to convince self to run again): Left apartment with positive attitude. Made it four blocks and was about to stop when spotted Michael Madsen in car at stop sign. Ran enthusiastically 'til car out of sight. Crawled home with visions of oxygen tanks dancing in head.

Day 3: Ran to corner. Pre-run baked potato possible bad idea. Abort.

Day 4: Shins hurt. Who needs in shape shins. Abort.

Day 5: American Idol on. Abort.

Day 6: Abort.

Even though I was only a runner for 6...5...okay 2 days, I do not consider this endeavor a failure because I gained some very valuable information in the process. For one, ectomorphs don't run. Secondly, if we do run, we will be back home before the red "pause line" on the tivo moves 1/4 inch. And, finally, trying new things gives me something to blog about.

Update: since the commencement of my jogging experiment I have also discovered that ectomorphs don't do yoga, jump rope or use stair climbers.

To Live and Date in LA

2009-04-21T20:15:00.000-07:00

If you believe, "that which you mock you are destined to become," I am about to become a short, angry, Italian, guy. And a trashy blonde.

This is the story of my date from hell. Or at least from West Hollywood.

The night compares in awful-ness to being hog-tied and forced to eat live worms during a multiple-root canal procedure while listening to the Muzak version of the Brittney Spears catalog. Or any version of the Brittney Spears catalog.

It all started at Houston's, one of my favorite casual eateries in LA. Before I go any further, let me say that I recommend never ever going on a date with a waiter who works at a restaurant you like (and, do not,whatever you do, let your sister write your name and number and a smiley face on the check and hand it to the hot waiter from said restaurant's other location in Santa Monica two weeks later).

So...

It's Thursday night and I'm having dinner with my friend, Amy. We start chatting with our waiter, who is pretty cute, very friendly and doesn't stab me in the heart with his pen when I ask him to repeat the specials three times. During dinner, he checks on us often, he tells us he's an actor (shocking spoiler), he gets in trouble for paying too much attention to us but we talk some more anyway and he's light and funny and recommends a delightful post-dinner herbal mango tea.

We finish our tea and "E" (name left out to protect...me.) puts my left-over salmon in a take-out box and says he's going to write the date on the box so I don't "eat a bad piece of fish next week." He puts the box in a paper Houston's bag, sets the bag on the table, and saunters off. Amy...is grinning. She's sure he wrote his phone number on box. I'm sure she's high on mango tea. We wager a Vanilla Bakery Red Velvet Cupcake and open the bag. It's a win/win- Amy gets the best cupcake ever. I get a date with a cute waiter.

Jump to the weekend- E and I text and agree to meet at El Guapo Cantina, a casual indoor/outoor, bar/restaurant on Melrose. On my way, I call him to tell him I'm almost there. He answers and I can hear him screaming...not through the microphone on my cell...through my open car window...from 3 blocks away.

"What the BLEEP is wrong with you, you BLEEPING asshole? I'll BLEEPING kick your BLEEPING ass! You better move your BLEEPITY BLEEPING car right now or I'll BLEEPING kill you, you BLEEEPING jack-ass!" He speaks into the phone- "Hey! This BLEEP-hole took the space I was holding for you. I should kick her ass!" Yes...I said her.

I park, get out, pray his outburst was just a one-time attack of Turrets Syndrome and walk toward him. This is the part in the story where I also recommend never ever accepting a date from a waiter you've only seen from a seated position...in a notoriously dimly lit restaurant.

He's short. I mean to say, he's very very not tall. And, he's sweating...a lot. And repeatedly pushing his sweaty bangs off his forehead in much the same way a serial killer might nervously paw at his grimy locks while burying the head of his latest victim.

Crap. I'm going to end up in this guy's trunk and I haven't won an Oscar yet. Or seen Cirque Du Soleil.

Over drinks I learn that he is Italian, from Long Island, has very strong opinions, has given up alcohol for Lent (this bodes well for a girl on a date with a psychopath), believes in hitting children, thinks he and I have an "amazing connection", has a mother who is a "renowned and widely-respected" child psychologist (so...many...sarcastic...remarks...work...here) and that he is taking me to Jones' for apple pie after I finish my beer and isn't taking no for an answer.
gulp.

Dear God, please forgive me for everything I have ever done wrong ever in my whole life and please let a rogue bolt of lightning hit Jones' tonight so this date can end while all of my body parts are still in tact. Amen.

4 hundred-million hours of inane conversation and greasy hair-swiping later...I finally get home...in one piece. 4 seconds after that, I get a text message: "had a great time tonite. hope you got home safe pretty girl. can't wait to see you again." Shiver.

I text back the next night and let him down gently while holding garlic and a wooden stake and facing Mecca and googling myself to make sure my address is not listed. And, then I vow to never ever date anybody in LA ever again!!!

Unless my cute neighbor asks me out. Or...I run into Kris Allen from American Idol.

P.S. I have yet to return to either Houston's location which is a pity because their grilled chicken salad is to die for. Their waiters, however, are not ;)

Scent and Sensibility

2009-03-05T19:00:00.001-08:00

Today, in the coffee shop on the first floor of my building, I had the unfortunate experience of standing briefly next to "Mr. Too Much Cologne Wearer." I don't know how said stinker managed to get his hands on a crop duster before arriving at work, but I'm pretty sure he used one to apply his cologne.

That or a super soaker.

About three seconds after he ventured too close to my personal space bubble, I went into a coughing fit, as if my lungs were crying out in revolt. The reeking gent was dressed in a dapper, well-fitting suit and carried the confidence of a man who thought he looked like a million bucks. And rightly so- because he did look like a million bucks. Unfortunately, he smelled like a million brothels.

Less fortunate is the fact that Mr. Too Much Cologne Wearer, is not alone. No, he stands proudly and obliviously in the company of many a mis-guided scent-soaked man whose parental figures failed to mentioned the "less is more" theory and whose assault on the nostrils borders on criminal. My roommate's boyfriend, dear sweet boy that he is, is a card- carrying member of the "More is Still Not Enough Coalition." My dog actually sneezes when he enters the room.

Mrs. Too Much Perfume Wearer is no less guilty. Too often, I find myself slamming into a malodorous fog of some gnarly eau de toilette that was meant to be used sparingly, if at all. It always leaves me annoyed and gagging and thinking things like, "Wasn't Obssession discontinued in the 90's?" or "Was she actually DIPPED in CK One?"

As a girl who adores her favorite fragrance (name of said par fume left out to protect said author from negative comments such as, "you stink too, Girl About Town!") I understand wanting to smell good. But, I also think a little dab'l do ya.

And to the whiffy lady in the elevator last week who exited at the 4th floor leaving me to cook in her Clinique for three more floors...there IS such a thing as too much Happy.

Just My Luck

2009-02-07T14:35:00.000-08:00

I've been thinking lately about fate, luck, coincidence and the laws of attraction about which everyone is all a-buzz. I understand the premise behind "The Secret", (which, by the way, is clearly not a secret anymore) and while I do believe, to a certain extent, "what goes around, comes around," I'm not convinced there is a definitive method to all the madness that is life or that we always get what we ask for or deserve.

I'm a big believer in putting positive energy into the world and I also believe if you commit to an idea, the universe will meet you half-way. But, nobody knows exactly why things happen the way they do, or why, against all efforts to the contrary, we find things in our lives we had no intention of having over for tea. Scientists have one theory, theologians have another, Girl About Town...has yet another.

The universe has wicked-ass sense of humor.

Case. In. Point.

Last week, the universe thought it would be a good idea to send both a spider and a water bug crawling across my bed...while I was still in it. The water bug alone, nearly caused me to relocate (not to another part of the apartment, to a new apartment). The spider, well that was just cruel. I find it hard to believe I attracted said insects or that the universe was unclear about my distaste for bugs in general considering I fantasize daily about the complete extinction of the entire insect kingdom. And, the untimely death of all snakes. Hate snakes. Nasty, sneaky creatures that are always up to no good.

Yesterday, the universe found it in good taste to send a bird to drop a giant doody on my car 5 minutes after I spent $12 having it washed. Now, I ask you. What did I do to attract bird doody? Had I disturbed or offended said bird in some fashion, or committed some inequity against fowl in the past, I would understand it's retribution and justification for using my car as it's toilet. Having done no such thing, I take complete offense...and warn said bird to sleep with one tiny eye open.

I leave you with one final example in support of my theory- my new gym is filled with really good looking guys. 99% of them...are gay. If I listen really hard, I swear I can hear the universe snorting as he chuckles.

Say Cheese

2009-01-28T21:15:00.001-08:00

I was writing a new song the other day and it occurred to me that, throughout history, there have been penned, some truly brilliant songs. Like, Van Morrison's Into the Mystic- "I wanna rock your gypsy soul, just like way back in the days of old, and together we'll float into the mystic." Slay me. Or, Leonard Cohen's Halelujah- "remember when I moved in you, the holy dove was moving too and every breath we drew was halelujah." Pure magic.

I could go on and on about the songs that inspire me. But, since it's WAAAAAAY more fun to mock crappy songs, I bring you my Top Fifteen list of cheesiest lyrics ever.

I'm into lists lately.

1.Celine Dion- "I'm everything I am because you loved me" (I think I just heard a founding member of the Women's Movement roll over in her grave.)

1.Captain and Tenille- "Muskrat Susie, muskrat Sam, do the jitterbug out in muskrat land" (I don't even know what to say here.)

3. Shakira- "Lucky that my breasts are small and humble, so you don't confuse them with mountains" (again, speechless.)

4. Fergie- "And I'm gonna miss you like a child misses their blanket" (ok, first of all, it's HIS blanket. Mind your plurals dear F-E-R-G-I-E.)

5. P Diddy- "Young black and famous with money hangin' out the anus" (well, that's just gross.)

6. Timbaland- "I'm respected from Californ-i-a way down to Japan" (k, use the money from your next hit single to buy a globe. Japan is not south of here, Sparkey. oh, and don't say Californ-i-a. you're not a Beach Boy)

7. Wham- "I'm never gonna dance again, guilty feet have got no rhythm" (forget the not dancing and go with the not song-writing, Georgie boy.)

8. Aretha Franklin- "Who's zoomin' who, now the fish jumped off the hook, didn't I baby, who's zoomin' who?" (more like who's "shroomin" who. seriously, what?)

9. Neil Diamond- "I am, I said, to no one there, and no one heard, not even the chair" (can you sing this in a box, can you sing this with a fox?)

10. The Killers- "Are we human, or are we dancers" (I don't know, but I'm pretty sure we're buying ear plugs.)

11. Nelly, Diddy, Murphy Lee- "Is that yo ass, or yo momma half reindeer?" (a reindeer...on acid...could write a better song.)

13. Bread- "Baby, I'ma want you. Baby, I'ma need you." (baby, i'ma learn me somma dat English language ona deese daze).

14. Kelly Clarkson- "I know that I've got issues, but you're pretty messed up too. Anyway, I found out, I'm nothing without you" (Kel...Celine called. she wants her lyrics back.)

15. And last but definitely NOT least...Jimmy Webb- "Someone left the cake out in the rain, I don't think that I can take it, cuz it took so long to bake it and I'll never have that recipe again" (oh. my. God.)

10 Little Things I Already Knew

2009-01-27T19:18:00.000-08:00

1. White chocolate has no business calling itself chocolate.
2. Dogs take longer to pee when you're in a hurry.
3. I may never understand the appeal of un-toasted bagels, Justin Timberlake, or televised golf.
4. Standing near elevators makes me light-headed.
5. Rainy days and Mondays always get me down.
6. The Exorcist is a scary-ass movie.
7. Blue Man Group freaks me out.
8. Stacey London's gray hair patch also freaks me out.
9. Nobody beats the Wiz (ok, there were only 9 little things I already knew).
10. Friends and family are all that matter.

10 Little Things 2008 Taught Me

2009-01-20T20:30:00.000-08:00

1. Living with a 21 year old roommate is never boring.
2. Hearing your 21 year old roommate say, "my dad like, listens to the Beatles, but I don't really like, know what they sing," makes you want to impale yourself on your i-home.
3. Dogs really are man's...and woman's...best friends. Even smelly dogs.
4. In SoCal, when the weather girl says, "we can expect freezing temperatures," she means 59.
5. And, when your friends say, "let's meet at 7," they mean 8:30.
6. "Mean Girls" often peak in high school. Thank you Facebook.
7. Earthquakes feel more like swaying than shaking.
8. California is not as liberal as I thought. Down with Prop 8.
9. Virtual Memory means RAM and if you buy more you don't need to replace your laptop.
10. Joe Paterno should not retire...ever.

Dog Day Afternoon

2008-12-15T20:24:00.000-08:00

I wonder. Is it legal to sell your dog on Ebay? If so, I just might consider it.

Dog about Town...or more accurately, Dog About Apartment (actual name, Ginger) is dangerously close to going the way of "gently used" Ugg Boots and "like new" Louis Vuittan hand bags.

Don't get me wrong, I love her dearly.

She is, after all, the sweetest canine ever. Narry a mean bone in her 60 lb, once-brown, now-gray, sheds like a motha, Boxer body. But, she is also, and this is why I regularly threaten to put her up on the cyber auction block, as stubborn as the day is long.

A summer day. Not one of these short crappy winter days.

Aside from making sure her basic survival needs are met, Ginger's goal in life appears to be three-fold:
1. smell then immediately jump on all other dogs (not unreasonable)
2. slobber on as many things as possible (annoying, but hardly her fault given the size of her jowls)
3. make owner crazy (herein lies the problem)

To that end, Dog About Town employs some very high-level tactics against which I have no defense:

Tactic #1 involves staring and whining (yes, whining. not barking. not howling. whining. like a child. constantly. for reasons I have yet to decipher) for long periods of time each night. I don't know why. I am not even sure she knows why. But I think she knows it annoys the crap out of me.

Tactic #2 is to "cute" me into over-feeding her. Tail wagging, head tilting, spinning in circles, offering a paw and growling at her food bowl are all utilized. Tactic #2 is often used in conjunction with tactic #1 which is why she almost. always. wins. And, why she can barely get her fat furry ass up the stairs these days.

Tactic #3 is a stroke of genius, really. Stopping. In the middle of a walk...she just stops. And won't move. Not an inch. I have no idea what's going on in that kibble-sized brain of hers during this maneuver but I can only imagine it's her way of establishing some semblance of control. Like saying, "nobody puts baby in a corner."

Tactic #4a, the hunger strike, is her very best work. The hunger strike can occur at any time for any reason and typically lasts three-four weeks. Seemingly out of nowhere, Dog About Town decides there is more to cuisine than kibble and holds out for something better. Or, sometimes, she's just miffed because I moved her dog bed, or I got home a half hour later than usual, or I fed her at 7:20 am instead of 7:00 am.

Or...because I put a pink wig on her for Halloween ;)

During a hunger strike, Dog About Town will eat treats. She will eat people food. She will eat paper out of the bathroom trash can. But she will not eat dog food. There is no defense against tactic 4A because, if I don't capitulate within a certain period of time, she employs tactic 4b- fainting. I kid you not. she will pass. right. out.

Fabulous.

Despite her quirks and her apparent devotion to my impending insanity, I suppose I'll keep her a while longer. Unless, of course...someone wants to start the bidding at say $20?? Can't I get $25? Ok fine...I'll give ya a fin to take her ;0

Let's Talk Turkey

2008-11-17T19:47:00.000-08:00

Thanksgiving is right around the corner. And, while we are so blessed with wonderful families and plentiful tables, there are many many people who are not as fortunate living right in our neighborhoods. In an effort to stamp out hunger, please consider donating food or your time to feed the hungry this Thanksgiving.

Senior hunger is, heartbreakingly, reaching epidemic proportions in our country. Meals on Wheels is in need of volunteers to deliver food to shut-ins, namely the elderly, on Thanksgiving Day. This meal-delivery service provides a once-daily meal to those who are house-bound and have no means of getting their own food. Further, volunteers for Meals on Wheels are often the only human contact available for seniors who are alone and have no family or friends to visit them. So, a friendly face goes a long way.

I realize Thanksgiving is a family-gathering kind of day, but if you live far from family and, like me, have decided NOT to sell a kidney in order to afford flying home, please visit the Meals on Wheels website at http://www.mowaa.org/Page.aspx?pid=183 and offer your time...and your car...to this very important cause.

In the DC area, the DC Central Kitchen is always in need of turkey donations so they can supply a nice hot turkey dinner to the hundreds of homeless people they service. You can even make a "virtual" turkey donation on their website, http://www.dccentralkitchen.org/.

If you live in LA, check out the LA Regional Food Bank at http://www.lafightshunger.org/ and see how you can help feed needy families in the Los Angles area. For west-siders, please visit www.mealsonwheelswest.org for volunteer opportunities in and around Santa Monica. And, in NYC, go to http://www.citymeals.org/support_landing?origin=ggmealsonwheels.

Everybody deserves a meal...at least one meal...everyday. Especially on Thanksgiving.

Tattoo You

2008-10-24T22:44:00.001-07:00

The thought of placing an indelible mark on my body has, in years past, scared the crap out of me. Tattoos have always had a sexy, weirdly freeing appeal to me and I've toyed with the idea many times before but it was always just too can't-take-it-back. Too no-do-overs.

So, I don't know if it's the California left wing art vibe within which I'm (blissfully) ensconced or if that last quake caused a crack in the foundation of my commitment phobia but... i did it. I got inked.

The decision to finally do it came to me relatively easily as I responsibly reviewed the pros and cons...over beers at a sports bar with my friend Ashley from Georgia. Ashley has "been there, done that"...thrice...so she seemed like the perfect person to talk it over with. "I think I wanna do it...I should just do it, right?" I half ask. "If you been wantin' one for a long time," she says in her contagious southern drawl that always makes me start talking with a twang too, "you should just go for it, girl. I'll even go with ya...'cuz it's gonna hurrrrrt."

Come again? hurt? Hold on one Georgia Bulldoggone second. If there is one thing I'm more committed to than my commitment phobia, it's my avoidance of pain. Not to mention, I feel completely mislead. I have seen several episodes of Miami ink and not one customer has ever indicated there might be pain involved. No one says "ouch" or "hey, that hurts" or looks anything but completely zen. hurt? no fair.

"Really?" I say. "Ummm, they do use a needle," Ashley quips, "and if you're gonna go gettin' it on the back of your neck...on those bones in your spine...it's gonna hurt like hell! But, you'll be fine," she assures. "I just wouldn't advise drinking before-hand though, because it thins your blood." blood???

Three Amstel Lights later, I decided to move forward with the inking. The pro prevailed in a valiant battle against the cons. The pro...is the same thing that caused me to try alligator bites at the DC waterfront, snails at a French Bistro in NYC, and sky diving in New Jersey. It's exactly why I got my belly button pierced in the 90's. It's the reason I got Scuba Certified in a frigid, murky quarry in Virginia, went repelling in the rain in Great Falls Park, tried White Water Rafting on class 4 rapids in West Virginia, and let myself be coaxed into eating raw fish wrapped in rice for the first time. More than having a tattoo, I wanted the experience of getting one...pain, blood and all.

In preparation, Ash and I spent an exhausting day combing LA for the perfect tattoo parlor. Okay, we drove to 3 places...but they were at least a mile apart each and we were starving so it SEEMED like a long day (here, I could insert the story about how we finally stopped at Wendie's in West Hollywood for burgers and ended up parked in front of a large woman's gnarly, hairy, naked backside...but I prefer never to speak of it again).

First stop...Velvet Grip. We're greeted by a tat-laden artist named Dave who gives us his undivided attention and doesn't wince when I tell him I just want 3 simple, five-point, one-color stars symbolizing my brother and 2 sisters (akin to asking Chagall to paint-by-number). We instantly like Dave and the price is right.

Predictably, we also check out Kat VonD's infamous High Voltage Tattoo (home of the reality show LA Ink) where we push our way past droves of picture-snapping tourists and no sooner get in the door when a lovely and not at all pretentious (yes, that was sarcasm) woman states with all the warmth of an eskimo, "$250 minimum ladies." k. bye now.

Shamrock Club on Sunset, our third and final stop, could easily have been mistaken for a Hell's Angels hideout. Our skinny jeans weren't welcome there and besides, the place seemed...icky, so we made our exodus faster than we could say Hep C.

Two weeks later, I was back at Velvet Grip...in Dave's chair... awaiting my self-imposed torture with only Ashley's upbeat personality and the hope that the 1/2 a beer I had just drunk at the pub next door would act as a numbing agent, to keep me from running. To my surprise, needle hit skin and it really wasn't that bad. In fact...I kinda liked it.

I adore my tattoo and I'm so glad I got it. It is meaningful to me in so many ways, not the least of which is the outward expression of my rebellious side. But, more importantly, I have the memory of the experience. Now, for my next adventure. Tomato Fights in Spain anyone??

Let's Dance

2008-05-29T20:39:00.000-07:00

In my quest to live life to the fullest and try new and challenging things, I decided to join my friend, Amy, in Salsa class on Thursday nights. Keep in mind, I have NEVER ever attended a dance class before in my life. No ballet twirls in Kindergarten, no jazz hands in elementary school, no craze-of-the-90's swing lessons. The closest I ever came to dance class was cheerleading in high school, which required little or no actual dance moves. This should be interesting.

On the afternoon of my first class, I asked Amy what I should wear to class. She said she was going to wear "something she could move in." "Don't worry about how you look," she said, "just be comfortable." "You don't even have to shower for class. There is no one in there to impress at all- It's just one little old Chinese man and the dance instructor." Famous. Last. Words.

Remembering what Amy said, I, in all my wisdom, headed to class that night in (ready for this) black spandex biker-pants and an ill-fitting, way too short, supremely unflattering, white tee- shirt. Something I can move in. Perfect. Class starts and it's just Amy, the instructor and me. Great! A semi-private lesson! I need all the help I can get in order to avoid looking like Elaine from Seinfeld. We're moving, we're doing a couple of slow easy steps, and I'm keeping up. So far so good. I can do this.

Enter the hottest guy alive. Now, I'm fixated on the instructor's feet and using every ounce of energy I have to learn the steps so I don't notice "Hot" walk in and start dancing behind me. Step out and back and hold and step and back and hold... Got it! "Okay," the instructor says, "now let's add music." The music starts and meanwhile, unbeknownst to me, Amy is using every ounce of HER energy trying not to burst out laughing about the fact that "Brad Pitt" is dancing behind me. She finds the whole thing rather amusing, considering my spandex and the fact that she told me not to shower.

The music is playing and I'm keeping up. Okay, good, got it, I'm such a good dancer, ha, this is easy, I rock, I got this. And then, out of freakin' nowhere, the instructor goes headlong into this twirl-turn-step-twist-Rerun-from-What's Happening sequence that seems to take place at warp speed and my head is spinning. I'm losing my balance...I'm dancing out of time...I'm lost...I'm confused... and all the while I'm making this contorted what-the-heck-is-he-doing squinty puzzled face.

Mercifully, the song ends after what seems like four or five years. I try to gather my composure and mumble in frustration and light amusement, "oh, I really stink at this!" "If it's any consolation," says a voice, "that was really hard and the music was going really fast." Huh? I look up to thank him for his kind words and realize the Son of God himself just spoke to me. In the words of Ralph Cramdon- hummana, hummana, hummana. I reply with something clever like, "thanks" and dizzily stumble away. I've always been smooth.

A few seconds later, four girls come running into class, obviously late for their weekly lesson. They have all been in this Salsa class before. They can all dance. They are all wearing jeans and heels and cute trendy shirts and no spandex at all. Amy...can also dance and sports no spandex. I look really stupid. Why do I have to be wearing spandex and Reebok's and looking stupid tonight? I could have done that on Tuesday night when I was home alone watching American Idol.

Eventually, I managed to follow along fairly well for a beginner and, as luck would have it, we girls got to rotate between dancing with the instructor and dancing with "Hot." Hot dances really well. Hot speaks quietly and smiles coyly and helps us all dance better. He is 6'1" and dressed in jeans and a fitted rocker-boy tee-shirt. He has longish-blondish hair and the face of a Calvin Klein model and holy crap I'm dancing with him. I'm dancing with Hot. Kill me now, I'm in spandex.

In the end...I actually learned some Salsa steps. I also learned that Hot's given name is Ian and that he will be back next week. Me too, Ian...me too. Amy was able to hold her laughter until we got to the parking garage. We cracked up and talked about how dreamy Hot was and what are the chances and wow and I bet he's an actor and he's coming back next week and yay! Amy is already planning the wedding. She thinks all the bridesmaids should wear spandex.

About A Bunny

2008-03-31T19:10:00.001-07:00

It's Good Friday. You wake up, put yourself together and head off to work thinking you look alright. You like the jeans you're wearing and...you didn't wash your hair today, but you're only going to your office where two other women (and one male you aren't the least bit attracted to) work, and it's basically a warehouse anyway, so who cares and besides...you look alright.

You decide to make a pit stop. Today, you'll treat yourself to your favorite coffee because it's Good Friday, and it's sunny in California even on Good Friday, and well...you deserve it. Walking into Starbucks, you're thinking of the smooth, warm beverage that will start your Easter weekend off on the right foot. You're thinking you better hurry or you'll be late for work. You're just thinking your benign little thoughts and then...you see it. Not it, so much, as her. The bunny. No, not the illusive Easter Bunny...or his furry wife. THE Bunny. Hef's Bunny. Holly Madison. Are you freakin' kidding me? I should have washed my hair today.

Your self image cracks like the shells of the eggs you have yet to dye. Holy cottontails Batman, the girl is beautiful. And, disappointingly, not in that gossipy "she only looks so good because she's plastic and fake and is caked with gobs of make-up and has a hair stylist blah, blah, blah, kind of way". No, she's standing there, ordering a latte, in her faded jeans and a sweatshirt (okay, a really cute,fitted, zip-up, bright green, Juicy Couture sweatshirt, but still a sweatshirt) and her little Chuck Taylor sneakers and she's truly beautiful. You sigh...and then mentally throw up your decaf, non-fat, one pump mocha right there on the caffeine soaked floor.

She's tiny. About 5'4" you estimate. And about a size 2. Her hair is not "done" and she doesn't have on a lot of make-up...not even lip gloss...and she's stunning. Immediately, your mind is racing with thoughts of dying your hair platinum blonde, followed by thoughts of wonderment about how your hair is dry from a few highlights so how come she practically washes her hair in Clorox and yet it's glossy and bouncy? You think better of dying your hair, and move on to wondering about her skin. Yeah, she's 28, and she's rich (being "kept" by a wealthy old Playboy qualifies as rich) and she probably has a great dermatologist and an on-staff skin specialist and gets 3 facials a week, but you have never seen skin that smooth before...except on a babies behind. It's like she was air bushed just before leaving the Mansion. You hate her.

Except, you can't. Because, horror of all horrors, she's nice. And friendly. And, actually seems pretty down to earth. She's chatting with different people who walk in. People she seems to know. Regular, everyday people she has probably seen at that Starbucks before. Her demeanor is not that of pretension or fame, but of the sweet "girl next door". Only, the regular kind of "girl next door"- not the kind who live in notorious, lavish mansions with two other curvy platinum- blonde friends, a slew of servants and the oldest bachelor in town. She does, however, clearly know she's gorgeous. It's in the way she stands, the way she acts. She knows she's the best looking thing in that Starbucks. In any Starbucks. In any anything. And, she's right. Gorgeous and likable. Gag me. I should have washed my hair today...in Clorox.

But, that's LA. It's what you sign up for. Everything...is just different here. It's always sunny, even on Good Friday. There are famous faces everywhere. And, it's never Easter until the Playboy Bunny drops in for a latte.