Tag Archives: travel

The Hollywood kiss…

2 Nov

Four years ago, my best friend lost her mother – as in, she died. Long struggle with brain cancer. She wanted me and the hubby there as support so of course we went.

It was there I met HIM the first time. HE was her brother’s best friend. Like me, HE was married too. We sat next to each other and over idle chit chat, we found a love of fine wine and good food. And maybe more, but we were both married at the time.

Fast forward two years.

I met HIM again at his best friend’s (my best friend’s brother’s) fall music festival in Sonoma. HE was now divorced, and I was recently separated. We caught up on each other’s failed marriages and found some laughter. But since I was dating Rock at the time, that’s all there was.

Fast forward two years.

About a month ago, I returned to the fall music festival in Sonoma with a group of girls and HE was there. Single. And so was I. Single.

We connected. Kissed. Laughed. Talked. Shared good wine, and good food. Over some Pad Thai, and later some Paella, we talked about us. The trouble with this one is this – he lives in Hollywood. I live in the burbs of San Francisco.

That afternoon, we agreed to see where this would lead. For starters, he would bring me to his neck of the woods and we would go from there. About a week later, we agreed on the weekend and he sent me a ticket.

I wasn’t nervous. At least, not until that morning, when all of a sudden, it dawned on me that I was going to visit a man I barely knew for two nights and he was, well, living amongst the rich and famous. Since he was my best friend’s brother by choice (she grew up knowing him), I wasn’t worried in any other regard.

Kiss me like you mean it...

Kiss me like you mean it…

When I arrived, he gave me what I lovingly refer to as a Hollywood kiss – you know the kind… Bags drop, full embrace, lips lock. It was very nice. Smiling still, thinking about it.

His plan for the first night was to bring me to his place, meet his cute little puppy, have a martini, then go to a swanky little French restaurant on Sunset. So up we go, through various canyons and into the hills. He happens to live in the Hollywood Hills you see, and since I’m not really sure what that meant before going there, let me tell you… Stars live there. As we pass Kanye West’s abode, with security crew outside, I start to realize what I might have got myself into. You see, HE lives a few doors down.

After a stiff martini, he opens a lovely bottle of french wine. It speaks to me as I’m a huge wine whore. And it relaxes me. But alas, we must leave his surreal digs and venure out to dinner. As we passed the Chateau Marmont, the Viper Room, and yes, the Pink Taco, all within minutes of his home, I started to feel this was still as surreal as I thought.

Over oysters and more wine, we meet two lovely older ladies and laughed and took pictures. Now, this is what I’m used to. Having silly fun and being me. It was a wonderful night and it felt very special.

The next morning, I awakened without the dreaded red wine hang over. Yay me! He was making breakfast for us, and I promised, while I’m not a huge morning eater, I would definitely try what he made. He made sweet potato pancakes with creme fraische and caviar and heirloom tomatoes with burrata cheese. WHAT’S NOT LOVE THERE??? Except I could only eat half, because, well, I don’t eat that much in the morning.

For lunch, he drove us up the coast to Malibu. He’s still regretting his choice of fried food, but we spent the entire time both on the drive and in the place laughing and talking. Afterward, we went to a swanky bar for a martini on the ocean and met some wonderful couple celebrating her birthday.

When we got back to his place, we took his little puppy out for a walk and chatted with some neighbors. I sorta forgot where I was. You know, Hollywood Hills. I felt a kinship with this woman about my age who is about to go to Tibet for 12 weeks on some mission (Hell, people in Berkeley do that all the time right??) and asked her to come over for a glass of wine. She said maybe next time – in a very sweet way – and it wasn’t until I got back to HIS place that I realized, this was an actress who probably thought I was insane.

HE was charming the entire weekend and we clearly like each other. A lot. As he dropped me back off at the airport on Sunday, we once again share a Hollywood style kiss.  We shall see where this bi-coastal friendship will go. Like I said in my earlier post, I’m in no rush.

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Post-note… I wasn’t feeling so hot after so much wine and martini’s that weekend. I was sorta hungover on Sunday. HE sent me a gift afterward… A beautiful luxurious chenille robe to comfort me. I got it last Wednesday, just in time to enjoy while I was suffering a head cold.

Next time, he visits my hood and sees how simply I live. 🙂

I heart traveling…

1 Feb

I recently hired a new product manager who works out of our Pasadena office. Which means I get to go visit my favorite cupcakeries (Dots and Violets). Schwing!

But this also means I have to get my ass back on an airplane for the hour long trip from Oakland to Burbank.

It goes like this folks… I fly Southwest Airlines, with the humorous flight attendants who like to sing and make horse-y noises when we land, and crappy Finlandia vodka. It’s like public transit in the sky, with open seating.

Because I’m a seasoned traveler, I’m an A-lister which is slang for “I get to board before you people with your small kids and oversized shopping bags. Ha ha!” and I do my best to discourage ANYONE from sitting in the middle seat. I spread all my stuff onto that seat, I talk loudly on my phone (even if I’m not really talking to anyone). I turn my back to the aisle and avoid eye contact AT ALL TIMES. One false move and the next thing you know, you’ve got a neighbor who wants the arm rest and a new BFF.

Now because I’m very thin and drop dead gorgeous (and apparently conceited), I tend to attract people to the middle seat. It’s not so bad when it’s an Asian person as they are generally thin themselves and tend to keep to themselves, but when it’s the fatties… Sorry heavy people, I must qualify the term “fatty”. If your waist size and/or overall circumference exceeds that of a plane seat, you’re a fatty. Otherwise, you’re just American.

Now, don’t get me wrong, I feel all sorts of sadz for fatties on flights. They just look so uncomfortable, all squished in and overflowing like that, but I don’t want them sitting on or rubbing up against me. It offends me.

Last week, “Pat” sat next to me. You know what I’m saying here. Dudette with a ‘stache, man-hair, man-hands, and man-pants. But with boobs. Pat was a 280-lady. She lifted the arm rest between us and literally shared my seat.

In fairness she was nice – we chatted about our mutual love of San Francisco – but she ate a scone on the plane and it kept crumbling onto her moobs and when she brushed said crumbs off her shelf, it landed all over me. Plus, she had some sort of apnia issue and kept making a gurling/grunting sound. It was undaunting and freaked me the fuck out. Did I mention Pat farted twice? I held my breath and placed my wrist against my nose just in case the gas smelled as rank as I pictured it.

Mostly, travel is easy. Except when I get lost. And I do love my heavenly shower and room service, and I don’t have to make the bed and there’s always fresh towels, and all my food and booze is free. So for one hour, I guess I can shut the fuck up and deal with some discomfort. Oh travel, how I heart thee.