Wills + Kate

Did you watch the Royal Wedding?  I certainly did. Probably about four times. To a princess in waiting, this is big news.  I have been in love with Prince William for as long as I can remember. Well, until Harry grew out of his awkward ginger phase into the seriously dashing, rebellious young prince he is. Really, there is a postcard of Wills that has made it’s home on my parents refrigerator for at least a decade. It now feels slightly wrong leaving it up there, being that he is a married man and all. But in any case, Harry is still available, isn’t he? I’m sorry, but on again off again girlfriend Chelsy Davy arrived disheveled, looking like a royal hot mess. Definitely no Diana.

Dominating every channel on television for days, the royal wedding was hard to escape. And seriously, why would you want to? I mean, she arrived in a car as a commoner and left in a carriage as a princess. Seriously. So even though Kate stole my boyfriend and preempted my fantasy wedding by one day, I still have Derek, and I still attended the royal wedding in my pajamas, and a tiara. I even made a union jack fruit pizza for the occasion, seen here. Recipe below.

Providing the champagne, and joining my mom, sister and I for the first royal wedding of my lifetime was my fellow fashion policeman, Cecelia. Obviously, Posh and Becks were our highlights. While Princesses Beatrice and Eugenie could have used some work. The Queen looked like an Easter egg. And Kate was stunning. Seriously, the picture of perfection. Such a major moment for Sarah Burton. A McQueen fit for a queen. The perfect combination of modern style and classic elegance. Obviously, I could go on and on.

 

But the wedding. Let’s talk about the wedding. How excruciating was that four minute walk down the aisle? I just loved when Harry turned around to check out Kate as she came closer. Obviously, because I love everything about Harry, but also because I thought it was such a tender moment between the two brothers. I’m not sure what he said when he nudged Wills, but I’d like to think it was something like, She’s far too good looking for you, or maybe Are you sure? I even read one report – yes, I read reports about the royal wedding – that thought Harry had said I bet she’s not wearing any knickers. What a charmer. And did you just die when they first locked eyes and William turned to his blushing bride with the happiest of smiles telling her she looked beautiful. Swoon. Loved that they replaced I do with I will and obey with keep. And that kiss. I mean kisses. I die. 

In case you’ve forgotten, my wedding is this evening. Obviously, I’ve imposed a mandatory fascinator dress code. I’ve invited Elton John to sing in the choir. And I plan on wearing Alexander McQueen. Or something that looks like it. I better go get ready. 

Union Jack Flag Fruit Pizza

Ingredients

Crust

1 pouch (1 lb 1.5 oz) Betty Crocker® sugar cookie mix

1/2 cup butter or margarine, softened

1 egg

Filling

1 package (8 oz) cream cheese, softened

1/3 cup sugar

1/2 teaspoon vanilla

Topping

4 cups sliced fresh strawberries

3 cups fresh blueberries

1 cup fresh raspberries

Directions

1. Heat oven to 350°F. Line 15x10x1-inch or 13x9-inch pan with foil. Spray bottom only of foil with cooking spray. In large bowl, stir cookie mix, butter and egg until soft dough forms. Press evenly in bottom of pan. Bake 15 to 20 minutes or until light golden brown. Cool completely, about 30 minutes.

2. In small bowl, beat cream cheese, sugar and vanilla with electric mixer on medium speed until fluffy. Spread mixture over cooled crust.

3. Arrange fruit over cream cheese. Refrigerate at least 1 hour until chilled. To serve, cut into 5 rows by 4 rows. Cover and refrigerate any remaining fruit pizza.

Dr. Derek York

Please forgive my absence. When you hear my extraordinary tales of eating and drinking, I believe you will. While this may be delayed, I’d love to share these stories with you in chronological order from beginning to end. So yes, that means you’ll be celebrating my birthday well into the summer, because well, I did an awful lot of celebrating. 

So let’s start from the beginning. Yes, that’s me. In the “Bride To Be” Sash. With the loveliest bridal party a bride to be could ever imagine. Headed up by my very own tour guide – wedding planner – maid of honor, Jaclyn and my partners in crime – Kelly and Andi [who I genuinely think need their own reality show after witnessing them attempt to pack up and get on the road the morning after]. Because really, if you’re going to vacation in Vegas, celebrating your bachelorette party is the only way to do it. And if you’re going to do it, you might as well do it right.

Arriving Saturday morning, we checked in to the Bellagio and immediately kicked off the celebration of my upcoming nuptials to Dr. Derek York – my ironman triathlete/pediatrician from Connecticut doing his residency at Cedar-Sinai. Obviously. [He proposed at the top of the Ferris wheel at the Santa Monica Pier. I know, right?] Heading straight to the pool, Liquid at Aria, we instantly found our home nestled in a cabana, shared with a bachelor party no less. You’d be surprised how many people are eager to convince a blushing bride out of her impending marriage.  Apparently marriage is the biggest mistake I could ever make – according to the married men on a business trip in the cabana next door. Or maybe you’re not that surprised. But my love for Derek is great – and my ring is massive – so I was not easily persuaded. After enough sun, we opted for dinner off the strip at Blue Martini, met the bachelors at Haze followed by a vodka-red bull fueled dance party at Jet. Only to do it all again the next day – Sunday, the day of rest.

So we headed to Rehab. Obviously. And let me say, I have never seen so much steroids and silicon, terrible tattoos and bad decisions in one afternoon - in my entire existence. After spending the day in an episode of the Jersey Shore, we changed out of our bikinis and headed to Bank, then to The Villas at The Mirage where we pranced around in fuzzy house slippers sipping white Russians. Monday we found ourselves back at The Mirage, back in our bikinis, at Bare - the European style pool, complete with a 39 year old train wrecks ribbon dancing the day away, singing karaoke – without a karaoke machine, but rather a plastic fake microphone. Seriously though, I’d like to put a cap on celebrating your birthday in Vegas at 30. Please remind me of this when I’m trying to celebrate the 9^th anniversary of my 30^th birthday in Sin City. Monday night, I fell in love. With this guy. Afrojack has a residency at XS and after making our way to the stage to see the action first hand, it was love at first scratch. Smoking cigarettes and chugging grey goose, Afrojack was unstoppable, and unreal. Be still my heart. But back to Derek. Right. Before pouncing right on to the turn tables, we headed to Marquee, then the obligatory strip club, and ended with a mandatory spin at the roulette table. By Tuesday we were more than ready to go.

 
In a delirious state, we went straight to the airport after lunch and jumped on the first flight available. Returning to reality, and devouring far too much greasy Mexican food any normal person should consume, midnight came and went and I turned twenty four as my maid of honor combed through my knotted, pool party tangled hair, giggling about our trip in to the wee hours of the morning. Because, really, whether you’re turning four, or twenty four, birthday slumber parties never get old.

So if you’re planning on traveling to Las Vegas, whether you’re celebrating a birthday, have a serious gambling addiction, or you’re partying the night away for your last night of freedom – real or not – I offer the following suggestions. Be prepared. Bring snacks. Pack more swimsuits than dresses. Invest in sunglasses that fit into your clutch [when you’re coming home as the sun is rising, you’ll thank me]. Be on the same page, and stick with the story. Keep your real name, you won’t remember your fake one. Don’t buy your own drinks. Don’t pour your own drinks. That’s what having a table is for. Spray tan and apply sunscreen. Make friends. Be safe. And don’t get in the water. Now if only these club beats would stop pounding between my ears. 

P.S. You're all invited to mine and Derek's wedding, next Saturday, April 30th at my family's vineyard. I really hope you can make it. We're registered here. 

t w e n t y f o u r

Vegas Vacation

This time tomorrow, I’ll most certainly be scorched, sporting a glorious sunburn – that no one will be able to see because I’ll be so incredibly spray tanned – with a giant blended drink in hand lounging by the pool in Las Vegas with three of the funniest gals a girl could ask for. That’s right, four of us wolves, running around the desert together, Las Vegas, looking for strippers and cocaine. Okay, maybe not the last part, but there are four of us. In Las Vegas. I know, I’m nervous too.

Remember when I told you nothing cool happens when you turn twenty four? Well, I lied. Aside from the obvious two week celebration that is standard with every one of my twenty three birthdays to date, apparently when you turn twenty four, you go to Vegas. Don’t worry if you didn’t know, this is news to me too. This weekend happens to be the launch of the Las Vegas pool party season and predicted temperatures are in the nineties. Fine, twist my arm – I’ll celebrate my birthday in Vegas. At the risk of sounding like a total square, I have to tell you this will be my first vegas trip. While I’ve been to Las Vegas, it wasn’t the type of weekend I’m anticipating this time around. For starters, I was twelve. I sampled flavors of Coca Cola from around the world. I rode roller coasters at New York, New York. I toured the M&M factory – and threw a tantrum until my mom purchased an M&M nascar jacket that I obviously needed? And ended up wearing to a white trash party in college. Thanks, Mom. On the agenda this weekend are pool parties and nightclubs, dinners and debauchery. Can I still ride the roller coasters? Anyway, never having been to vegas, I’m clueless in the area of preparation. Here’s what I’ve got so far. Let me know if I'm missing anything.

After dieting for about 45 minutes, I’ve opted for an alternate plan – spray tan, a serious spray tan. I’m talking Dancing With the Stars spray tan. Everyone looks better with a little color and I’m hoping I am no exception. As far as packing is concerned, my suitcase looks like Forever 21 went out of business. Or like a bag of glitter exploded. Because seriously, if you can’t wear sequins 24 hours a day in vegas, where can you? Nowhere. I also have about 47 swimsuits. False eyelashes. Cut off shorts. And far too many pairs of heels. And off I go.

So here’s to hoping I don’t fall in the pool, thus washing off my oh so natural orange hue. Come back hitched. Lose a tooth. Steal a tiger. Or find a baby. I absolutely can’t wait to tell you all about it. Or parts of it, most likely. So screw you, Coachella. I’ll party in another desert. I don’t even like Kings of Leon anyway. That’s a total lie. And I’m actually super devastated I’m missing it. But I suppose Las Vegas isn’t such a terrible alternative. So until Tuesday, Toodle loo Mother – wait, my mom reads this.  

Namaste

Nike Yoga Challenge. Cool, right?

My poor friend Austin. Working across the street from me, and avoiding a dreadful commute from Orange County, he’s taken over my guest bedroom on Mondays and Tuesdays. Technically, as I’ve already filled the closet with dresses and winter coats and the bathroom cabinets with nail polishes and sparkly band-aids – he’s taken over the guest bed, as that’s just about the only thing I haven’t claimed. I say poor Austin because I subject him to an hour and a half of terrible B-list celebrities dancing on Monday, and an even worse, and entirely predictable results show in which one of said B-list celebrities is eliminated – only to go on to star in, or host some show of their own, I’m sure – the following night. Not only do I subject Austin to terrible television, but I drag him to crazy delicious vegan restaurants and, as was the case last night – yoga.

Before you start thinking I’m some hippie weirdo who doesn’t eat cheeseburgers, wears Teva sandals and practices yoga with feathers in my hair, allow me to stop you. That just sounds so granola. I love a good burger, medium rare, oozing with cheddar and I think people who don Teva sandals must be stopped. I did, however, just purchase these to die for hair feathers that I absolutely cannot wait to sport and I do love yoga.

 I must admit, my love affair with this ancient Indian spiritual practice began out of vanity. Jennifer Aniston practices yoga. So obviously I needed to too. Why else would anyone do anything unless Jennifer Aniston did it first? An immature little yogi, it was a miracle if I could make it through an entire class without erupting in laughter, while attempting to mask it by coughing, and ultimately laughing even harder. Some people just take yoga so seriously. They moan and grunt while twisting their bodies in the most awkward and compromising of positions, and call me childish, but I just couldn’t keep it together. It didn’t help that my favorite class was an 8:30am gentle yoga practice in which the next youngest yogi was 67 years old. Imagine your grandpa in spandex, grunting through a Surya Namaskara first thing in the morning. I don’t think so.

Graduating to more advanced classes, I’d say I’m getting much better – both in my yoga practice, and level of maturity, with the exception of the occasional giggle over someone’s “mat squeaking” in downward dog– no one believes you, by the way. Maturity aside, there are some things I just will not do. I will not om and I will not cover myself in those old blankets. Nobody needs to hear my attempt at harmonizing, and those blankets resemble something purchased in a flea market in Mexico, and displayed on the wall of my living room sophomore year of college. But aside from that, I’m game. And so was Austin, who honestly was a pro. And as I walked in to the studio in head to toe lululemon with a starbucks in hand, reminded me we’re too materialistic for anyone to think we’re hippies. Maybe the feathers will give me a more organic feel? I certainly hope so. 

Namaste. 

We're going streaking.

How was your weekend? Wonderful, I hope. I spent mine with my mom’s college family – greek family, but family none the less – celebrating birthdays of all sorts. And it was fantastic. Kicking off the festivities with bloody mary’s and a spa day in Palm Springs, not even the inevitable sunburn could have spoiled my mood. I’m wearing it as a badge of honor. A red badge of honor. That has surprisingly turned into a shade of almost tan-ish, which is somewhere in between eggshell and strawberry ice cream, but a step up from translucent, so I’ll take it. While my mom and her Theta sisters continued the party with luncheons and mixers honoring their sorority’s 100^th birthday, I spent the rest of my weekend making cootie catchers, painting my fingers and toes a lovely shade of purple, playing drinking games like a college kid, and sleeping way too late – all in the same outfit, as I wasn’t planning on staying through the weekend, and thus did not pack accordingly.  Why is it always the one time you don’t over pack is the one time you should have? Correction – all in the same two outfits, as in true spaz attack fashion, I managed to spill coffee down the front of my stripped sweater. Thank goodness for Target, and the incredible blowout sale on – you guessed it – stripped sweaters. And in my opinion, a girl can never have too many stripped sweaters. One should always be prepared to sail around the world on a gorgeous yacht at any moment. Which reminds me, must add these to my birthday wish list. And this while I’m at it.

My family and I have been heading down south to visit my parent's alma mater for as long as I can remember. Hearing stories of my parents in college is always hilarious, and traumatizing at the same time. My mom and dad met in college so I can always count on a really entertaining story, until I remember that we’re talking about my parents here and I instantly want to throw up. Because parents don’t party. I mean, mine don’t, as far as I’m concerned anyway. My parents never drank out of red cups. They don’t know what a keg stand is, or how to play flip cup. They go to sleep at a reasonable hour and they’ve never been so hungover that In n Out is the only remedy. Okay, so I know my parents partied. Obviously. I’ve heard the stories. But I feel oh so much better thinking they didn’t. Allow me to elaborate. What did you do in college? I know I had a blast, and I certainly hope you did as well. Do you really want to think of your parents having that much fun too? Absolutely not. On second thought, as parents, do you want to think of your kids having as much fun as you did? That actually sounds a lot worse. So mom, I don’t drink out of red cups either. I’ve never done a keg stand. I don’t know how to play flip cup. I don’t even like In n Out. And no, please don’t ask any further questions. Okay friends, my lips are sealed as long as yours are. I think our future children will appreciate it.

And besides, we all made it out alive, right? 

Right.

Movie Theater Etiquette

If we’re speaking honestly - and considering I told you I cried over a leather jacket, I’m on the verge of a quarter life crisis and I nearly puked in the gym, I’d say we have a pretty honest relationship – I have to tell you something. I’m not the most punctual of people. I don’t do it on purpose, and I mean no disrespect, I just tend to lose track of time. While I may not always be on time, I am never tardy for the party (is that still funny?) and I never arrive late with a coffee. Seriously, nothing is ruder than arriving late with a latte in hand. If you’re running behind, you definitely did not have enough time to stop at Coffee Bean. Obviously. So not only am I not on time, but I am not caffeinated, and not happy. Maybe if I grabbed my coffee before I started getting ready I would move faster, thus arriving on time? Then again, I have to get ready before I can be seen at a coffee shop. I mean, what came first – the chicken or the egg? I suppose this will forever remain a conundrum.

 There is, however, an exception to this rule – I always arrive late to the movies with a deliciously brewed caffeinated beverage of some sort, and you better believe my Marry Poppins bag is stuffed with snacks.  When I’m not inhaling my concession stand standard – popcorn and M&M’s together, and usually demolished before the previews end and the movie begins – I’m doing some serious munching. I’ve packed personal bags of bin candy, slices of apple with peanut butter, even Cold Stone ice cream – with a lid on, of course – and all with the same partner in crime, Jaclyn; the Siskel to my Ebert.

Having finished an iced soy latte, and Jaclyn’s brain needing a much deserved break from her anatomy textbooks, we changed our pace and headed for an evening showing of Limitless with my boyfriend, Bradley Cooper, stopping at Chipotle on the way. This is where the debate began. Cutting it close on time, obviously, Jaclyn suggested we take our burritos to go and enjoy in the theater. I on the other hand, preferred to spare other theatergoers and stuff my face in a matter of minutes prior to being seated, hoping to only miss the previews. Some foods are just not appropriate theater food, and I feel Chipotle is just one of them – if nothing more than because had I been someone else in the theater not eating Chipotle, I would have been so insanely tormented by the delicious aroma, crunching of the chips, and overall jealously that I wasn’t eating it myself, that I would be unable to enjoy the movie. Jaclyn differed, but only because she was one of the people enjoying Chipotle. So, I propose the following question – who’s side are you on?

In any case, the movie was unreal amazing. Two thumbs up. And we definitely both agreed on that. So much so that we sat in the theater long after it was over to discuss. But, I do have a few more questions. If you have not seen Limitless, please read no further. Or do, but I warned you.

-------

1.     How sexy is Bradley Cooper?

2.     Do you think he killed that girl in the hotel?

3.     Did you cover your eyes when he slurped the blood, too?

4.     Do you think his politician hair cut grew out in time to film The Hangover 2?

5.     Does that drug really exist?

And if you were wondering, we allowed ourselves seven minutes to eat as much as we could before we packed up, arriving with perfect timing. Jaclyn finished hers in the theater, while I wished I did too, until I got home and devoured it then. And if there's one thing better than Chipotle, it's leftover Chipotle. 

Please meet my new friend Vivian.

Since we first met at Madison in Malibu, where most of my longest and most remarkable relationships have taken flight, Vivian and I have been inseparable. From the moment I laid eyes on Vivian, I knew we would get along famously. But let me stop gushing about her, and let you meet her yourself. Friends, this is Vivian.

Vivian takes shape in the most perfect wooden wedge with leather straps known to mankind. Without a doubt, Vivian is everything. Okay - at the risk of sounding materialistic – I’ll admit it, some possessions just make me the happiest girl. Allow me to elaborate. I’ve been known to fall asleep in clogs because I just loved them too much to take off. I’ve cried tears of joy over the most beautiful scalloped edge, brown butter leather Tory Burch coat. And I’ve worn outfits out of the dressing room because I just couldn’t live one more second without them. While I can’t say for certain as I haven’t experienced it, if I could compare the joy Vivian brings me, I would liken it seeing a baby take its first steps. Maybe I shouldn’t be having children anytime soon. And that’s fine, because I have Vivian, and I just can’t wait to introduce her to the killer wide leg jeans I just picked up from the tailor, the maxi dresses in my closet awaiting her arrival, and the cut off shorts that are dying to take Viv out to the beach.

 

Vivian makes me feel so retro. So Farrah Fawcett. So 70’s. And I even got the stamp of approval from my very own flower child, my mom. My lovely mother was in Los Angeles for the weekend, and witnessed her very own daughter fall in love at first sight. Giving me the thumbs up, my momma pranced through Europe in a pair of wooden wedges herself at the sweet age of 17. So if someone wanted to send me to Europe, I wouldn’t be opposed. I mean, I do have the perfect shoes.

Speaking of my mom, she really is wonderful. And no, I’m not saying this to earn brownie points, or edge out my sister for favorite daughter of all time, I did that long ago. But thank you, mom, for the early birthday present. And for cooking me dinner and leaving leftovers. And for the beautiful flowers on my desk. And for the most hilarious moustache stamp that will be gracing every piece of paper that passes through my hands. I’m not sure how I got so lucky to have such a phenomenal mother, but I’m sure I’ll be getting back everything I ever dished out in the form of an obnoxious daughter just like me someday. I should start hoping for boys. And now I’m one of those creepy girls who talks about imaginary future children. Great.

That's my baby sister, Madeline. My mom. And yours truly.