Dear Grandpa

So. My grandpa died the other day. Or, my grandpa croaked the other day, as I’m sure he’d prefer we’d say it. I mean, he’s been prepping everyone for this day for as long as I can remember. But that doesn’t make this any easier. It sucks and I hate it.

I hate that he’s not here anymore. That he can’t call me to remind me to switch my clocks forward in the spring, even though my phone already does it for me. I hate that he’s not here to correct my grammar. To improve my vocabulary. To tell me hey is for horses. I hate that I can’t bring him egg salad sandwiches on Easter, and sit on his couch and tell him about my latest adventure. I hate that I can never again sit across from him for lunch at Red Rock Cafe. And I hate that there are people in this world that will never know him. I think that’s the worst part. Yeah, that’s definitely the worst part.

I hate that he’ll never write me another letter - written in a black felt tip pen, on yellow legal paper, important facts highlighted with red stars and hearts. That I never told him how special those letters were to me. That I’ve kept every single one of them. I hate that I have a letter here, a letter that I wrote, that my grandpa never received.

The evening of the 26^th was a rather restless one. Unable to sleep, I awoke before dawn with the urge to write my grandpa a letter. I’ve received weekly letters from my grandpa from the moment I left home six years ago, so in his declining health it seemed only fitting that I returned the gesture. I had written one previously, just a week before. But this time, when I set out to write, yellow legal pad in front of me, black felt tip pen in hand, all that came through me was grief. Not wanting to be overly sentimental (my grandpa was never big on that), I struggled with words. I shared with him my latest ventures, how festive my house was for the holidays, and how ready I was for a vacation from work. All the while trying to avoid the elephant in the room. But I never got to send it. It’s sitting here, on my nightstand, addressed and ready to go, but that’s as far as it’ll get. Later that morning, my grandpa passed. What initially started as cancer in his brain shortly took over his whole body, and then took his life just days after Christmas.

It only really feels real when I stop. When there’s nothing left to distract my mind. When something reminds me of him. The smell of tic tacs. A Brooks Brothers polo. A felt tip pen. It’s when I stop, that it hurts the most. My throat tightens. My eyes blur. And my jaw quivers. That’s when it’s the worst. Don’t get me wrong, my grandpa lived an incredible life. He traveled the world, raced fast cars, and had great loves. He leaves behind a great legacy, Napa is better because of him – there’s even a building with his name to prove it. The world is better because of him. An outstanding man, he sets the bar high. So high, I doubt anyone can fill his raggedy old topsider shoes. I just wish I had appreciated that more while he was here. That I would have smiled in the candid photos that were always his favorite to take. That I was more proud than embarrassed when he insisted on pulling in to the jock lot to pick me up from cheerleading practice. That I made more time for phone calls and lunches. So I guess if I could write another letter, that’s what I’d say. But I think he probably already knows, you know? Grandpa’s are smart like that. At least mine was. And he hates when I say you know. My bad.

Man, that was depressing. And long. Sorry about that one. I swear I’m usually not such a Debbie Downer. In fact, something cool happened today that was anything but depressing. Actually, it was the opposite of depressing. It was uplifting. I practiced yoga this morning guided by intention. Don’t ask, I saw a flyer for it and it sounded cool. And I’m an easy sell. The idea was to close this year in peace, and set your intention for the new. Um, hi perfect timing. We began the class with a piece of paper, a pen, and a prompt. I began to write. Part one was to ask. Ask for what you want. Part two was to act. And part three was to feel gratitude for whatever the outcome. We folded it up, set it under our mats and meditated on it throughout our practice, only to rip it up at the end, freeing ourselves of the past year.

You guys, my mom is probably dyinggg as she reads this right now. She’s tried to hammer this into my thick skull for forever. This is, like, her dream for me. It’s totally her mantra. I bet she’s read this at least seventeen times to make sure her eyes aren’t deceiving her. But it’s true, Mom. I did it.

I asked for peace. I know, I know. So general, but hear me out. I asked to be at peace with my grandpa’s passing. For patience and understanding because I know the process is tough. I asked for the strength to be okay. To be happy without him here. I think I could probably make that happen by giving myself a little grace. By being patient and trusting myself, and knowing that I can let my grandpa live through me. And for that, I’m grateful. 

Pins and Needles

some may say i have a low tolerance for pain

I feel like the second the leaves start to change – it’s go go go nonstop until they start to bloom again. I mean seriously, it’s like Halloween*, Thanksgiving, Christmas and New Years all happen before I can even catch my breath. I’m usually not a big fan of the winter months – I look like a drowned rat in the rain and I absolutely loathe being cold. But this year, I’m totally embracing it. So much so, that it’s exhausting.

Feeling a bit rundown, I decided to head to an acupuncture clinic. I know. But it’s Los Angeles after all, so give me a break. And I saw it on Groupon. Okay, and maybe I’m not the biggest fan of regular medicine. Not like modern medicine in general or anything like that, just that I don’t necessarily like taking DayQuil, you know? So I threw on some fringed boots and an organic cotton top, grabbed a kale juice and headed to The Emperor’s College in Santa Monica. Sometimes even I can’t believe how ridiculous I am.

I have this very serious condition I’ve diagnosed as I freak out in any kind of medical situation and hold my breath, thus causing my pulse and blood pressure to go totally bonkers syndrome. I don’t know if the medical community recognizes it yet. I think it has something to do with the way doctors give you verbal feedback so you know they’re listening, without either confirming or denying your very serious concerns. Saying hmm interesting when I tell you I’m afraid my arm will need to be amputated due to excessive pain in my right pinky finger does not put me at ease, doctors of the world.

After some poking and prodding and a lot of deep breaths, my medical intern told me I had low blood sugar, my kidneys were stressed, and my liver function was low. I believe this is what the medical community would call a Hot Mess, as the result of a Long Weekend. So I reclined on the tables and held my breath. Needles were pricked, for lack of a better term, in my big toes, the tops of my feet, sides of my shin, thumbs, hands, wrists, earlobes, and one in the very center of my forehead – for relaxation, obviously. And I’m happy to say it worked. My thumbs kind of swelled and my right big toe is still tingling, but I think it worked. After a short liver detox with herbs like milk thistle and something called Yin Qiao San I’m feeling better than ever. Yeah, I don’t know what the last one is either, but the doctor prescribed it to me so it must be good, right? Right.

*speaking of Halloween, did I ever show you my costume? We were Toddlers in Tiaras. Not photographed are our white ruffle socks and tule skirts. I mean.

Bullshit.

my sister and i on thanksgiving.

So I completely neglected Thanksgiving. Not like in real life. But like I haven’t told you all about it. It was probably a lot like yours. I went home. I went to local bars the night before. I saw everyone I have ever seen in my whole life. All crowded in to one place. This place being my favorite Chinese takeout restaurant in downtown Napa that let a bunch of rowdy kids take over their dining room and continued to sell us beer far longer than they probably should have. The next day, I had dinner with my family. A delicious dinner, thanks to my dad. Only one person stormed away from the table and I think only two people cried. Basically, a total success.

I thought about doing some cheesy post about all of the things I was thankful for, but I decided against it. Honestly, I was over it. And I was being a brat. Like, you know when you don’t like someone, and suddenly everything they do annoys the shit out of you? That was me. Except it wasn’t somebody, but everything. I was super mad I had to fly back to Los Angeles early the next morning. I hated my new haircut. Seriously hated. I was frustrated I had to give up my bed for houseguests. Guests that happened to be my aunt and uncle. Anyone who has had family stay for an extended amount of time should instantly feel sorry for me. Right? And yes, four days count as an extended amount of time. It’s nearly an eternity. It felt like it, at least. I wanted to stomp up and down after my downstairs neighbors complained I live like I’m in a dorm room. Umm rude. And I had some choice words for the woman who snaked the last spot in a packed coffee house parking lot. Basically, a lot of bullshit.

Seriously on one, I headed to Goodwill the other day in search of costume materials for a rather creative holiday party. Out of habit, I asked the man behind the register ringing up my old levi’s how he was doing. He responded with fine, and asked me the same. I smirked and said it was early, that I couldn’t complain yet. He looked at me and said, I bet you could. Everyone can complain. It’s whether or not you choose to. And I instantly felt like an asshole. Ironically standing in Goodwill. Hating my awful bangs. And feeling like a total asshole. So remember when I said I opted out of doing a super cheesy post about how thankful I am and blah blah blah? Yeah, I guess I totally lied. Because I guess everyone goes through bullshit. But that’s all it is. And we can complain about it. Or not. So maybe I should stop complaining. And swearing, for that matter. Sorry, Mom. 

Jack.

I’m not one for superstitions. I step on cracks in the sidewalk. I pick up all pennies, regardless of which way they face on the ground. And I don’t blow a kiss to the ceiling of my car whenever I speed through a yellow light. I do, however, hate black cats – but for no other reason than the fact that they are cats and I’m not particularly fond of cats. And I don’t walk under ladders, because well, that’s just not safe.

November 11, 2011 was of little significance to me. 11:11 am came and passed as I struggled through a sun salutation in my yoga practice. 11:11 pm came and passed as I cried through The Notebook. A day like any other. I normally don’t wish at 11:11 on any occasion, and 11.11.11 was no different. Regardless of all of the ones.

November 12^th was different. November 12^th I was shocked with unfortunate news. I learned a longtime friend and classmate had passed away. While Jack and I weren’t extremely close, I certainly considered him a dear friend. A friend I shared great memories with. One who I was always excited to see. Who always greeted me with the sweetest smile and the warmest hugs. I’m unsure of the circumstances surrounding his untimely death, but I am sure of the sadness I felt when I heard what happened. Like the wind had been knocked right out of me. Like I couldn’t take in any air. Like I couldn’t breathe at all. Honestly startled by my own emotions, I’ve changed my mind and I want to go back. I know I can’t change things. I can’t rewind time and I can’t go back. But I’ve changed my mind. I didn’t make a wish on 11.11.11, and I’d like to.

thinking of you, jack. and wishing you're resting in peace.

I wish for my friends. For my family. For my friends who’ve become my family. I wish for their health. For their happiness. For their peace. I wish they know their worth. Know how important they are to me, how much they’ve impacted my life, and who I am. I wish they could know how much I love them, how much they mean to me. That’s my wish for Jack, too. That he knows how much we miss him. How much we love him. I wish for his peace, especially. And for his family’s. And I guess I wish for me too. I wish for the ability to show people how special they are. How special they are to me.  It’s a lot of wishes, I know. And I’d hate to be greedy - wait, who am I kidding? I don’t mind being greedy one bit. So yeah. I’m wishing for all of those things. And maybe this dress too. 

BYOP

Last Tuesday was major. I was hit by a bus. Well, not me – but my car. And I was in the car. So yeah, me. I was hit by a bus. I checked out the Tim Burton Exhibit at the Los Angeles County Museum of Art. And I hosted a pumpkin carving.

I hadn’t carved a pumpkin in as long as I can remember, and after picking up the most perfect, roundest, orangest pumpkin in sight I was super stoked. The party was BYOP, the P being for pumpkin obviously.  We loaded up on Dearly Beloved Forever Red Wine, found at Trader Joe’s prior to my incident with public transit, and it couldn’t have been more perfect for the occasion. The lovely Andi was sweet enough to bring spooky snacks resembling mummies. And after finding ourselves in the candy aisle at Target – a very dangerous place to be – Austin and I had, and still have, enough Halloween candy to feed every trick or treater in Los Angeles. But more importantly, our house looked fantastic.

Jars of candy corn sat in our front kitchen window. The window looked more like a crime scene complete with bloody hand prints and creepy crawly spiders. Those creepy crawly spiders also graced our dining room, and the spider webs that took over our doorway. But perhaps my favorite festive décor is found on our dining room table. Inspired after hours on pinterest, Austin and I headed to Home Depot. The gnarliest, knottiest fence post became our table runner, the perfect centerpiece for melted candles of all sizes, darling miniature pumpkins, and spiders, of course. The coolest thing about this table runner was how it transformed over the course of the spooky holiday – candles melting at different speeds, wax dripping and running every which way, candles burning out entirely making room for new. I love it even more now than I did days ago. So much so that it still graces our table. That, and I just don’t really feel like cleaning up quite yet. And besides, what screams holiday more than candy corn and plastic spiders? Nothing.

Car Accident

I wasn’t kidding earlier. I was involved in a car accident – with a metro bus. And by involved in, I mean the victim of. Obviously. I used to think I needed a blog to document all of the weird things that happen to me. For a while there, it was constant. Then I started a blog, and it seemed as though the weirdness subsided. In reality, I think I just grew accustomed to it. But you guys, this one is for real. This is how it went down.

Don’t ask me what I’m doing, because I won’t be able to give you a very direct answer, but I’m always very busy. This Tuesday was no exception. Leaving an early morning yoga practice, I had a bazillion and one things to do. I had planned to see the Tim Burton exhibit at the LACMA and I was hosting a pumpkin carving that evening. With a million things left to prepare, I headed to Trader Joe’s. Prior to Tuesday, I used to think frequent trips to Trader Joe’s was certainly reason enough for a prescription of Xanax, but now I say just avoid these packed aisles and parking lots at all costs. 

Pulling out of the parking lot, I was stopped at a red light waiting to turn left. Minding my own business. When then, out of nowhere, I saw it. The giant blue metro bus, mistakenly thought he could squeeze by me and make a right turn. In slow motion, laying on my horn, I watched in horror as the bus scrapped along side me, slicing off my side mirror and clipping the entire front right bumper of my poor car.

In shock, I pulled to the side, behind the bus and exchanged information with the driver. He thanked me for being so nice and understanding. I asked how I was supposed to act in such a situation and he said sometimes when this happens, people are so mean he has to wait on the bus. Sometimes when this happens. As in it happens. Ridiculous. Anyway. The worst part was waiting. Get this, if I left before his supervisor came to evaluate the damage, it would have been considered a hit and run on my part. With my patience wearing thin, I called 911 to report the accident. They explained the procedure and I told me I would in fact have to wait for the supervisor. I explained I had prior engagements at the LACMA and a party to prepare for but they were less understanding. Then I started to cry. Shortly after, two sheriffs arrived and a report was filed. With no supervisor in sight, an hour and a half later, they took my statement and allowed me to go.

But don’t worry, you guys. I’m fine. I made it to Tim Burton, later than expected, but I made it. And I drowned my sorrows in cheap wine while my friends and I carved pumpkins later that night. My car is in the shop, but he’ll be okay too. And in the mean time, I’m driving a sweet gold Dodge Avenger. I know. I wish I was kidding, too. That's it on the left. Okay, so maybe mine doesn't have those rims. And it's gold. Maybe I’ll pose on the hood in a matching gold bikini and submit the photo to some kind of muscle car calendar. Or maybe not. But boy do I miss my little jetta. 

Tim Burton

I totally nerded out the other day.  Well, I got sideswiped by a metro bus, and then I totally nerded out. Seriously. But I’ll tell you about the whole getting sideswiped by a metro bus thing later. Unwilling to let an idiot bus driver who is unaware of the dimensions of his own vehicle ruin my Halloween spirit, I drove my banged up little car to check out the Tim Burton exhibit at the Los Angeles Country Museum of Art.

Confession. I had never been to the LACMA. Nor had I seen Nightmare Before Christmas. But I love Beetlejuice. Beetlejuice. Beetlejuice. Beetlejuice. And Edward Scissorhands. And you guys, I love Tim Burton. Not as much as, say, Tim Burton loves Johnny Depp. But a lot. And with over 700 pieces featured in the exhibit, it was so cool to get a peak inside the mastermind that is Tim Burton. 

So cool that I even took notes, like a nerd, so I wouldn’t forget a single detail to share with you. You’re welcome.

Early sketches, projects that were never realized, iconic props and storyboards from some of the most major motion pictures filled the walls. It was a full spectrum body of work. Next to the wicked striped sleeves worn by Beetlejuice was a story outline written on a yellow legal notepad. The simple story thought needs to be two nice old fashioned people die, and when an awful family moves in, they try to get rid of them. Right there. In his own words. Written by the man himself. And then realized, brought to life, and represented in costume. Right there. In front of my own eyes.

And I just about died, and tried to touch, the suit Johnny Depp wore in Edward Scissorhands. Thank goodness the actual scissor hands were in a glass case. Character Profile: Edward is a robot. But by all appearances he is very human. Human except for his hands, long metal fingers that are razor sharp and resemble many pairs of large scissors… His hobbies are making ice sculptures, and playing the steel drums. Someday he hopes to vaction in the Caribbean Islands. Sounds kinda like his match.com profile or something. Cool, huh?

After snapping a picture of the scarecrow from Sleepy Hallow, getting in trouble for snapping a picture of the scarecrow from Sleepy Hallow, watching Bones – the music video Burton directed for The Killers, and saying goodbye to the melted figures reminiscent of Disney’s It’s a Small World from Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, I was out the door with the exhibit booklet I purchased from the gift store in hand. And then I got to the parking structure and remembered what had happened to my car. Such a bummer. 

Mr. Bones Pumpkin Patch

Are you guys ready for Halloween? I’m not. I don’t even have a costume. But I have a pumpkin. The most perfect, darling little pumpkin named Boo Radley. Obviously. Get it? Austin and I found him this past Sunday at Mr. Bones Pumpkin Patch. Super trendy, right? Just wait. We had lunch at Joan’s on Third and red velvet cupcakes at Magnolia Bakery too. I know.

On the quest for the brightest, roundest pumpkin we could find, we ventured out of the west side and over to Hollywood to Mr. Bones Pumpkin Patch. Okay, so we thought maybe we’d get lost in the hay bail maze only to find Heidi Klum or Gwen Stefani, and with swarms of paparazzi eagerly snapping away at the entrance, our odds looked good. But no such luck.

 I’m not mad about it though, I mean we did find Boo after all – after picking up and examining every pumpkin in the patch. Seriously. Because this is obviously serious business that takes time. We were in no way stalling in hopes that someone cool, like Jessica Alba who was there the next day, or Christina Aguilera who was there the day before, would bring their kids to pick out pumpkins. No way. Ughh. But it was a blast. Way better than picking one out of a bin in front of the grocery store. Opting out of face painting and the spooky slide, we headed home, with Boo buckled up for safety in the backseat. And I absolutely can’t wait to carve him. And eat way too much candy corn. And watch It’s the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown. Oh goodness, I just love Halloween. I’m getting more and more excited by the second.

That's me. Everyone was taking pictures with the pumpkins, so obviously I had to too. Who cares that most of those people were babies in pumpkin costumes hidden in the patch. Oh gaaawd. 

Chocolate Chip Pumpkin Cookies

It rained in Los Angeles the other day. Really. It rained long enough for me to think for a second it was Fall. Long enough for me to explore tasty autumnesque recipes with anything pumpkin in the title. Long enough for me to throw on a flannel, layer Frye boots and thick striped socks over my tights. Long enough for me to cruise the aisles of Whole Foods for the ingredients to make these bad boys. And then it stopped. But already in the pumpkin spice spirit, it didn’t matter.

Selecting these Non-Cakey, Chewy, Chocolate Chip Pumpkin Cookies, I couldn’t have been more thrilled. While I love pumpkin pie, muffins, breads, you name it – I, like the baker who shared this recipe with me, often times find them too spongy. This makes sense, as pumpkin is mostly water. Excited for chewy, not fluffy, pumpkin cookies, I preheated my oven and unloaded my groceries. It was here I encountered my first problem. Remember when I said pumpkins are mostly water? So for chewy, non-cakey, cookies this isn’t good. While I followed this logic, I hadn’t really thought through the process. Until I actually read the directions. And poured a can of pumpkin puree into a saucepan.  Reduced it.  Stirred it continuously. For FIFTY MINUTES. Turning it in to pumpkin bread crumbs. With an exhausted wrist and tendonitis of the elbow, I blended the crumbs in a food processor, making a pumpkin flour, if you will. Ugh. With the exception of the entirely predictable problem number two, setting me back three hours so the dough can chill, it was smooth sailing from there. With every appliance, bowl and measuring cup utilized, it looks like a pumpkin straight up exploded in my kitchen. But the cookies are delicious. Like whoa delicious. And if I can make them, anyone can. So have at it. Happy Fall, my little pumpkin pies. 

Recipe and image via The Knead for Speed

S'More Please

I’d like to wish my dear friend Heidi the most wonderful of birthdays. She turns twenty four today. In an attempt to catch her off guard, we secretly gathered two dozen of her closest friends for a surprise birthday party in San Clemente this past Friday. Her boyfriend, Scott, has an amazing set up on the beach, and did an amazing job coordinating everyone. A far cry from our days in Santa Barbara, when asking my opinion on which Volcom sweatshirt Heids would like best constituted putting thought in to her gift. Nice work, Scooter.

The party went off without a hitch. Yummy Italian take out. Ice chests of beer. An intense beer pong tournament. And S’MORES.  I don’t know what it is, but I have been on a serious s’mores kick. With summer slipping away, I’ve envisioned a final farewell with a beachside s’more send off. With the help of pinterest, my mild craving has turned in to a full blown obsession that seriously cannot be satiated. And you guys, s’mores are on another level. No longer a simple toasted marshmallow and chocolate square sandwiched between graham crackers, the combinations for flavor sensations are endless. Next time, I’m substituting a Reeces peanut butter cup for chocolate. Or adding a slice of banana. And nutella. Yeah, nutella.

Sticking with the tried and true, we toasted marshmallows – or charred as was my case – made a mess, and devoured the sticky treats with the best of company. But Heidi still needed a cake with candles to blow out, and I was happy to lend my expertise. Layering milk chocolate brownies with marshmallow fluff and crumbled graham crackers, the s’mores inspired cake photographed beautifully. And was hard as rock. Apparently marshmallows aren’t the only thing I like to burn. But if you’re able to properly execute boxed brownies without turning them to brick, maybe you should try this cake. I mean. And if now you too have a serious craving for s’mores, you can check out my musings for a s’mores inspired bonfire here. I've been doing a lot of research. You're welcome. 

How pinteresting.

So, I made a pinterest account. I know, I’m trying to stay trendy and current. Before long, I’m sure I’ll have a tumblr account too. Sheesh. This is exhausting. But seriously, it’s pretty cool. It’s kind of like an electronic collage or something. It’s certainly more organized than the bookmarks I’ve filed on my computer and it’s definitely way addicting. Like, it’s taken over my life – yet makes me feel super productive at the same time. For example, pinterest has this evil way of making you feel like you’ve planned your next super chic dinner party, completed some super cute diy project, or baked a super tasty ultimate chocolate lover’s chocolate cake – but really you’ve just stayed up far too late pinning things other people have done as inspiration for said projects. Hmmm.

If you’re at all interested, you can head over to my pinterest account here, where I’m currently obsessing over all things pretty.

Maybe I should stick to the old fashioned methods of tearing pages out of magazines and making a corkboard myself. At least that way I’d have an excuse to buy these darling pushpins. 

Dad

My dad. Cool, right? I know. 

My dad is the coolest guy I know. And today is his birthday. If I know him at all, he’s probably putzing around the house, watching sports, doing yard work when his teams aren’t doing well and he can’t stand to watch anymore, heading to the golf course, and planning what he’s going to grill for dinner.  A lot of people say we’re a lot alike, which is totally fine by me – like I said, he’s the coolest guy I know. I definitely have his freckles. And his sarcastic sense of humor. We’re too stubborn for our own good. We both root for the Dodgers. We love peanut M&M’s. And we both blast Hootie & the Blowfish when we do the dishes - which isn’t very often, but when I do, I think of him in the kitchen with the volume so high you can hear it from the sidewalk, singing along to Only Wanna Be With You.

I hope I’m like my dad in other ways too. Like his strong work ethic. His green thumb. And the way he loves my mom and our family. So happy birthday, Dad. I hope the 49ers can pull off a win for your big day, that your tomato plants are thriving, and that your golf game is spot on, you deserve it. 

Nuts and Bolts

I went to Home Depot yesterday. I know, I laughed out loud too. Don’t worry, I’m not doing any major home improvements or anything like that. I’m making bracelets. Really rad, hardcore bracelets that require a trip to Home Depot. And the only thing funnier than me in Home Depot in the first place, is the initial lap I do thinking I can find whatever I need on my own. Which is dumb, really, because there are so many eager men waiting to assist you. Maybe it’s because a majority of the usual patrons are the rugged, construction type, but I get the feeling they aren’t used to seeing many gals in Jeffrey Campbells looking for bracelet materials. Which was fine by me because with assistance, I found everything I needed to make this bracelet in a matter of seconds. If you can manage to keep your fingers untangled and the nuts in their respective holder as opposed to all over your shag rug, as was not the case for me the first time around, it really is simple. And it looks super cool, if I do say so myself. For a full tutorial, click here. 

photos via honestly, wtf

Today was a fairytale

I love Taylor Swift. I’m not embarrassed to say it. And I know everyone thinks they can relate to her songs. Oh my goodness, it’s like she’s reading my diary! But, I can relate more. Or better. Or whatever. She reads my mind and writes songs about my life. Sorry. Someday, I’ll be living in a big ‘ol city. I mean.

That's Taylor, RIGHT BEHIND US. I. die.

me. madeline. lexi. whitney. so. stoked.

My sister, Madeline, really loves her too. In fact she just flew to Nashville for the weekend to see her. But before that, she came down to Los Angeles to spend her twentysecond birthday with Taylor Swift, two of our closest friends, and yours truly. Except remember when I had pneumonia? Yeah, that was no fun. I’m sure it was exactly how my sister wanted to spend her birthday. Not. But I made it through half of the show before melting into a 102.9 degree fever puddle in the aisle.

This is the third time my sister and I have seen Taylor Swift together. Two years ago, Maddy came down to visit me in Santa Barbara. One of two trips she managed to make in the four years I lived there. Not that I’m mad about it or anything. Anyway. Maddy, my friend Whitney, and I had a blast. Whitney and I took her to the beach, to a Dodger game. And we saw Taylor Swift. Touring for a second time later in the year, we couldn’t miss out, the three of us reuniting in LA to see the show again, his time bringing my mom in to join the fun. Becoming sort of a tradition, and falling on the weekend of my sister’s birthday, we just had see her for a third time during her Speak Now tour, replacing my momma with our dearest friend Lexi who missed out on the action for rounds one and two.

With three concerts under my belt, I’d say I’m a pretty seasoned Taylor Swift concert goer. Here are some things I’ve come to expect.

1.     Taylor will wear at least 17 different sequin dresses. All with black boots.

2.     If you plan on wearing a sundress and cowboy boots, you won’t be the only one.

3.     Drinking Coors Light is entirely appropriate and encouraged. Don’t forget you’re at a country concert, after all.

4.     Taylor has the most diverse fans in the world. Among many others, common stereotypes of people you can expect to see are as follows: 12 year old girls in homemade t-shirts with the number 13 painted on their cheeks, parents of said children who would be there anyway but use their children as an excuse, creepy fathers of children who are crushing on Taylor, girls who think Taylor knows exactly how they feel, boyfriends of girls who think Taylor knows exactly how they feel who were dragged there, Ashton Kutcher, no joke he was there, and other celebrities who are trying to be cool and relevant.

5.     Yes, Taylor really will be so gracious and humble and shocked that people actually came out to see her it will make you want to vomit

6.     No, she still can’t dance, but she’ll flip her hair enough times and awkwardly move her lengthy body enough to make up for it.

7.     Anticipate some kind of special guest, or one of her friends as she puts it. Especially if you are seeing her in LA. One year it was John Mayer. I cried. No joke. But obviously we know how that worked out. I have a feeling he won’t be making any more special appearances.

8.     There will be some sort of wedding. Because, I mean, why not? She’s a hopeless romantic, after all. 

The Blabbery

Hi friends. This is Heidi. Heidi, these are my friends. I know I’ve told you about Heidi before. And your waistlines have certainly been introduced to her tasty treats. Here we are together. Maybe the second is a more fitting photo of our friendship.

Heids and I met five years ago on a study abroad trip to Australia. Cool, huh? I knew we’d get along famously when walking to the neighborhood gelato shop became an after class ritual. Crazy to think it was five years ago, when it seriously feels like just yesterday we were walking across the top of the Sydney Harbor Bridge, watching the New Years Eve fireworks, and suddenly developing an Australian accent after a few vodka tonics. Here’s a picture of us from down under, with authentic aboriginal face paint. Obvi.

Heidi and I later took our friendship to Spain for a summer. Yeah I know, we’re super worldly. Living in Madrid, we traveled all over – fell in love with San Sebastian, danced in discotecas in Barcelona, got lost in Sevilla, camped at a music festival in Benicassim - all while drinking tinto de verano, attempting to learn Spanish, trying to tune out the Spanish telenovela that was our multicultural flat, and only speaking to each other after we’ve had our morning café con leche around noon. Hey, when you’re as close as we are, you know what works. Here we are in Galicia.

So you’re probably wondering why I’m telling you all about my dear friend. Well for starters, she’s one of the most stylish people I know. She has an incredible eye. And I let her know every time I raid her closet. If only we wore the same size shoe. Can you imagine the terrible influences we are on each other in a Bloomingdale’s dressing room? Unable to keep her mouth shut, Heidi - my traveling companion, my friend, and often times my voice of reason - has started her very own blog, The Blabbery, and I highly recommend you head over there immediately.

Even if we weren’t always the most stylish pair…

Two Headed Monster
Halloween 2007

Ryan Gosling

I wanna be on you. For reals. 

I just saw Drive. Have you seen it? Probably not, it just came out last night. I highly recommend it. And the soundtrack that I’m downloading as we speak. A super unlikely recommendation coming from me, I’m not generally a fan of action movies. But I am a fan of Ryan Gosling. Boy oh boy, am I fan of Ryan Gosling. 

Really well done, I seriously held my breath the entire movie. When I wasn’t covering my eyes, I had my arms crossed, shoulders in my ears, sitting on the edge of my seat. It’s like this crazy combination of thrilling and haunting, yet super sexy and romantic. And I totally fell in love with mysterious, dangerous getaway driver, Ryan Gosling. His character doesn’t even have a name. How hot is that? And the things he does for the girl he loves - my heart’s racing just thinking about it.

I swear, there’s something about him. And the movie is really superb too. Action for boys, and Ryan Gosling for girls, it’s probably one of the only movies my roommate Austin and I have agreed on. Two thumbs up.  

So. Um. Yes. This post is entirely devoted to my love for Ryan Gosling, disguised as a movie review. So what. Can you blame me? I mean, seriously. 

Missoni Impossible

Out of outrage, ideally I’d choose to have no comment regarding the Missoni for Target collection ordeal - but when I tried to keep my opinion to myself, steam literally shot out of my ears and my eyes nearly popped out of my head. Keeping my opinion to myself has never been my forte. Did you score any Missoni for Target swag? I didn’t. And I’m refusing to purchase any of it on eBay either out of defiance. With mark ups so crazy, I’ll wait until I have a boyfriend with a bank account to support real Missoni.  And besides, according to my mom, Missoni print resembles the afghan blanket my grandma knit for me. 

Ok so, honestly – I didn’t even try. I knew my efforts would be futile. Standing outside in the cold, amongst crazy Missoni hungry mommies, waiting for those red doors to open like its Black Friday is not really my idea of a fun morning. Surely I would have been trampled. I can see myself on YouTube now, being plowed over by crazy people, in one big signature Missoni zig zag patterned blur. Can you imagine? I die.

With absolutely nothing left on the shelves, it appears I’ve missed the Missoni boat. Not that I checked three different stores in an attempt to find something, anything that had been left behind, or anything like that. Because that would just be pathetic. So I guess I only have myself to blame. Next time a designer collection is released, I’ll have a game plan. I’m thinking I’ll need a team in order to cover more ground. Obviously we’ll have studied floor plans. And we’ll have whistles. And walkie talkies. And maybe helmets. Yeah, definitely helmets. Let me know if you’re interested. Fashion sense preferred, but not required.

But, had I been able to get my hands on the collection, this is what you’d find in my cart. How gorgeous, right? Paired with thick sweater tights and boots. It almost makes me wish it was Fall in Los Angeles. Almost.

True Love

If this music video had credits, at the very bottom behind kraft services, coffee girl and second assistant to the assistant production supervisor blah blah blah – it would read, assistant to the stylist, Samantha Wyman. No joke. It says it on the call sheet. And yes, I kept it. Obviously.

My friend Alex is pretty cool. He’s super modest too, so Alex – please don’t kill me for bragging on your behalf. Alex has a rad job. He produces music videos. Cool music videos. Like music videos that win VMA’s. Like this one, for example. Alex is also a super friend, and helps out the little people like yours truly and hooked me up big time. Biiig time. So thanks, Alex.

Alex worked on a project for these girls, sisters Destinee & Paris, who in my opinion are going to be huge. Maybe I’m biased because their first music video was also my first music video. Or maybe because the song will forever haunt my ear drums after listening to it 7823461034 times on set. But they’re opening for Britney Spears, so I doubt I’ll be wrong. And the song is super catchy. Like suuuper catchy. Helping me score a killer first job on my stylist resume, Alex introduced me to the talented Maya Krispin, who I was fortunate enough to follow like a shadow, hoping to absorb just an ounce of her brilliance.

So check out the close ups on the shoes. I painted that bow gold. Check out their toes while you’re at it. Someone was hired to paint them. Seriously. Pay attention to the accessories I placed ever so delicately on those tiny pop star fingers. And the gold chain belts I re-pinned after every take. Really. I still dream about those gold chains. And those killer shorts. I mean. I die.

I still can’t believe it really happened. So fortunate to be able to pursue something I love so much. And so grateful to have the friends to help me do it.

Karl Lagerfeld told me guilty feelings about clothes are totally unnecessary. A lot of people earn their living by making clothes, so you should never feel bad. So I don’t. Actually, he didn’t tell me personally, but he’s quoted saying that on the internet, so he probably said it at one point, or something like that. So if some people make a living making clothes, others wearing clothes, why can’t I make a living styling clothes? I mean, it’s working for Rachel Zoe.

So, my current revised list of dream jobs are as follows.

1.     Zac Efron’s Girlfriend

2.     Iron Chef America Judge

3.     Advice Columnist

4.     Stylist

I have pneumonia.

Please pardon my mood. I went to the doctor yesterday, something you’ll rarely hear ever coming out of my mouth, only to be told I have pneumonia. Fantastic. I’m really terrible at being sick. Like the sound of running water hurts my ears. And clothes hurt my skin. And light hurts my eyes. You can bet I’ll be milking this pneumonia for all it’s worth. So although, yes Mom – I’m grateful for my healing, I’m also still super irritated.

I’m irritated with the kid screaming bloody murder at the pool. Irritated with his mother who has so effortlessly tuned out his cries. And I’ll be irritated with you if you try and tell me that just because I have pneumonia I’m not allowed to read about Kim Kardashian’s wedding poolside. And yes, I’m irritated with her too. I’m irritated with the man in front of me at Coffee Bean who doesn’t know what an americano is. With the nanny ordering large mocha ice blendeds for the toddlers she’s watching. But most of all, I’m irritated with Kaiser, and my experience yesterday.

So I’ll say this. This is a hospital. You know how I’m doing. Please don’t ask. If I was fine I wouldn’t be here. If you give me an appointment time, ask me to check in 15 minutes prior, I arrive 10 minutes prior to that in an attempt to be seen earlier, and you still keep me waiting 40 minutes past my original appointment time, I’m going to contemplate fainting in the lobby. But if I wait patiently, as I did, and you put me in a room with blinding yellow lights for another 20 minutes before seeing a doctor, I will look through all the labeled cabinets before I decide to nap on the hospital bed. If you are sitting at the reception desk in the x-ray lab, I’m going to assume it is your job to receive me. Next time, it’d be easier if you simply told me where to go, instead of pointing to the ticket machine, having me take a number, sit down, and then immediately call my number only to tell me to check in down the hall. And lastly, while I enjoyed reliving Michael Jackson’s life through pictures, if your most current People Magazine is dated July 2009, you’ll have some seriously out of touch and misinformed people leaving your pharmacy. Never mind, I really liked the MJ tribute. It was ironically his birthday after all. And it might have been Kaiser’s saving grace. That, or the nurse who said no when I asked if I had to be weighed. Or my hot, unmarried doctor, who, when I told him I thought I was dying, said he hoped I’d pull through because he kinda liked having me around. Totally into me, right? Shut up. Whatever. Actually scratch that. He already knows way too much about me.

Okay. So. Sorry for the rant. I’m blaming it on the fever. Or the bacteria building up in my lungs. Or the fact I couldn't keep my chest x-rays to scan and show you. Any and all will do.

Happy Birthday, Grandpa.

Today is my baby sister’s twentysecond  birthday. She flew in yesterday, and I can hardly wait to tell you about all of the fun we’re having. But before I do, I need to tell you about my grandpa. Tuesday was his birthday. And my Grandpa Sam, my mother’s father and my namesake, is 79 years young.

My grandpa is truly an incredible man. Also an incredibly humble and modest man, he’d die if he even knew I was gushing about him for the whole world to see. But it was his birthday, and you know I love a birthday. So I’m doing it anyway. Because he really is fantastic.

So fantastic that he sends homemade birthday cards. In the mail. Always filled with pranks and jokes and signed by characters like your pal, Oprah I can always count on my grandpa’s cards to be display worthy. But what I really treasure are his letters. I’ve been receiving letters from my grandpa nearly weekly since I entered my first year of college in Santa Barbara, as did my mom when she began her freshman year at the University of Redlands. Keeping me afloat with juicy family gossip and town happenings, I am always in the loop. But not one for small talk, my grandpa’s letters - always written in black ink with red accents and always written on yellow lined note paper - always had an agenda. For example….

Dearest Samantha, your mom tells me you’ve been visiting friends in San Diego lately. Stay away. San Diego is very close to Mexico. Be careful.

In case you don’t have a grandpa who sends you letters, filled with the wisdom of someone who’s truly lived a full life, as I imagine not many do, I’d like to share with you some of the highlights.

Be kind. Always pay with cash. If you can’t pay with cash, you can’t afford it. Live simply. Live with compassion. Eat candy bars. Recycle. Deck shoes are always appropriate footwear. Speak slowly. Speak with intention. Repeat your phone number twice. Don’t say um. Take a pause instead. Don’t get tattoos. Don’t date losers. They’re not worth your time.  Stay away from drugs. Stay out of the sun. Cough in to your shoulder. Use hand sanitizer. Always carry tic tacs. Travel. Travel more. Read books. Read the newspaper. Write letters. They mean more than emails. Make cards. They’re more thoughtful than store bought. Take naps. Take pictures. Take candid pictures. You’ll hate them, until you realize how perfect they are. Plant tulips. Expand your vocabulary. Use words like circa. It means around. Watch the BBC. Value your education. Value your family. Nothing will mean more. Invest wisely, both your time and money. Take care of yourself. Take care of others. Treasure what matters, and toss what doesn’t. Literally. 

Here he is. Or actually, here we are. Sitting on the steps of his house at one of my family’s garage sale. Someone put a price tag around my neck, as if I were for sale. Parents are hilarious, right? This has to be one of my favorite pictures. Of all time. I’m guessing I’m around ten. Flash forward another ten years and here we are again. This time in front of my house, where my grandpa hasn’t aged a single day and I apparently drowned in a bottle of peroxide and got electrocuted. 

Happy Birthday, Grandpa.

Pinot Grigio, Please.

I don’t know much about wine. I know that red wine can be easily removed from a blouse if soaked in club soda, and I know that no one looks good with purple lips and stained teeth. Other than that, I must admit, I know nothing. And when selecting a bottle, most of my picks are based on one major factor – creativity of the label. In college, it was easy. Wine Wednesday consisted of a “3 Bottles for $10” deal at the local Keg & Bottle convenient store, and as you can imagine our selection was limited and the quality of wines I grew accustomed to was not that impressive. In an effort to educate ourselves, my friends and I took a wine appreciation course, where every Tuesday we listened to a man in inappropriately tight pants speak to us in an Italian accent about flavors of cherry and honey as he continued to fill our glasses with a heavy hand before we headed out to Taco Tuesday. My most meaningful contribution was likening dessert wine to peach rings. As you can see, I learned a lot.

Now that I’m so old and mature, antics like this are no longer appropriate. Enter the Santa Barbara Wine Festival. Escaping Carmageddon, in a last minute and entirely spontaneous decision – my favorite kind as of lately – my roommate and I traveled up the coast to Santa Barbara for the annual wine festival. Joining friends from school, it was funny pretending to be so cultured and sophisticated in a place that once hosted the beer garden for the All Sorority Volleyball Tournament while we attended UCSB. Who am I kidding? Even with my hair in a high bun, caged wedges and mismatching J. Crew patterns, I was fooling no one. And neither were my friends. Which was made apparent as we engraved our souvenir wine glasses with things like Diva and Sexy Mama and ran around demanding more pinot grigio. Too busy filling my glass with wines I pretended to know about, I missed the engraving booth, which was fine because I chipped my glass while cheers-ing, and later lost it all together. But what really blew my cover, and eliminated all possibility of scoring a dinner date with a handsome, wealthy, divorced wino in town for the festival, staying at his Montecito summer home - was the bird poop that bounced off of my hand and slid down my skirt. No joke. And yes, that was the kind of crowd I was hoping to find at such an event. Now you can try and tell be that being pooped on by a bird is good luck and blah blah blah, but I will tell you that you are full of shit. Pun intended. And you obviously have never been shat on before. The only lucky thing about the situation was that it didn’t land in my glass. Because that would have been a real tragedy. 

With hundreds of vendors, it was impossible to sample them all in the short four hours we were allotted. But we definitely did our best. The next day, the 405 opened earlier than expected and our drive back down south was a breeze. How cool would it have been if Aerosmith’s I Don’t Wanna Miss a Thing came on the radio? You know, like in Armageddon? Way cool. And how cool would it have been if a bird didn’t poop me on? Even cooler. 

Sorry I don't have pictures. Obviously my hands were full. Maybe next year I'll invest in one of those wine glass holders that hang around your neck, leaving my hands free. Or maybe I won't. 

Book Club: Bringing Home the Birkin

Quite stubborn, I rarely listen when told what to do. In fact, the list of people who even stand a chance is quite short. Oprah Winfrey. Jennifer Aniston. Martha Stewart.  Carrie Bradshaw. And my mom – who may even agree with me when I say she often hangs by a thread. Anything I’ve ever done has been because of one of these five women.  And yes, I understand one is fictional. So what? Don’t act like you’ve never quoted The Notebook, or learned a lesson about family values from Full House. We all cried when Jesse’s grandpa died. So yes, I take my cues from mega wealthy superstars who may have a prison record, and may or may not be real. It seems to be working so far.

So obviously, when Oprah tells me to read – I run to Barnes and Nobel to pick up her latest book club selection, browse the aisles for hours, get distracted and end up walking out the door with something that would make Leo Tolstoy and William Faulkner roll over in their graves. Enter – Bringing Home the Birkin, by Michael Tonello. Like Bringing home the bacon, get it? Anyways.

The Hermes Birkin is arguably the world’s most sought after handbag. Available in a variety of sizes, and often made of such reptile skins as crocodile and lizard, the bag also carries a pricetag of upwards of $30,000 and a wait list of two years. An iconic brand, I remember my first Hermes experience like my grandpa can tell you where he was when man landed on the moon. I doubt my mom even remembers. If she did, she probably would have been more prepared to raise a daughter who can name the different patterns of Louis Vuitton like others can identify different country’s flags. Or maybe she does remember, and knowing this, conversely blocked it from her memory. Either way, I was very young. Playing dress up and riffling through my mom’s clothes, I discovered a souvenir from one of my grandparent’s European vacations – a simple cloth Hermes bag, perfectly suited to transport a silk scarf - that I would die over - overseas to it’s eager new owner, my momma. While the scarf was not present, had it been, it would have been tied around my neck in an instant, and would probably be tied to the strap of my purse at this very moment. True. Love. To quote the author, “to those who understand, no explanation is necessary. To those who don’t, none is possible.” So maybe I can blame all of my obsessions on my mom? Or better yet, my grandma who would surely indulge my vices.

So with a polka dotted towel in tow, I headed to the pool with my oversized sunnies and one of Tim Gunn’s favorites – Bringing Home the Birkin. “A beautiful twenty-something, lounging by the pool, smoking a cigarette, impatiently waiting until noon for her first martini.” No, that’s not me. I don’t smoke cigarettes. And when lounging by the pool, I’d much rather sip something tropical. That was the incredibly sarcastic Michael Tonello, envisioning one of his customers. Let me explain. Michael Tonello traveled the world as a makeup artist, building himself quite an impressive portfolio. Tired of living out of a suitcase, he relocated permanently to Barcelona where he accidentally fell in love, found happiness, and became an extremely successful online Hermes reseller.  Beating the system to bypass the two year waitlist, the hilarious novel chronicles Michael’s many ups and downs, both personally and professionally, on his quest for the most coveted bag.

Unable to put it down, and not wearing the best bikini as far as tan lines are concerned, I read this book at the pool in a matter of days. Now, with an unfortunate triangle top tan line, I’ve been inspired to expand my library and continue with a summer book list. If you’d like to join me, here are my other summer book club selections, as well as a bandeau top bikini in an effort to eliminate said terrible tan lines.

1.     Bringing Home the Birkin, for obvious reasons.

2.     The Help, in preparation of the movie.

3.     Water for Elephants, because I missed the movie.

4.     How to Be a Hepburn in a Hilton World, for educational purposes.

5.     Secret Life of Bees, so I can stop lying about actually reading it.

This has easily been the most enjoyable book report I have ever written. And maybe the only one I’ve ever completed without the use of Cliff Notes.