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.