It's good to be back

My friend came to visit for a three-day weekend in LaLa Land and now I feel as though I must give my body at least a week to cleanse itself; detox; wash away that food and alcohol and late nights spent roaming about in Hollywood.

It's easy to be happy. It's easy to be happy here in Los Angeles, this big playground. Someone once told me, "You have to insist on happiness in life." Well, damn it! I insist!

We went out, like one big happy drunken circus, a stream of 30 of us, to a new "it spot" in Santa Monica where she met a good lot of my friends. She wore chunky heels that put her a solid foot above my short stature. She wore a vest that I despised and made embarrassingly funny jokes. Since I was so short, she leaned down to me to talk, in a baby voice--Jojo, is that you down there? How you doing, Jo? Use your big words!--as though I were a mentally challenged three-year old. But it's cool. That's what I love about this girl. She's strange and bold and doesn't give a shit what others think.

On Saturday we sat beach side in Redondo and ate fresh lobsters, red and bright and delicious. Lobster juice and bits of butter splattered on my yellow and blue sundress. She braided my hair and I sat there, just content with my toes in the sand beneath the white plastic table, sipping my chardonnay amongst the crowd of beer drinkers. Just like in college. The lone wine-o.

That night we went to a club in West Hollywood where my friend got rejected by a pirate-like fellow working the bar. Ultimate grunge (I was in horror!) but we danced to 80s tunes and the tab at the end of the night was just twenty bucks, so geesh, we can't complain.

Sunday we nursed our hangovers at the Brentwood Farmers Market. I bought avocado-cilantro hummus and fresh pita bread (better than what Roomie #1 gets at the Jew Market!). We admired the orchids, their proud pose; we tasted various dipping oils and balsamics aged 18 years; we elbowed our way in to taste organic peaches. We glowed. The sun was just there to assist.

We then went to my neighborhood bar to "watch football." Anyone who knows me knows I don't watch football. I'm the annoying girl who shows up in a cute dress to watch guys who watch football. We drank beer and made friends with other Brentwoodians before heading to Santa Monica to drink margaritas at a sidewalk bar. We stopped at the occasional shop and watched street performers display their various talents: body-twisting; ballroom dancing; soul singin'. Sucked into the eye of LA's culture storm, we popped into a gourmet cupcake shop and devoured a cupcake each on the spot, wiping sprinkles off our faces, licking chocolate frosting from our fingertips. Worth each and every ass-enlarging calorie.

A writer-actor friend invited me to watch him perform at a comedy club on Sunset. We stole a corner spot in the small room at the top of the well-known venue and, there in the candle-lit blackness, the actors tested their jokes on us. And we laughed. And laughed. And laughed. We said we'd call it an early night in Brentwood but we made friends at a bar later and before you know it, we arrived home in the late hours of night. Well, early hours of morning. Exhausted. And with the most hilarious moments captured on camera.

So easy to be happy in Los Angeles. Especially with one of your oldest friends in town.