Because I've been dealing with all my moving stress I forgot two vital things about this weekend:
1) To tell my friends in LA that I was heading back and
2) That today was America's birthday. Whoops.
Luckily, everybody forgave me, even the USA, even though over the last decade I've guzzled down my fair share of her junk food and booze. By the way, for a bitch this old, she looks fucking amazing. Props, America.
I realized that I'd totally neglected to make plans for the holiday and hit up my friend M on Facebook. Despite my not telling her I was even coming to LA, she jumped at the chance to hang with me and invited me to a Fourth of July bash yesterday in the Hills.
Allow me to kick off my story by saying that M is pretty awesome. She was the first friend I made when I moved here and the last friend I had when I left. She helped me move and even made me a going-away gift. M is a big sports fan and she's also not one of those boneheaded gold-diggers that you always run into in LA, probably because she's originally not even from here (she's a proud Ohio-an), so we always have a lot to talk about. She also lets me trumpet New York City ad nauseum (emphasis on the nauseum). In short, she pretty much rocks.
So M informed me of this party, and I knew immediately that I had to attend. For one thing, I'm on the East Coast and she's on the West, so we see each other maybe 4 times a year, if that, so that was reason enough. Also- a pool party in the Hills? This promised to be hilarious blog fodder. I was sold.
M, her friend P and I got to the shuttle that would take us to the party, and the guy handing out wristbands told us that it was mandatory that we tip the driver. M shot me a look like, "are you kidding? What a dick." Like, of course we would tip, you don't have to force us. Douche. While we waited (for a half hour!!!) I started talking football with M and this guy who randomly joined in the conversation. Normally I would have been annoyed, but he was pretty cute, so I let it slide.
The shuttle ride was a bumpy ten minutes through the Sunset strip and my dad's old neighborhood. M and I discussed plans for that evening while P carried on a side conversation with a guy who looked weirdly familiar. Later I realized he was Marissa's gardener boyfriend from The O.C. No one else recognized him because they didn't watch the show. M's logic was this: "If they had a show called 'The Brooklyn,' would you watch?" No. No, I wouldn't. Good point, M.
The actual party was just as I had pictured- the house that had been rented out was sick. It was four stories high, with a nightclub, a pool, two bars and a catering service. Later I found out that the monthly rent was almost $30 grand. Jesus Christ- that was almost as much as I made last year.
Most of the girls there were really fucking funny. 90% of them had plastic boobs to match their plastic stiletto heels, full faces of makeup, and tiny triangle bikinis that barely covered their asses. I was worried that my two-piece was too revealing until I got to the house; then I realized I may as well be wearing an anorak and snow pants. A bunch of guys there asked me if I was a model but I figured that was more of an assumption than a compliment; almost every girl there except for my friends seemed to be in that "model/actress/waitress" category. Even M found them hysterical. When I told anyone I was in marketing I was answered with blank stares. I felt like that asshole who dresses up in costumes for little kids and teaches them how to spell shit.
Which ones are smarter?
Also, everyone there was like, nine years old. It's not like I'm forty, but I felt like their babysitter. I'm getting too old for this shit. I should be home watching the Travel Channel.
At one point I went to go get a stiff drink and when I turned around I was face to face with the guy from the shuttle. As it turned out, his friends were the ones throwing the party. We got to talking and I found that he was from Pittsburgh, in LA for a year on a work assignment. He was in architecture, which meant he could at least add and subtract, unlike most of the guys I'd come across at Hollywood clubs. I tried to distract myself from his Pennsylvania accent (we all know what accents do to my loins) and we got into a heated debate about football (Steelers vs. Jets) and hockey (Pens vs. Rangers), which ultimately led to a discussion about why New York City kicks so much ass. When M came to collect me, he asked for my number and told me he would call me. With my wonderful track record, I wasn't holding my breath.
So this morning I was sitting around, enjoying the Fourth of July TV marathons, when my phone rang with a weird area code. I had no idea who it was, so I let it go to voice mail. Then I realized I've seen the area code before- it's from Pittsburgh. I checked the voicemail- it sounded like a guy, but it was muffled, with traffic noises in the background. I called back, but the phone went to voice mail, and was someone else's name, so I just hung up. Was it The Architect? Was it a debt collector (probably)? I don't know, but leave it to me to fuck this one up. Ugh, I hate phone tag- I just hope the number calls back. It's not like I'm frantically searching for my future ex-husband or anything, but it might be fun to have someone to hang out with. And possibly get laid a couple times before I head back home.
So, while I'm still not digging this whole LA deal, at least things might be looking up for me. I'm definitely trying to be more positive, anyway.
Happy Fourth, Everyone!