Monthly Archives

July 2012

Been There. Done that. Didn’t buy the T-shirt.

The slogan on this T- shirt caught my eye as I was sitting at the airport yesterday. I often wonder how many washes it takes before the joke on a T-shirt gets really old. Anyway it was a welcome distraction. I was wrestling with a macadamia coconut shrimp and counting the minutes until I could get out of Orlando and back home to LA.

You know you’re in the wrong place when the highlight of the trip is the flight back. Virgin America is great. The flight attendants announce the safety procedures with interpretative dancing. They have disco lights lining the cabin. The food’s imaginative. They’re very jolly people. On Virgin you’re not a mere passenger you are a guest. In our house, a guest is a person who does not pay for the privilege of staying with us. Still, it gives you a warm cuddly feeling.

The themed hotel in Orlando was geared towards visitors heading for The Happiest Place on Earth. I, who am always geared towards a fine-dining menu and a chilled glass of sauvignon blanc, was somewhat discommoded to find the highlight of the evening’s entertainment would be the Alligator Feeding.

The alligators were in a man-made moat inside the atrium of the hotel by the ‘ancient’ walls of a ten- year old ‘medieval’ castle. I prefer my alligators to be for sale in the hotel boutique complete with shoulder strap and possibly in chartreuse. (Not really, but I do like to keep aquatic life separate from my social life.)

Despite the milling crowds and the humidity it was a fun trip. People were lovely. Kids everywhere were having a blast. But I am happy to be back in the theme park that I call home; the alfresco “Italian” bars and ‘cobble-stones’ of Two Rodeo Drive, the porticos and Angstrom lighting of The Beverly Wilshire Hotel and the jumble of mock-Tudor houses, Spanish haciendas and Renaissance residences in my street. Very happy indeed.

What Happens in the Pool Room Stays in the Poolroom

It’s late morning here in LA. One of my son’s girlfriends is having an orgasm in our guest –house, the converted garage that doubles as a den and where the phrase “If these walls could talk…” has more meaning than I would wish to share.

This morning’s orgasm is a Harry Met Sally piece of theater being Skyped to a casting director in New York. Years ago the pool- room doubled as a space where teenagers engaged in a wide range of activities, only some of which were legal. Thankfully, my teens are now young adults.

It must be a Feng Shui thing; years before we bought the house it was a favorite location for Hustler magazine shots and we even unearthed some ‘naughty’ wallpaper complete with curvy women in kinky boots and swimming costumes when we re-decorated the downstairs restroom.

I was planning on riffing about orgasms, it being a summer when fan fiction’s passionate American readers are devouring soft porn like pop-corn. (For some reason Fifty Shades of Grey is not rendering British women panty-less and there are probably a variety of reasons for that.) Anyway I decided against it, what with me being a writer in the venerable genre of chick-lit.

I’ve been invited as a guest on quite a few blogs over the next few weeks to talk about India’s Summer and also rather delightfully, to talk about myself. Yes. Moi! Apparently complete strangers will be interested to learn about The Five Things I Would Tell My Teen Self and why I wrote a novel. I’m thrilled at the opportunity and curious to know what the five things might be and why I wrote a novel.

At least now I know the five things I would tell my former teen son. One of which would be “ I know you feel lonely right now and that you’re not one of the cool kids, but one day when you’re in your twenties, a girl will fake orgasms in front of your camera in this very room.”