The LA Story

 

Remember how The Rock and I went to Los Angeles to celebrate our ninth wedding anniversary?

 

Yeah, me neither.

 

Already those memories of alone time and afternoon nookie have been covered with back-to-real-life goings ons such as wiping other people’s butts and packing borderline-nutritious school lunches.

 

Still, I’d like to see what I can dredge up from that anniversary weekend to share with you all.

 

I do believe we arrived at the Biltmore on Saturday at about 3PM, and waited a few minutes for my dad to pick up the girls. He was driving from Camarillo, a town about 45 minutes north of LA, and it was very nice of him to offer to pick the kids up…and really? He sounded perky about it. (You should have heard him at around 1PM on Sunday though. Whole different animal.) Anyway, The Rock and I checked in, then wandered about the lobby for a few minutes to soak up the hotel’s history (the Academy Awards were founded at the hotel and the first ceremony held in the hotel’s ballroom). And, according to Wikipedia: “Legend has it that MGM art director Cedric Gibbons, who was in attendance at what would later be considered the first Oscars in 1927, grabbed a linen Biltmore napkin at that meeting and sketched the design for the Oscar statue on it.”

 

I love that shizz.

 

 

 

Not only that, but the American Idol semi-finals were held at the Biltmore. AND the Beatles stayed there, AND a yogi died of a heart attack there while giving a speech, AND JFK accepted his presidential nomination there. (The aforementioned are not listed in order of importance.)

 

 

The Rock and I are both history buffs, and so all that was just awesome.

 

Well eventually we made it up to our room, where…um…let’s skip ahead. So afterwards, The Rock and I decided to get a little bite to eat to hold us over until dinner. We wandered aimlessly for a bit, until we asked a homeless man where we should eat. That was lame. But he gave us such a great suggestion that in the end, we didn’t feel too badly about it. However, I wish we would have offered him a dollar or a smoke for the restaurant tip.

 

 

Not the homeless man. This is my husband. Wandering aimlessly.

 

So we ended up at Bottega Louie, which was big, and bistro-like, and delicious. We sat at the bar and ordered tea sandwiches, because we’re dainty like that, and caprese salad, and two drinks each, because we’re joie de vivre like that. As we munched and sipped, we spoke a bit with the bartender and the lovely lady sitting next to us who suggested we order the egg salad. She was on her second helping, and apparently it was outstanding. Maybe she had three helpings, she forgot. (She had three helpings.)

 

 

We also people watched, which was a delight. I don’t know what it is about L.A., but certain people believe that they can wear glitter tights, cowboy boots and a Statue of Liberty bikini top and call it a day. God bless those people.

 

Soon enough, it was time to head back to the hotel to get ready for dinner with LA Stylist Mom and her husband, J. But first? Well, let’s skip ahead again. So afterward, I agonized over what to wear to dinner. Because LA Stylist Mom? A stylist. You see my dilemma. I settled on jeans and a black top. I know. How distinctive and creative of me. And while I agonized, someone knocked on the door and delivered champagne and strawberries, courtesy of the Biltmore.

 

 

This somewhat lessened the agonization.

 

After a strawberry or two, The Rock and I walked to Ciudad to meet LA Stylist Mom and J. Holy crap, that was awesome. I love LASM, plus what she wore? Very styley. Black sheer top with tarantulas on it. Cool accessories, and her vertebrae bracelet. Me and my nondescript black top were very happy for her.

 

What followed was the most amazing meal of epic proportions. Ceviche from the Gods, flatbreads and dips, wine of smoothness and lusciousness
And just in case you’re gastronomically-oriented, this is what we ordered for dinner: skirt steak, rabbit paella, diver scallops, and Gaucho steak. THEN, then, the waiter brought out a cheese plate:

 

 

Cheese. AFTER DINNER. Initially, I was disturbed by the weird order of culinary events, but I quickly recovered.

 

Finally? Dessert. Which was chocolate something. A brownie? Possibly some kind of velvety cake. I don’t recall. My brain’s pleasure center was on overload.

 

In there somewhere, Ciudad’s general manager came out and asked, “Are you La Stylist Mom and San Diego Momma?” Apparently, our food orgasm tweets had caught his attention.

 

 

The general manager man, and me.

 

I pretty much lost consciousness at that point, due to the aforementioned overloaded pleasure center, and only remember waking up the next morning with no underwear.

 

Just kidding.

 

Or not.

 

So the next morning, after a muffiny, sugary, caffeinated breakfast, The Rock and I took a stroll.

 

 

We’d decided to take the girls to the Museum of Contemporary Art (MoCA), which was doing a 30-year retrospective, and wanted to check out the parking situation before we had two crabby kids in the car.

 

 

This is not our car. But it would be so cool if it were.

 

We scoped out the logistics, made it back to the hotel, and waited for the kids to arrive. My dad couldn’t speed back to LA fast enough. Where the day before, he’d been a happy-go-lucky grandpa, he was now a man on the edge. Coulda been because he let the girls stay up until ten PM and fed them all the ice cream and candy they could swallow. But that’s neither here nor there. At any rate? We made it to MoCA for their “Family Day,” and let the girls create their own masterpieces until Booger broke down into a pile of crank, piss, and vinegar.

 

 

And then we were brought back to reality.

 

The End.

 

P.S. Thanks to Downtown LA for the room at the Biltmore (I won a contest). And thanks to the Biltmore for the champagne and strawberries. And thanks to Ciudad for the extra 15 pounds.