Starring me, as Johnny Depp in Crybaby

I'm from Michigan, have lived in Seattle, New York City and visited England more times than I count. So I know a thing or two about bad weather. Horrible weather. Chilled-bones and frozen-nerves weather. Weather that makes hot chocolate freeze on contact and Jack Frost cry. Frozen tears. So 45 degrees and a little LA rain should be no biggie, right? Right. No, WRONG. Somehow, 45 degrees, in California, makes me lose circulation. Makes me not want to leave the house. Makes me wear long socks. Makes me double-sweatshirt it. How is this possible? How have I suddenly become so sensitive to the cold? Apparently, this is a common phenomenon amongst LA transplants. The mindset of "living in California" jilts you from enjoying anything other than blue skies and a warm breeze. It's horrible. It's like moving into a mansion for a week and then being told you have to move back to the guest house. No one should ever have rich friends.

I'm going back to the East Coast for the holidays. And I better suck it up, and not complain, and not be a big fat baby, or else I will be the laughing stock of my friends and family. I will lose all street cred, and be banished from the Empire State Building, Liberty Bell, Harvard Square and the White House. Because I had access to the White House until now. I better get my s#$% together, and take it like a man.

"But it's the holidays!" doesn't seem like such a good excuse anymore when you're on a treadmill, all fat and crying

One of the saddest sounds in the world is hearing fireworks, but not actually seeing them. It's right up there with the whimper of golden retriever puppy or the wail of Britney Spears' baby as it rolls around in the backseat floor of her Mercedes because no one bothered to put a seat belt on it.

But luckily, I did see the fireworks that I was hearing last night. More specifically, the Christmas fireworks in Manhattan Beach, California. Maybe it was all the hot moms in holiday sweaters, maybe it was the Bailey's, on ice, with chocolate shavings, but there was something magical in the air. It was the first time this December that I felt the shiver of Christmas magic. The twinkle lights were twinkling, the cinnamon eggnog was brewing and the children were getting red and green puffy paint all over the carpets. Last night was the first time that "But it's the holidays!" actually sounded like a logical excuse for consuming every piece of chocolate I could find.

If I know one thing, I know this. Sitting on the beach with boozy cider, watching merry fireworks is not the absolute worst way to celebrate the holiday season.

Now, Sundays rule

Typically in New York, my Sundays amounted to little more than consumption of a greasy brunch complemented by both mimosa (Vitamin-C-nourished depressant) and strong black coffee (the-wind-beneath-my-wings-stimulant). Following the brunch was more consumption: in the form of excessive window shopping spending that is New York City, followed by absorption of mind-numbing tabloid mags or a self-indulgent nap upon a windowless, shoebox apartment laundry pile. Yesterday however, demonstrated to me that life in California is different. That given a little energy and enthusiasm, Sundays in California are pretty sweet.

I woke up, insignificantly hungover, with the resolve to make something of my day. I knew that exercise would be the lynch pin in revealing this December Sunday, and I knew that my motivation for the run would be prompted by some great scenery. So I followed the cloudless sky to the 10W, and the 10W to Venice. Running South in California always serves me better than running North. Running South means Mexico, it means tequila, it means guacamole. So I ran South on the Venice boardwalk for awhile, enjoying the balmy air and music video view where airplanes become palm trees and clouds became circus animals. The Venice boardwalk ends, however, and there was nothing left to do but run on the beach. Which is pretty much one of the top five coolest things one can do to enjoy California, right up there with binge wine-drinking and being a reality star. Following the beach run, I met my friend Gloria at the Little Door on 3rd St. for some menu indecisiveness and yummy french toast. After determining that yes, sugar daddies do serve a purpose, we sidled up to the LACMA for the infamous, Hollywood-centric Dali exhibit. Dali is a complex, maniacal genius, and only LACMA's white wine would help us de-mystify his process. White wine precluded Atonement, which amounted to little more than Keira Knightley's half-nakedness. Which is pretty cool.

As any Chrome Hearts-wearing faux hipster can tell you, Sundays are the new skulls.

Get sauced, Blackberry yourself

I've always admired people who carry notepads. These are the universe's real entrepreneurs, the people who know that brilliance is bound to arise from spontaneity and the embrace of any idea, no matter how silly. So I thought I was being a saavy, constructive little idea-maker by taking advantage of my Blackberry's memo pad. It's a very useful function, but lately, a pattern is emerging. I'll be out drinking wine somewhere, getting tipsy, letting life become art and vice versa. And then days later, I will read my memo entries. And they will have ZERO significance to me. Is this a the Guitar Hero's version of a drunk dial? I found an entry the other day that said "Greg Brown - Rescue - Whitney Hopter Graphics". Having no recollection of the meaning of these words, especially in this sequence, I Googled them. (Does one always capitalize Google? Does this insult the theists? Are we even there yet?) I found a painting of a pickle swinging into the arms of a tomato on a chopping board. ?!? Did I want this painting? Does the pickle have significance? (Am I pregnant?) Or even better, my entry under the heading "Books". Two words: "Jurassic Park". Jurassic Park?! The Michael Crichton book? Didn't it come out when I was in 4th grade?

All I know for sure is this: the depths of my gray matter are a strange, strange place. We'll just have to wait and see what flash of genius the next pinot noir sends my way.

eBone-ing.com

Online social networking has probably gone too far when Dogster and Catster.coms 1) exist, and 2) also have more than like thirty-three members, and 3) they don't all live in Beulah, Wyoming. 4) Where only thirty-three people live.

Says Dogster.com founder Ted Rheingold, “All these people come for the same reason everyone else is on the Internet: they found people who are like-minded,” he continues, “They were missing what I call a certain kind of social-ality in their lives, and this is the place where they found it. It’s actually quite heartwarming.” Yeahhh. Catster.com users lacking "social-ality" might just be the biggest understatement of '07. This isn't about the poor animals. This is a front for single, multi-cat-owning women to post pictures of themselves smothered in butterscotch on the Internet. I'm onto you, catwomen!

Yeah, so California is not a total dump

I was seventeen years old when I first laid eyes on the shores of the Pacific Ocean, and I'm reminded of this every time I see it. I waited seventeen years to see what to me, will always be one the most amazing sights I have ever seen. Now having read this, you are absolutely required to call me out if I ever lose my perspective. EVER! The spectacular, sun drenched coastline, the lulling azure waves and the blazing tangerine ocean sunsets positively SCHOOL, school! the flat...desolate...and wintry plains of Michigan. They school them everyday. And this weekend when I hiked with a friend in Malibu, climbing up the sunny, 70-degree valley mountains, trotting down the dirty beach grass dips and finally settling on a worn, wooden bench overseeing the entire coast of Southern California, I wondered how it could be December. How it could be freaking December.

And that blissful Saturday afternoon turned into the day it was always meant to be. Driving back from my hike, I called my friend Caitlin, who was at that moment driving up to Santa Barbara for the day with her friend Devon. My face immediately scrunched into that of a little sulking pug. Because that sounded like the best idea, maybe ever, and I wanted to go. But they had already left. So I thought about it for a moment...and just turned my little blue Volvo nose north to the 101. I would catch them, by God. Now the best thing about the 101 is passing by Summerland. Summerland is the most amazing little town right before Santa Barbara. It hugs Ortega Hill and just sits there like a fat, ripe orange. And it's called Summerland. I don't know how else to say that that is amazing. We ended up staying the night at the Double Tree in Santa Barbara, which spared no expense in providing us with peppy little travel-size deodorants, face wash, toothbrushes, flattering flannel sheets and chocolate chip cookies (their THING). Even the stock wall paintings were great: little sketches of palm trees and the California coastline. It was an amazing time, and I was sad to leave. But I knew I'd come back. Because all it takes is my little Volvo. And the 101.