LA Story

I came across this piece the other day. I wrote it a year ago when I was still living in LA and submitted it to a local paper. The editor liked it, but he didn’t buy it (go figure – he ran a singles column and it’s about married women -- with babies). But anyway, I completely forgot about it. This is one of the beautiful things about having a blog – I can publish some of my work that never found the right home. So here goes . . .

My friend Sasha (not her real name) was in Los Angeles on a business trip after moving to the Midwest eight months ago. We were both married now, Sasha had a baby, and I was trying to get knocked-up, so I had visions of crashing her luxury Park Hyatt suite for an evening of room service and Spectravision. But my idea was quashed when Sasha said she was dying for a night out on the town.

I had to dig – and I mean dig – through my closet to find “going out” clothes.

“Wahla! I found my purple pleather pants,” I said, shaking out the wrinkles. “And lookie there, they still fit.”

I shimmied into them and hooked the button. Other parts of me didn’t look so hot. I’d stopped highlighting my hair (the chemicals are bad) and my prior obsession with manicures and waxing rituals had been replaced with periodic duty. When I looked in the bathroom mirror and studied my face, I noticed the skin around my eyes looked so – what’s the word – mature.

We drove to a restaurant in Hollywood. Los Angeles magazine had given it a good write-up. Janet and Sienna (these names have been changed too) joined us. The two of them had each popped out a baby last year, dropping from full-time lawyer to part-time lawyer.

“Huh,” Sasha said when we arrived. “Another sushi place with funky walls.”

“And nightmare parking,” I added. Yes, reminders of why I prefer room service were coming back fast.

“Do you want a table where you can talk or one where you can people watch?” the hostess asked.

I wanted to talk but was out-voted. The hostess seated us in a half-moon shaped booth facing the crowd. When we launched into a discussion about sex, our waiter’s ears perked up. But we quickly moved onto more relevant topics: baby food, baby weight, baby length, baby percentages. The waiter’s face morphed into disappointment.

“Where are you all from?” he asked.

“Omigod,” Sasha said. “Do I look like I’m from the Midwest*?” She was having issues with her new non-LA digs.

We moved onto the drink order.

“Vodka gimlet for me,” Sasha said.

The waiter stood, confused.

“Oh. That’s an old lady’s drink, isn’t it?” Sasha said.

The waiter suggested a strange sounding martini. Janet had the guts to order one.

“I’ll take a merlot,” I said. Merlot reminded me of lovely evenings spent sipping wine and debriefing the day with my husband.

Sienna ordered a Sprite.

“Ohmigod! You’re pregnant?” Sasha asked.

The waiter visibly panicked.

“Would you like to start with some edamame?” he gave us a big smile. “Edamame are little green soy beans,” he said, making hand gestures in an attempt to demonstrate how to eat one.

“Did you hear that?” Janet said when he left. “He translated edamame for us. He really doesn’t think we’re from around here.”

Sienna was near tears. “I can’t have two babies under two,” she said. “I’ll die.”

“Hello? Are you using pro-tec-tion?” Janet asked.

Sienna dug her cell phone out of her purse and placed in on the table, ignoring our stares. “The withdrawal method,” she finally offered.

“Well no wonder you’re pregnant!” we all shouted.

We understood though. Birth control pills had gone out the window, along with Internet dating and shopping sprees.

A television crew arrived – and passed us by – even though we were frantically reapplying our lipstick.

“Hang on,” Sasha yelled to the cameraman, but it was too late. “We don’t look older than those girls,” she nodded towards the table being filmed. The four of us eyeballed the spunky blondes.

“Um,” Janet said softly, “I think we do.”

“Hey,” I interrupted. “This food is delicious.”

Everybody turned their heads towards the assortment of sushi rolls and chicken skewers. A dead silence settled over the table. I felt like I said something wrong. We were supposed to be pining over our single days. Well, either that or trash talking anyone who was under 30. Had I just broken the rules?

“You’re right,” Janet finally said, popping a cube of Kobe beef steak in her mouth. “The food is good.”

Sasha and Sienna picked up their chopsticks. Suddenly we were paying attention to each other instead of the waiter, the spunky blondes, and the camera crews. In that moment, we weren’t mothers or wives, lawyers or writers. We were simply four girls catching up with each other, enjoying dinner, laughing and drinking and indulging in the company of friends – that is, until Sienna’s husband called and announced their baby had fallen out of his highchair. She rushed out the door.

Things went downhill from there. The waiter forgot our second round of drinks (although he remembered to charge us). Our celebrity sighting (Lindsey Lohan) turned out to be not-so-Lindsey after all. And when the bill came, we spent 20 minutes debating how much to tip the waiter.

Oh well.

The few moments we shared were magical (and the baby was fine).

~

*For the record, Sasha (and I) both LOVE the Midwest. We were born and raised there and since leaving LA, are enjoying the clean air, extreme seasons, and friendly folks.