Author Archive

So it’s been nearly a year since our initial journey through the twisted trysts, loves, and lies started, and I’ve enjoyed divulging every dirty detail to you all. Los Scandalous has been (and I’m grasping for just the “write” word here) educational, if anything. I learned that nine times out of ten the mysterious monsieurs met at various Hollyweird hotspots are here to act. They more often than not (contrary to popular belief) do not end the scene with said script, and their character’s colors are revealed through various dating adventures. I learned that if you’re from some small town you may have manners, but my city will swallow you whole without stopping to digest the situation. I’ve learned that dinner and a movie does not constitute date night. I’ve learned that when you are roped into some mundane movie night (for the umpteenth time) you should make sure to lo-jack your ride, so you can GPS your way back to the getaway vehicle you can all-too-easily lose in the Grove parking structure (not that I’m speaking from experience, of course). I’ve learned that sometimes when you DO happen to bust a blonde moment, it is often an unexpected opportunity to be rescued from the knight, in shining armor.

I’ve learned that more often than not the swift sweetheart is from point blank, Oklahoma and you’re right back where you started. Rockstars, actors, and hipsters are often all the same breed, and you have to try on several styles to see which works for you. (But hey, if the flannel shirt fits…) I’ve learned that the dinkiest of divebars (I’m talking where Converse count as couture) can be the most fun locales for you and your plus one. I’ve learned that your very best girlfriends really will be with you through thick and thin, and even when you change your persona to see just what works for you, they aren’t going to hit it and quit it like a boy (shouldn’t) but might. Think of your gf’s as the Ralph Lauren of people – a classic that never gets old, and is always in style. Flannel shirts might I add, will soon be out faster than a Jersey shore grenade. I’m pretty sure the best pick-up line is being comfortable in your own skin. (Or “How much does a polar bear weigh? Enough to break the ice. Hi I’m insert name here.” It’s a close call between the two.) Between all the “boyfriends” you’ve followed me over the canyon and through the The Hills with, it’s been one hell of a ride. Granted the ride sometimes moves at the speed of a special olympic hurdler but let’s blame that on the ever-unpredictable L.A. traffic.

I’ve learned that aside from your gf’s, you can ALWAYS rely on finding something at the Fred Segal and Nordstrom’s half yearly sales, and that there will be traffic on the 405 at any time during the day and/or night. I’d say there’s comfort in consistency, but really it’s just two aspirin waiting to happen. I learned that ER M.D.’s do not, in fact, resemble the McCast of Greys. What I have yet to learn is why girls listen to things like He’s Just Not That Into You and regard it as gospel. He’s just not that into you? Cool, kick Jo Shmo to the curb and move on to the next man. Time, ladies, stops for no (wo)man. It’s been an absolute adventure and I await many more to come in the following year as I give my regards to Broadway, Brooklyn, Austin and any other alluringly sweet city that holds the promise of something sin-sational.

Au Revoir dolls & dudes.

Seemingly, all things north of the border are heading south for the winter, and the Canadians have brought trendy to a whole new level with The Buried Life and certain musical feats that seem “tragically hip,” in the best sense of the word.  So with MTV sporting The Buried Life and airwaves sporting something akin to some sort of United Nations of music, it has quarter-life crisis kids from across the universe looking to exploit their individual life’s potential rather than waste away at a nine-to-five.  The same sentiment seems to have leaked into the love and lives of Los Scandalous residents everywhere.  And rather than wasting time pining over something that seems just far enough out of reach, Don Juans are turning into reformed rakes, trying to rendezvous with just their preferred of the thirty-one flavors instead of trying to taste them all. So, when the sweet situation gets a little too sinfully sticky, instead of jumping ship to the next flavor in the assembly line, boys are trying to clean up their act.

If The Buried Life teaches us anything, it’s that the bucket list is the same for everyone – even for beachy-keen boys from British Columbia.  Wouldn’t you rather stay with one sentimental sweetheart in lieu of lusting after a lady that tastes sweet for only the first five bites?  That which starts out sweet often turns sour, even before the expected expiration date.  Better to have loved and lost than gotten chewed out by some simple flavor of the week.

There’s an expiration date to various music. Songs you can no longer listen to post-partum from some significantly twisted tryst. I am the said survivor of a certain sexperience. I’ve recently found out that the expiration date for said song’s hiatus should not exceed four years. I came to this conclusion when I no longer had to swiftly change stations upon the uninvited airwave appearance in various acoustic forms. That’s the best slash worst part of all music, its ability to DeLorean you back to some significant time without warning. And, as much as this little lyrical lifestyle allows for the resurgence of something entirely blissful, it can just as easily invite the unwanted resurrection of something a little less than holy. So when the City of Angels is suddenly overrun by an unavoidable soundtrack to your life, hurry up and switch stations at supersonic speed, lest your sample CD gets stuck on repeat and you become one of those misguided mademoiselles fervently stating that they just don’t make music like they used to.

You know New Year’s resolutions are officially in pre-bikini season full swing when you can’t find a parking space easily at your gym. Now, let’s be clear that there are two kinds of gyms: there’s the gym you frequent to get into shape, and there’s the gym you attend when you’re ready to parade around town with the body you’ve sweated countless hours to achieve. The latter isn’t filled with elliptical seeking sweeties, but rather beachy-keen bimbettes that wouldn’t need plane-supplied flotation devices in the event of a mid-Atlantic crash. These cardio-kittens aren’t there to workout, that’s what their other gym is for! Rather they (like the men) are there to show off what their mama’s gave them in all-American Apparel that leaves nothing to the imagination. Welcome to Los Scandalous two months before swimsuit season. A land where protein shakes serve as sweet treats and calorie counting is a league of its own. When visiting this wild exhibit in the urban jungle, remember to keep your hands and feet on your own elliptical at all times, unless specifically invited by a trained aerobic handler. And please, don’t feed the models.

Sometimes you take a little break from the dating life because it’s just too damn hard to find someone that crosses the ex off the list. This little sitch is amplified in L.A. where ex’s are often not just around the corner, but in the background, on various stations, movie channels, and upcoming movie trailers. So as hard as you try to kick the bad habit, you’re lured back into the web by the offered comfort of consistency. If iPhone could find an app to block said images from sight, I’d be more than willing to jump the Crackberry ship and become a full-fledged Mac. Since that hasn’t happened, I’ve decided to live all things Amish. There are no movie trailers in Amish country. Of course, there are no cars to make a quick getaway either, but I hear the horses are being supercharged, so that’s a plus

So I have very different views than my best friend when it comes to phone versus text-versations. I absolutely abhor drawn out convos via dialing, and she hates reading the convos set forth through tiny screens. I guess dating etiquette dictates that when it comes to the first meet and greet, one should call to confirm before the date. But what if neither one of you want to chat? I guess your preference comes into play when figuring out the logistics of the date.  Also, ne should never assume that a call is needed to confirm. In this age of technological advancements you have to clear a path for communication before you get thrown a busy signal. When lines get crossed, try another form of talking and put in the effort before your somewhat significant other dials out of area.

New year new start right? Wrong. Same old dating disaster stories that honestly give the famed four females from Manhattan a run for their money. So in an effort to meet new people, I agree to go out with this guy who would totally be my type (if I really had one) preppy, motivated, loves classic rock, should have just gone ahead and wrote future Mr. SweetLo. This of course was my train of thought before “the incident,” as I like to refer to it. Now most girls’ dating horror stories consist of skirt in underwear, spilling cocktail on white couture, tripping and falling in front of the mass population of Los Scandalous. But me? No, I like to be different! So we go to this place where fried food and arcade games circa 1980 came a dime a dozen. In a post food, post-drink haze of flirtation, we decided to compete in a little rousing round of air hockey. Well my train of thought was still on track until I successfully blocked the little dangerous disc, sent it back his way, with a trail of blood across the table. Now, my train of thought had officially gone off track and crashed. There were no survivors. Now leave it to me to turn West Hollywood into a South Central-style murder scene. All I needed was to be wearing either red or blue and my gang affiliation wouldn’t be questioned due to my bloody street cred. So while I was in questioning (from former Mr. Perfect) as to how I managed to sever my hand on a plastic disc, I told him I was just talented. Well, twenty-ten is officially off to one hell of a start. Can’t wait for my next misadventure on the search for mister right….now.

So last week, post-Schmooz-A-Palooza®, this princess boarded THE Princess and sailed off to visit the Mexican Riviera. The ship was absolutely filled with young quarter-life crisis kids and the most outgoing of us (which was thankfully the majority) clicked right from the start, making this the perfect young maiden’s voyage. Ringing in twenty-ten with three thousand of my closest strangers was a surprising blast, and although the New Year’s kiss usually has girls feeling more than single and guys dealing with the whole “I don’t want to give her the wrong relationship idea” thing, this was just one giant ALL-night party that left those hypnotized by various intoxicants free to either (dis) or engage in a little NYE lip-locking. The entire ship, no matter what age, seemed to party sans drama ‘til twenty-ten’s first dawn. The entire experience was by far one of my fave trips, and it completely had me craving another cruise sooner rather than later. Though most people consider an out-of-the-country fling a temporary one, the last time I met someone on a cruise, we ended up dating on and off for two years. Mind you we didn’t kiss and tell during the weeklong vacay, we waited until we were safely back on So-Cal soil to sexperiment. All and all the trip down the Pacific Coast was sinsational, if that’s how this year started, I can’t wait to see what else it brings. Something wonderfully wicked this way comes.

So the Schmooz-A-Palooza® came and went and all those who think it’s nice to be naughty ventured out to the Sunset strip for an evening that was absolutely unbelievable.  Mix a little couture, cocktails, and a cute crowd and nothing could go wrong.  I was lucky enough to have my fave wing girls on hand for various cute boyfriend sightings.  Boyfriend: Noun, slang for possible future dating contestant.  There were too many boyfriend sightings to count, and with the various raised hemlines, I’m sure these boys weren’t disappointed.  With everyone dressed to impress, liquid courage in hand, and a million different options, it made me wish St. Nick would haunt Hollywood at least twice a year.  You may think making out is not entirely a spectator sport but locking lips was not exactly a behind the scenes event that night.  In fact, the backstage pass was handed out by several people, and though it wasn’t all access, the stalkerazzi still had something to talk about the next day.  We left oh-nine looking fine.  Here’s hoping twenty-ten is a total dime…

So most people know that when the Santa Ana’s blow, insanity often ensues. Pair that with the event of the year on December 24th, and I’m pretty sure we’ve got all the ingredients to make a recipe for an anything-can-happen type of evening (and we all know that anything involving cooking and me in the same sentence is like a kamikaze kitchen mission). Aside from the party of the year I’ll be fleeing the country and heading south of the border shortly after to join Jimmy Buffet in his search for that lost shaker of salt. Winter break is officially in full swing and while most people are engaging in some MMA-style moves at the mall to fight for the perfect present, we’re all done and kicking back with cocktails! Jealous much? The New Year is fast approaching and all I can say is that after oh-nine being merely fine, I hope that twenty-ten is nothing short of a dime- that’s top of the line. Since I have twenty-thousand things going on, and am multi-tasking like it’s going out of style, it’s no wonder that two people have asked me out in the past week. Figures, eh? No stressing though it just means I have something to do when I get back to the real world next year. Here’s to twenty-ten and a whole new year of insanity in Los Scandalous. See you December 24th for the biggest party of this year before we ring in the new one!