A Lyfestyle Blog

The Christmas Card

It wouldn’t be Christmas without a meltdown.

Mine came early on November 29th.

With the my new lob comes great responsibility.


I still have not mastered the beach curl, and have experimented with a few curling irons and other hot tools. I decided to experiment with a wand on the day Carms said we were posing for our Christmas card photo.

So many questions:

  1. Why were we hiring a photographer in our backyard when we’ve used a rogue iPhone photo as our Christmas card taken by a stranger for the past 10 years?
  2. If we are doing this posed photo, can we at least be in blue jeans and a crisp white button down at the JC beach where there are margs served on tap?

Our Christmas card from last year that was converted to coasters as a gift…

I started to curl my hair with my new wand and semi ignored that it was a cordless device. AKA it needed to be charged.

The wand comes with a car charger and was plugged in the entire drive to Hancock Park.

I arrived with the half bun (I would have looked very Venice chic), and immediately started to curl after Carms scolded me for not coming prepared.

Really, she was more concerned with the overage cost of the photographer (Groupon service that charged by the minute if you went over).


So at the time I thought, “eh the hair looks OK.”

We  received the proof for the card and I nearly drove my car off Wilshire.
Shirls called and she wants her wand back.

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My mother, who said I was beautiful when I had my unibrow, said the photos were adorable.

My hair was cray.

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The two pieces in the front. WTF.

I decided to get a second opinion from my good friends at the Drybar.

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I showed the stylist the photo and she said, “you did that?” And flipped the chair around to give me a live tutorial of how to curl my lob.

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She gave me this glass after seeing the card…

To those who receive the card, please try to look past my Shirley curls, and Merry Christmas.

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New lob, who dis?

New lob, new job, new me?

My hair started to return to its natural state, and I decided to follow the influence and

try Chiara’s colori$t.

I had never heard of Meche salon. I arrived with my long semi brown hair excited to return to my true blonde self.

The colorist walked over to my station, looked at my hair, and said:

“I need to tell you. This may hurt your feelings, but you have a mullet, and I can’t color it until we cut it. I have someone who’s amazing who can try to cut it if he has time, and then we can color the hair.”



First thing that went through my head, “I knew my layers looked like Britney Spears circa 2001, but I didn’t know they were that bad.”


Second thought.

“LOL to the bank checkin’ my account.”

“What are you doing for the rest of the day?”

 I guess I’ll be here to experience a transformation and watching my funds slip out of my  bank account.

5.5 hours, Shailene Woodley, Julia Louis Dreyfus and every other hollywood celeb later, my transformation was complete.


I left a peasant, but at least I was chic and poor.

The reactions from the lob were not pleasant…At first.


Boyfriend: “You cut all your hair off. Why?”

Carms: “It will grow back.”

My motto:

Me: new lob, who dis.



Domaine OTT Drought

So here’s the deal with Saint Tropez:

Prepare to feel poor, accept you are not staying on a yacht, all while owning your pesantry with a bottle of overpriced Rosé.


Jordan wanted to go and push 100 foot yachts and thangs, so we departed from Antibes to spend two nights in Saint Tropez.

I didn’t know what to expect: Opulence, yacht people, bougie; But I can’t tell you how pleasantly surprised I was when we arrived at our hotel.

In fact I cried.

Many of the hotels in Saint Tropez are converted villas, so you get a feel of a luxe bed and breakfast.


Our hotel was perfection. If you are not living the yacht life, this is where you can reside.

The big finale of our trip was to go to the ULTRA luxe Club 55.

We both were ecstatic as we whipped the Fiat into the parking lot at 10am on our last day prepared for rosé, day beds, and the chic lunch rez at 3pm.

Once again expectation vs. reality.

The reality was Club 55 could not have cared less about giving us a daybed, and had no desire to serve us rosé. We didn’t get our mojitos until 1 hour into our day bed experience.


We glanced into the restaurant, and while it looked very entertaining, it was not our speed after what we experienced in the AM.


The day was not going as planned, so I needed something stronger than Rosé.

If I had been on a yacht, tanning, drinking, and decided I wanted to have “lively” experience with my fellow yacht friends, I would have loved Club 55.


As a reg peasant, not my jam.

Also not my jam, was my key  purchase of a white one piece bathing suit.

I ended up looking like anyone would after 10 days of eating croissants, cheese, and baguettes- Puffy and swollen AF.


How could I resist a lemon loaf…

You know when you crumble tissues into a ball, that was how I felt in the one piece.

Rolling in sand. With NO rosé. I can’t.


Selfies only.

Determined for our day not to be a disappointment, I changed into a spare BS, and we packed our things to head down the beach, but not before I turned to the the perfect couple next to us from Monaco and ask their thoughts on Club 55.


Running out of Club 55 like…

The woman was literally the definition of the French je ne sais quoi.

With her high pitched and thick French accent she responded with an almost exasperated response of “We love Club 55!” as if she was remembering some of the best memories of her life.

Jordan asked her what she thought of Bagatelle, to which she responded, “Bahga-tellllle? Oh it is ze best. You will have a great time. My friend is ze owner. I’ll call and make a reservation for you?”


That happened, and we ended up giving them our reservation at Club 55.

You win some, you lose them.

We waltzed into Bagatelle, and immediately Jordan was at home. We had the best service, the best time, and the best rosé.


Too much in fact.

Jordan said I needed to pace myself with the rosé, as I was drinking it like water. It was also 97 degrees out.


Seriously it was nuts.

My eyes nearly rolled to the back of my head when I heard “Wild Thoughts” by Rihanna.

The next day we woke up, and I cannot tell you the pain I felt.

Pain. Pure pain.

And then our flight was cancelled.

To be continued…


Kicking Rocks on the Cote D’Azur

One of the many struggles I have in life and especially on a vacation is the idea vs the reality.  This came full force on day three of the Southern leg of the trip.

We wanted to have a day of inland activities, so we ambitiously decided on the following:

  1. Browse St. Paul De Vence
  2. Stop @ the gorge
  3. Visit lavender fields & go wine tasting in Provence
  4. Hotel Du Cap for Dinner

Aren’t we chic?

St. Paul de Vence has long been on my list for one reason: Go to Colombe D’or. We did not, but we glanced over the gate to view the safe haven of where artists like Picasso, Monet, and Van Gogh (to name a few) all used to gather.

One day I will sit here, and Gigglés will also be added to the list of these great creatives.


After eating an abundance of pastries, we were off to the lavender fields with a stop at the gorge to sight see.

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What we did not realize was the gorge was the Grand Canyon of France, and the lavender fields were nowhere near it.

We drove 2.5 hours to the main valley, and realized our lavender field dreams were gone with the wind.


Do not get me wrong when I say it was incredible.

I’ve never seen anything like the place before. And It was breathtaking, but it was not necessarily my vision.


Idea: I would be sipping rose, skipping through lavender fields with my boyfriend in Provence.

Reality: I was kicking rocks and dodging bees, on top of the French Grand Canyon. Hungry AF. Wearing a sundress.


I tried to let it go, even after we met a vendor at the top of the French Grand Canyon, who sold us the most amazing tapenade and sandwich, but I still couldn’t help but feel crestfallen that we would not be living my provencal fantasy.

Tired from driving on the winding roads (the Fiat was a manual BTW), we arrived at the bottom of the mountain silenced by the loss of a dream.

As we started to drive, I thought how rural and green this area was, and how it reminded me of somewhere I had recently been for a wedding. And then a thought came to me, we were in Provence.

Wine Country Provence. Holly hell.

I typed “vineyards” into google maps, and they all popped up.



We stopped at Chateau Saint Roseline  and the well known Domaines OTT (which until that moment, I had never heard of).



What is great about visiting these vineyards is the tastings are free.  Because you are out in the middle of nowhere, there is free wine to taste for your travels.

One more tasting, and we would miss our dinner at Hotel Du Cap.

We slid into our reservation, drank an overpriced glass of champagne, and watched the sun set on the yachts that lined the horizon.




My vision of lavender fields and Rosé was gone, and I am 100 percent fine with that because I gained a spontaneous moment on top of the French Grand Canyon I will never forget.




From Paris to Provence

If you enjoy leisure & wine, then you must take the train from Paris to Provence.


Do not waste time flying around. No matter the distance, train life is the best life in France, especially when there is Rosé, scenic sunflowers, and business class.

Yes, I may be the duchess of coach, but on the train, I am Queen Giggles.

Let’s not forget when leisure turned into robbery TBT, but as long as you’re armed (with a baguette), you’re untouchable.


We arrived at Marseille with one purpose. Pick up the Fiat and get to Antibes.

Allegedly, there were no Fiats avaialble at Hertz.

After another round of summoning, one appeared to be available.

Giggles gets what Giggles wants.

The rental care monsieur stared at Colossus II and said “are you sure?”


To that we said, “oui” and realized what an error we had made.

Colossus II did not fit in the car. The only way we could get the suit case in, was by opening the top of the convertible and Jordan lifting it in like a crane.


We started our drive down the cote d’azure excited for our next adventure.

I don’t know if I was expecting Positano or the Cinque Terre, but I got neither when we arrived to Juan Les Pins.


Was it beautiful, yes. But I was not expecting to arrive at the French version of Mango Deck after a 6 hour travel day.

Le Petit Plage.


I wanted a salad nicoise, and instead got blasting house music. Wasn’t Princess Grace roaming here at one time?

What was happening?

After inhaling an aperol spritz, we got back into the Fiat and arrived to our home base of Antibes.

It was more in line with the quaint vision, but holy tourist.

We arrived at our VRBO and it was perfection. An oasis if you will, from the back packs, fanny packs, and trucker hats in the square.


We went to six different shops in the town to find chilled Rose, because without that, we would have spiraled.

After the sun set, the tourists dispersed, and the town itself became a bit more romantic.

However, the romance became a bit claustrophobic, when we decided to have dinner in “a cave.”


It sounds romantic:  Eating dinner in candlelight, in an old cellar.

Yes, but when it was 90 degrees, and there are 25 people sitting together with no a/c, underground,  it is time for more chilled wine.


I highly recommend staying at the VRBO, and making it a home base, but prepare for the bustle of Times Square Antibes.

We hopped to Saint-Jean-Cap-Ferrat which was my version of Le Petite Plage.



Gelato, soft waves, and a day bed. I was melting with every sip of Rosé.

Until demain,




Contemplated “losing” my passport



I Came for the Snails

On our way to 1 of 4,581 almond croissants, we realized it was a cold dark abyss in Paris.

In July…


Aw hell.

I was saving all of my Euros/Monopoly money for French pastries and did not want to make it rain at Zara for a jacket.


I managed with my blanket sweater, and we were off to the Louvre for Jordan to see the other Lisa.


We peaced from the Louvre, bopped to L’Orangerie, got lost in the Marais, and stumbled into a Picasso museum.




We enjoyed the art at these museums, but perhaps our favorite gallery of them all was the restaurant at Hotel Costes.



It was the start of fashion week, so imagine the courtyard at Chateau Marmont, mixed with couture, and cigarettes.


It was FANTASTIC minus the cigs.


If you want your Parisian chic experience, go to  Hotel Costes.

Paris was #McChic, but the ultimate happened when we went to the South of France the next day.




Redemption @ The Eiffel

In France, bread is life. What is not, is protein.  Jordan was not amused with only having pastries in the AM.

Cafés do not serve breakfast (eggs, bacon, etc.) until later in the morning, so we needed to resort to the classic look of being McChic.



After inhaling an Egg McMuffin, we hopped on a train to Giverny, and visited Monet’s home.

I cried. It was beautiful.


Early bird gets the best experience.

Make sure you get there on the first train, because the tour buses arrive shortly after the garden opens.


The jet lag was kicking in, and I knew Jordan and I would collapse if we did not find more protein.


We almost got stranded in Giverny, but hopped on a train back to Paris in search of meat.

We found meat dreams at Bellota Bellota


Sweet mother of pearl.

Go here and grab a $andwich to take with you to the Eiffel and your Parisian protein dreams will come true.


After tiger snooze number three, redemption awoke me from our slumber, and we headed to the Eiffel.


TBT to the time I was robbed in Paris when some gypsy children stole my iPhone after my magical picnic in 2013.

The only photo from this moment

2013- I have no photos except this one from the day my iPhone was swiped

Armed with a baguette and bae, I would not allow such a violation to occur again.


2017- Aware and armed

I was not that hungry, so if any one tried to come and rob me of my memories again, they would be faced with a baguette beating.


The sweet victory of not being pick pocketed in Paris always a good feeling, as was me not having to return to my former state of being as Liam Neeson.


We celebrated not being mugged with a crisp glass of champagne at our Airbnb, and went back to our neighborhood restaurant of La Maison for steak frites.


Oh, what a time to be alive in Paris.


Day One: The Departure

 I almost greeted the LAX employees with “Bonjour” and “Merci” after stepping out of the UBER at Tom Bradley because I could not contain my excitement that we were on our way to France.


I was definitely nervous and low key claustrophobic about boarding a double decker, but after stepping on the plane and being greeted with a high pitched “bonjour!” from the stewardess, my fears were alleviated.

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Another way Air France subdues its passengers, is by providing unlimited wine. However, no amount of wine could blur my vision into business class, as I watched champagne and hot towels being distributed.



It worked out in economy, as even though my seat did not recline, I found some rogue ham and cheese sandwiches near the bathroom that were the delicacy for the duchess of coach.


With rain hitting our window and a being little delusional/jet lagged (it was 2am LA time) we arrived at our AirBNB and I was hyperventilating.

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Remember when Carrie arrives with the Russian and opens the windows of her apartment?

I had this moment, and was flailing.

AirBNB is the way to go. Do not stay in a hotel in Paris.  Unless you’re Diddy. Then totally stay in a hotel.


Giggles needed a tiger snooze, and after two hours, we woke up to sunshine in Paris.


We saw the sights, got a crepe, and sashayed down the Champs.

Remember that I had researched every cafe, brasserie, and restaurant.

Do not do this in Paris. Wander. And you will find.


We discovered a restaurant down the street from our Airbnb, and ended up eating there two out of the four nights we were in Paris.


If you’re over by the Arc Di Triomphe, head here for the best French toast of your life at any time of day.


This is not touristy, and you’ll get the Parisian feels, and will be the only person speaking English.


Bon Apetit,


France- The Prologue

I bought every guide book, scoured every travel blog, and downloaded way too many lifestyle apps to research France.

I wanted to know where to go for the best resaurant, the best sight, and the best experience.


What I found was the moments that were spontaneous, or the times that took us off course, were by far my favorite part of the trip.

To be in France, you need to let go and get lost.

Pick your arrondissement, and wander with a croissant or baguette in hand, and revel in the fact that you’re in France.

I did, and while I’m five pounds heavier, I’ve gained so much appreciation for the country, culture, and the people.





SLO Whimsical

Wedding Season.

Oh, what a time to be alive.


This is a season of bride tribes, and also a time for bribes.

Yes, you read that right: Bribes, not brides.

After calling begging my  Spray Tan spot for an appointment on Friday, there was no room at the inn for me at both Los Angeles locations. I would be forced to resemble an uncooked turkey for my cousin’s wedding in San Luis Obispo on Saturday.


The Horror. (BTW I referred to San Luis, as San Looie Obispo). Really the horror.

I had two options Friday evening- Beg or bribe.

The latter had already failed, so I needed to take my negotiations to the next level.

I went to Sweet Lady Jane down the street, picked up a plethora of sweet treats and arrived unannounced at the salon.

“Hello. You may know me as Lisa Jones, your regular client. You may know me as Lisa Jones who is on the wait list this evening. You may know me as the client who has brought a box of sweet treats this evening. I have a wedding tomorrow. What can we do to fix this problem ?{slides yellow pastry box across the table}.”

“Someone just cancelled. We can take you now.”


Brownies create appointments at Bronzed Santa Monica.

J, and the now cooked turkey jetted off to SLO, but got stuck in some way too long traffic on the 101. It didn’t help our drive that I was staring at every photo from Pippa’s wedding, and couldn’t engage in chatting with the driver.

Prince George was scolded by Kate?


Food was the cue for me to become present, as Jordan had said he wanted to stop at a sandwich shop on the way.

Bell Street Farm.

Where do I begin?

I can’t.


Sandwiches are a passion of mine. We walked in and were immediately allured by the adorable farm chic aesthetic, but realized we had found the holy grail after a bite of the sandwich.

Sweet mother of pearl.

This sandwich transcends The Bay Cities, Godmother and the Larchmont Wine and Cheese Sandwich ( which I’ve been ready or die for the #4 since 02’.). If you are past Santa Barbara for any reason, you must immediately go here. Yes, you will not be looking out at a vineyard, but you will see many in your life, and there is only one sandwich like this.


Literally Kelly Clarkson’s “A Moment Like This” started playing after one bite.


The traffic+The awe of Bell Street caused us to be Fast and The Furious to the wedding. Literally did my make-up in the car, there was some swearing when the eyeliner piece happened, but we Tokyo drifted to the hotel and into an UBER.

The venue was magical.

Whimsical. Breath taking.


Congratulations to Ryan and Michelle, and thank you for including us in your special day.

We woke up on a wedding happiness high, and roamed SLO.


We ended up at a winery by 10am (yolo slolo) that was originally a school house in 1910. The name of the school was Independence and they even had the original sign and a desk in the tasting room. The woman serving us the wine told us the school bell had been stolen. Que lastima!



You could only imagine when Jordan and I went back to Bell Street for another sandwich (so nice we had it twice), and went down the street to an antique shop, and found the bell.


Take a look.

Regardless of if the bell was from Baileyana or not, I truly felt like Indiana Jones, when I walked into the antique shop tipsy AF and demanded the origin of the seller of the bell.


I immediately texted the woman from the tasting room (yes we exchanged numbers. She’s working in Napa for a very large vineyard) and told her of my findings.

Her response was not that of a Spielberg film, but regardless, I felt very Indiana Jones like. Raiders of Los Alamos.

Toss me my hat, and call me Giggles.




Otter Contagion

While everyone was at the Met on Monday, Moran and I created our own soirée with scrambled eggs and rosé.


 Ah, the life of luxury.

This has been by far the most relaxing part of my week, since I have served as an RN after Jordan and I were exposed to the plague.

The carrier: The otters.


“Hey otter, here’s some shrimp.”

“Hey Jordan, here’s the plague.”



Happier times with our new found carrier friend

Was it the otters who infected Jordan with a minor flu? We’ll never know.


We definitely cannot keep the pace we had last weekend with the John Mayer concert, and my roommates birthday AKA the annual pregame for May Madness.


After slow dancing in a burning room, we bopped to the original inferno, Shore Bar, guzzled some VT’s, then slowly ventured to the LBC towards the Aquarium of the Pacific.



The Otter Encounter was all shrimps and giggles until both of us woke up with a sore throat the next day.

Side Note- closed toes shoes are mandatory for the encounter.

Unless you want to make a stop by the Converse outlet across the street from the Aquarium (this was not by choice).


After taking a sabbatical from my home on Wilshire and Ocean, I was hoping to return to my stomping grounds, but it looks like I’ve been sentenced to an indoor Saturday, with the upcoming rainy weather.


Oh well. I’m banking on discounted rosé due to the inclimate weather.


BRB Bracing for May.


The Royals & Rinna

I  thought I was going to die on my way home from Cabo.


I envisioned my demise going viral across all channels, with my fellow passengers on American Airlines documenting the despair.

How did I get to this point by going on a family vacation with my aunt and parents?

Very simple- I have the Cabo Curse.

Now that I am an adult, my parents think they’re Will & Kate (really they’re Charles and Camilla) and spare no expense when it comes to their travel requirements.


The Royals

I am similar to Duchess Fergie.

She’s invited to an occasional royal function, only if there is space at the event.


Lisa Rinna and her Instagram daughters were on the plane, but it was too early and I was too decaffeinated to care.


Why does the Starbs @ Tom Bradley not have mobile order service?

The royals and Lisa Rinna sat up in first class, while my aunt and I sat in coach for the two hour plane ride.

The flight attendant looked baffled when I asked for a mimosa. Coach does not have champagne? Por que!!!!!


Decaffeinated and dehydrated, I picked up an $18 Corona at the airport

I know. Frivolous for a peasant like me, but I was desperate.


Royalty only pays in cash

Charles and Camilla had Bloody Mary’s and oatmeal in their “section” of the plane and were driving below the Mexican speed limit in our rental car.

We arrived at The Grand Solmar.

It remains one of my favorite places, even though I cannot frolick in the violent ocean.


The royals and I have been going to the Pacific side of Cabo since I was 9 weeks old.

While the buildings, the people, and my family have grown/changed, the beach has not. With growth, there’s adjustment, and while the past fews years have been just that, we’ve all had to #beardown, take a deep breath, and acclimate to a new way of life.  My Dad’s walking is no bueno, so Carms ordered him a scooter to get around the hotel.




With two margs down, I was happy to pick it up the carriage scooter in the lobby and go mach 10 down to the beach.

It was comical. But even more comical when I showed my dad how to use the horn on the scooter #evicted.


The condo was beautiful.

I ended up falling asleep for three hours on the patio in some type of lounge bed, and woke up to the sunset.


This was the nicest view I woke up to during the trip. The space that I was awarded was a bed located in the middle of the kitchen.


I woke up like dis


Sharing my travels with my other peasants

The “bed,” called a Murphy bed, flipped into the wall for the day, and served as “my space” during the evening.  Each morning I awoke to the marble island and the clanking of coffee cups. Only the best for Duchess!


I lounged.

I swam.

I burned.

I got food poisoning.

My last day. The Murphy bed. The kitchen. The horror!

The Cabo Curse.

Every time. EVERY time I go to Mexico, I get food poisoning.


I was shivering on the way to the airport, thought I was going to pass out on the toll road, pulled over and dry heaved into a cactus, and considered going to a hospital.

In Mexico. With my parents. At 27 years old.

Who have I become? All I could do was blame the Murphy bed and not the nostalgic palapa bar on the Pacific side where I consumed a grey cheeseburger.


Q U E  L A S T I M A 

The royals had another fabulous four days still to go in Cabo, so I flew solo in this unstable state.

I sat in the humid AF airport, nibbling on one Mexican cracker, thinking that I was going to vomit at any moment, when a familiar face from my 30 seconds in luxury appeared.

Lisa Rinna!

We boarded, and I braced for the worst. Luckily, I had my crackers, and sunglasses on during the flight.

Everyone thought I was some hungover college kid (because I look so youthful) who couldn’t handle Mexico.


Wishing I could die here instead of in the humid Cabo airport

After drinking a gallon of water, four crackers, and remaining seated and still for the two hour flight while watching Beauty and the Beast, I emerged from the plane, as not a victim, but a survivor.

Carpe Diem, Duchess.




P.S. While I was out for the count post my survival moment, I watched a documentary on Netflix titled, “Galapagos.” It shows the beauty and reptiles of the mysterious Galapagos islands.

Still delusional and dehydrated.


Struggles by Jones

I do not run.

I do not jog.


I occasionally sprint on the treadmill due to intimidation by the Orange Theory instructor, but my sausage links do not scurry for a significant amount of time.

Sunday, I ran a 5k.

I literally felt like P. Diddy, episode one, when he trained for the New York marathon.

Confused and unprepared.


I also identified with my spirit animal of a corgi:

Short legged, long torso, extremely hyper at the start, then a tater tot that needed to be rolled and coddled by mile three.

Running is strenuous on my short legged corgi body, but for Jordan, the 6’2 long legged gazelle, a 5k is merely a quick gallop of effortlessness.


My preferred pastime…

The weekend was relaxing besides the trot.

Jordan tried to befriend my overweight cat socks, we ran into Carms @ Nespresso, I snagged a D E A L @ Nordstrom rack , and we enjoyed the 75 degree weather we were #blessed with on Friday.


Pain can be interpreted in many ways…To me, it is running any amount of distance, to Jordan it is running errands across town…. Most recently, in the valley.


Socks- Not amused by Jordan’s advances

I tried to cheer him up  after the first errand mile, with Iroha on Ventura, but he was so cranky when we sat down, we both blacked out and ordered way too many sashimi boxes  and felt letharg and large for the remainder of the day.


Mid-errand on Montana, he abandoned me for a beer and sports at the Father’s Office.

To each his own.

He didn’t leave me during the #lafoxtrot, and we celebrated my under 35 minute trot with a bellini and crab leg at Sawyer.



While I am happy I completed the 5k, I am sore AF, and literally thought I tore my ACL at Soul Cycle last night.




Laters Baby

Thank god it’s not January anymore.

What a dark 30 days. Can we all take a moment and say Ciao to that horrible month? #deuces


Attempting to be crafty in 2017

Feb is the new Jan, and as the preacher of my church, Franz from Soul Cycle says,

“There is always a time to start over and change. Everything is temporary.”

Apparently, Jordan thinks my mood is also temporary after showing me this…


Thanks, J.

D-Day V-Day is here.

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Everyone take a deep breathe and brace for all of the social posts with flowers, experiences, and sentimental captions.


I am really going to make an effort to not let the facade of this hallmark holiday consume my emotions like it did last year.


Literally me before the our wine adventure last year

I let a cardboard box dictate my day, and it is not happening again.

Not that this box caused all of the below (except for one thing), but I do blame it for some of my actions this time last year.


  1. Jordan sent me flowers from the online service The Bouqs. They were orange, and they were dead. I cried.
  2. We stayed in a danish town, that resembled a broken Disneyland.
  3. I was over served in SY and woke up in not the bed on 2/15.

Let’s all chill, and not get carried away for the holiday, because the above could happen to you.

Expect nothing, get everything.


This is precisely what I did when I went to go see 50 Shades at the iPic on Sunday.

Perhaps it was my experience that deceived me from the quality of the film, with the smell of fresh and FREE popcorn greeting me as I entered, or the fact that someone brought champagne to my seat and I didn’t need to move for 2.5 hours (I sound like Corinne.. Code red!), but either way I really preferred the second film over the first.

Thanks @CarlaCarmack for the great idea!


Seeing the film on a Sunday @ 12:30pm, was the perfect afternoon delight, as I was a bit dehydrated from the day before of wine tasting with the gals @ Rosenthal on PCH.

Everyone took advantage of the break in El Nino round two, and enjoyed the sun and the 70 degree weather.

We ended the weekend celebrating v-day @ Son of a Gun with my parents, and I literally felt like Bey after tasting everything on the menu.


The lobsta roll from Son of A Gun. Small, but SENSATIONAL!

To be truly carefree and relaxed this holiday, perhaps I’ll wear my velour Juicy sweats to dinner, since that is literally the only thing that fits me right now.

Overeating, but not over served,

Happy Valentine’s Day.


Desert Flash

I’ve been stressed AF and needed a moment.


Jordan was fully aware that I was code red and booked us a trip to the desert.

My oasis. My mirage of reality. My home #tbt desert life @ The U of A.

The Parker was overpriced and foolishly expensive ($700/night), so we Gooped it and booked the Sparrows Lodge.


Jordan refers to the bible of Yelp for knowledge of experience at any restaurant/hotel.

The only negative review we read of the Sparrow, was that there was one room next to the highway that felt like you were sleeping on the 405.


We arrive to Sparrow and were greeted with a glass of sangria (dying) as we walked to our room.

Out of the 20 rooms on the property, guess which one we got…

Villa de 405.


Jordan was not allured by the rustic chic and beautiful outdoor patio and asked for a switch.

All sold out. Not chill.


At least offer a discounted rate for the maintenance shed!

They also did not have tequila at the bar barn, which that alone made Jordan want to depart.


Later Sparrows, headed to Rancho Mirage.

We didn’t know what to expect after booking the luxy Ritz Carlton within an hour with points, but were not disappointed.

 This hotel did have tequila, and we sat on the deck watching the sun set over the desert.


After canceling our original dinner reservation @ Workshop which has been on my list since 2014, we tried to get in via Ritz concierge, but were unable to until 9:45pm.

Giggles needs to be fed no later than 8:15pm.

After a few margs, I got the courage to call for the third time, and the tequila gods acted in my favor.


Reservation. Booth. 6:15pm.


Thank you Casa Azul.


After some room service, and a seriously depressing ending to the film Allied, we woke up to a beautiful 75 degree day.


It was a bit disorienting to be in the desert with the palm trees and seeing the snowcapped mountains in the background.


Were we in Mammoth or Palm Springs?

I did not want to leave, but as we departed, we bopped over to the $700/night hotel for lunch, then stopped at the outlets for a deal.


Due to my summer top, and the wind tunnels, I managed to flash every patron in the mall.


I made it rain at Joie, then ate an entire box of Triscuits in the three hours we were in traffic.


Thank you, Jordan for planning a fabulous weekend in one of my favorite places.




Lean In to Love

I had planned on discussing my France fund, and the troubles of financing my trip the first week of January, but something horrible happened.

On January 7th, my cousin, Jimmie Carmack unexpectedly passed away. There are no words, only tears to describe, the sadness and devastation I’ve felt and observed over the past couple of weeks.

There is nothing you can do to prepare for anything like this. There are no drills. The only thing you can do is stop, drop everything, and be there to support.

The first responders are family, then friends who come armed with empathy, platters of sandwiches, love, and occasional lighthearted comments that ease the unbearable with a brief smile.

There are so many elements of this life that are artificial, superficial, staged. This month was a reminder to lean in to the people who will be the first responders, and cherish the ones who will bring the snickerdoodles and smiles.

His passing is one I will never understand.

I will miss you always, Jimmie.


2017- Year of the Gig

My New Year’s revelations appeared long before Mariah Carey decided to lip sync in Times Square on 12/31.


It happened during the heat of the December, resulting in a nasty holiday hangover.

Not because of all the pinot noir I was guzzling at the dinner table Nov-Dec, but because of the energy I was exerting for wrapping, giving, shopping, waiting, ordering.


Ain’t nobody got time for that.

A gift that I kept receiving besides the countless Starbucks cards, which are currently floating around my purse (you can combine them all here), were happiness journals.

Apparently, more than one person thought this would be a gift I could use, and it was/is.


This was another gift I received. Coasters with my family Christmas card. Cool.

My takeaways

  1. Stop Trying to be Perfect
    • Anyone that knows me, knows I am far from the definition of a perfectionist, but there are certain details I tend to focus on, that end up hurting me and the people around me. I love to plan perfection, but if you haven’t learned from experience, the best kind of “perfection” are the moments that are not planned. Let. It. Go. GOOOOOO!
  2. Stop Spending
    • This is where my planning perfection must reverse itself. My bank account is a food journal of my frivolous activity, that needs to be controlled. Whole Foods will be visited only once a week. #peasantforlyfe
  3. Live Más
    • No, do not go to the drive thru, but follow the T-bell slogan.  Do what you love, and make the time for it.


Enough of my revelations, here are my promises to you:

Each week there will be a new post.

New content, new giggles.

Everyone Bear Down because it is about to get real.




One Night in KC

Kansas City, you did not disappoint.

You delivered after a turbulent three and half hour flight  on American Eagle.



I flew in expecting country, and was surrounded by culture.

KC does not get the credit it deserves.

From the Crossroads to Westport, the city is surprisingly sophisticated and cosmopolitan.

“Why are you going to Kansas City?”


My answer to all:

I am visiting my BFF who does the news there.

I flew in for literally 24 hours.

Not really, but I landed on Friday @ 12am and left on Sunday @ 2pm.


I was greeted by Dolly, (yes, Lexi brought her cat to the airport to greet me) and got a tour of The Plaza, which looked like “It’s a Small World” at Christmas time.


We had one day to explore, so we kicked off #lcjoneskc with brunch at Gram & Dun.

Brunch in the Midwest is not like brunch in LA.

Meat. On meat. On meat.


Our appetizer: Asian pig wings.

Ordering a salad was almost comical.


We stopped at the WWI museum to get a lay of the land, and were accosted by a 12-year-old, who decided to provoke a snowball fight with Lexi.


We got off at Main and waved at the streetcar, drank whiskey, and decided to sample every pastry at Yummy! bakery.


The banana bread was to die. # butter

After I tried to cure my coldness with carbs, we got home, reflected, and were off.


Alehouse was the place to be seen by every millennial in the city.

We ended the night at Mosaic:

The Vegas of the Midwest.


Sunday was rough.

Dolly attacked my calf, the BBQ place we wanted to go was closed, and it started raining.



I did get to inhale some mac & cheese before I left, and attempted to buy a Baldwin hat, but the guy assisting us, seemed to be struggling as much as we were.



Thanks, @lexisutter for the great trip, and shout out to all the @uber drivers for making our rides so weird.





Snaps For Sonoma

“How old are you turning this year? 32?”

I nearly passed out.


No, this was not a joke.

Sweet mother of pearl.

Get the dermatologist on speed dial and call me an UBER to Bedford Dr.

I considered throwing myself onto Wilshire, but realized I would miss out on the numerous birthday activities I had scheduled (Rufus, and brunch) in honor of my increasing age.


While some thought I looked mature for my age, others treated me as a pre-teen peasant, which is OK on most days, but not on my DOB.

I love eating.

In fact, it is my favorite hobby.
Allegedly, one of the best places to eat in Santa Monica is at Capo.

Jordan surprised me, and made a reservation there on night one of the birthday festivities.

To say we were treated poorly in an understatement.


After reservations were made at 8:15pm (on a Thursday), we didn’t sit down until 8:45, and didn’t have dinner until 9:50.

I’m all about a long dinner, especially when wine is involved, but our waitress who didn’t even entertain us with a hint of hospitality commanded:

“Which wine did you pick?”

No greeting, nothing.

We may as well have been at McDonald’s.

Except the cost was McDonald’$$$$ with a French burgundy.

Tears were shed during the dessert soufflé, and 27 was not turning out the way I planned.

My wonderful boyfriend planned a nice evening and it was dampened by the service.


I’ll continue with the positive.


We shuffled to K-town for Rufus, and woke up on Saturday to a beautiful but BURR day in Brentwood, and hit Montana for my favorite breakfast on my DOB.


We bopped to Sonoma Wine Garden, and let me just say, it was



Take note, Capo.

Best staff, host, waiter. #snapstosonoma


I had my flowers brought in by the talented artist Michelle from the Larchmont Village Florist, and all was grand on Saturday, December 3rd.


We met up with Carms and Hone for the tuna cones and my all-time favorite smoked salmon pizza, and once again, I felt like a stuffed turkey.



On Sunday, We made it to HP, trimmed the tree, and hung out with G.



Bailey attempted to steal the spotlight from me by lunging for the cheese ball, but was unsuccessful.


While there’s still a sting with the number, I feel #blessed by all of the love I received on my DOB.


Thank you all, for making it that much nicer getting old AF.




p.s. Thank you Carms for the Nespresso.

Hunger Hangover

Effective November 8th, I have been a frenzied holiday vacuum, consuming all festive food items.


I have not stopped eating.

It was Friendsgiving that kicked off the month long food coma, and I have been a stuffed turkey ever since.


The winter coat is on.


To add an extra layer, I have been sick AF, AND it is starting to get below 70 degrees outside.



The ultimate-

Oh sorry, I got distracted because a Pizza Hut commercial came on.

That new three tier pizza box seems like such a good idea.

The ultimate meal of the season, #thanksgiv was fabulous partially because of the entertainment at the event.


My dog Bailey is out of control.

Usually he is stealth; Flipping over trays of food after the room has cleared.
From tin foil to turkey, nothing stops him from getting his food.


Bailey decided to lunge at the cheese ball in front of the entire party.

The cheese ball is a sacred and secret recipe, that only few members of my family have access to.

Yes, that is how coveted the recipe is.

Bailey disregarded any social boundaries, and went all in on the food.

The sad thing is, I saw myself in my 85 pound yellow lab.

This is how I’ve felt since November 8th.


DGAF, and hungry.

Perhaps it is because I am once again in denial of my increasing age.

With my birthday this week, there will be no gold foil numbered balloons.


Perhaps, I will purchase the balloons, except instead of listing my age they’ll spell out my alter ego with the winter coat.


Hungry AF.





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