Arabian Nights

Somewhere after the Hawaiian feast and delicious, delicious sangria, three girlfriends braved the fashion district together. After a promise to several shops to return before the end of business day to purchase a few items, no money had yet changed hands. After all, with the bountiful choices of the L.A. alleys, one has to be frugal and particular with spending power.

That's when I saw the pants. Genie pants. With cheap cotton drawstrings. They were glorious. Or maybe that was the sangria. Either way, that mannequin was working those black and white beauties and I decided I could do it better. So, I made my first purchase. Then Malo decided she liked them, too, and she wanted to put them on right away because it was too hot for jeans and boots--another one of my great ideas, though I suffered gladly for my autumn wardrobe. And then, I just suffered, as Malo was now wearing the Aladdin pants with a navy top, brown fanny pack and black motorcycle boots. And just when it couldn't get any weirder, Emily (new recruit to this circle of friends, and an excellent one at that) also purchased the pants.

Later, we all powwowed back at Emily's for a nightcap, of course wearing our new duds and vowing to never wear them again...

We all woke up with some buyer's remorse and a hilarious $18 story. I can only conclude that there must have been vodka in that sangria, and I must also apologize for being condemned to never share any of the pants' pictures. It's probably worse than you think...

It's Always Sunny in Los Angeles

The Fall of Erin is not scheduled to begin (de)construction until 2050, leaving at least 14, 235 hay-days. Thank you for your patience.

Vegas, Baby!

Vegas. I used to think "What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas" was an idiotic thing to say, but it turns out to be true. It should stay there. Always. All I can tell you about my recent trip there is this: I may be permanently blacklisted from the MGM Grand, I found the outside of my comfort zone with a stripper named Delishay (some variation of Delicious), and Swedish people are crazy.

Remember that time you gave me the ants?

One of my best gal pals, Malo, surprised me with a small, blue vase she bought at an art school. There were wild flowers crowding the stem, which she had picked while singing and prancing, thinking of me--but that's her version of the story. My story kicks in an hour or so later, when we were waving our goodbyes. I placed the tiny gifted ceramic in between my legs for the drive home to ensure its safe travels. Once parked, I realized that there were ants crawling everywhere. And not just any ants, the bitey kind. I began slapping myself on all exposed skin and hunting down the runners with an opposable thumb. More than a few got away, though they have probably suffocated in their hot, leather hiding places by now. That is my hope, at least. I am still itchy with bites from that time Malo gave me the ants...

**Stay tuned for tonight's adventure: Malo and I go to the Prince concert.

Summer of Erin

According to the tarot card reader on the Venice boardwalk, my social cup will runneth over as long as I open my iron fist, let go of the past and remain open to beauty, art and love. Even though he never stopped picking his nose and talked entirely too much about himself, his roommate, his ex-girlfriend and did an uncomfortably long Rodney Dangerfield impression, he seemed to know a thing or two about reading a deck of cards. All he really told me was to take my own advice, which is pretty good advice... So begins the chronicles of the Summer of Erin.

Dodgy

People have been saying "Get the hell out of Dodge" for a while now. I'm guessing it's cleaned up all right by now...

Hawaii in a Coconut Shell

I finally made a trip to Oahu, Hawaii, a life-long dream come true. As I marched down the tarmac, I wondered what the temperature aboard the plane would be, since it was 25 degrees in Chicago and 75 degrees in Honolulu. It turns out, the destination rules the thermostat. The air conditioning blasted the entire trip there, with the heat roaring the whole flight home.

The anniversary of the attack on Pearl Harbor, December 7th, overlapped the vacation, so there were many vets on board, headed to a memorial at, well, Pearl Harbor. (Side note, I worried that the water I was drinking in Hawaii was contaminated with rocket fuel and other radioactive indigestible ingredients from all the military testing sites.) Apparently, history is not a strong suit for flight attendants. On the flight to the island, one woman over the mic thanked our veterans for their brave fight in World War I. On the returning flight, a different woman actually referred to the "Vietnamese" War.

Another interesting observation I made after a few days at breakfast, where birds outnumbered people: there was no bird crap anywhere. Thousands of birds, no waste. Where does it go--or more accurately: where do they go?

On my birthday, December 5th, I spent the day on a scooter, driving to the North Shore and down the entire east side of Oahu. The scenery was the most unbelievably beautiful thing I have ever seen in my life. From the greenery, to the mountains, to the beaches and blue, blue ocean water that was so clean you could see straight to the bottom. Everything was just gorgeous--except for me. It turns out, I had a pretty severe case of "scooter face". That is when all the dirt in the air collects in the creases of your face and is glued there by your sunscreen. I had a full-on unibrow, deep smile lines and black under eyes like a linebacker. I'm afraid to know what my lungs look like, since it took about five cotton balls to clean the soot off my face.

The whole trip was amazing, from sunning on the beaches of Waikiki, to swimming with the dolphins (in the wild, on the west coast of the island), to hiking to see a waterfall that most tourists don't know about, to all the delicious fish dishes. New goal: get back to Oahu.