This was Saturday:
We walked the stairs -- 12 flights -- four times, up and down, to the beach, turn around, back up, turn around, back down. This was our workout, with our full faces of makeup and strapless dresses on.
This was after I'd picked Kristie up from Isla Vista and snagged us some coffee from one of my bar patrons who is kind enough to have invested in a fake ID. We swung by the house to grab Jaime, who was exhaling enthusiastically as we walked in. A quick fight with their roommate Steve, a 50-something pothead who was upset that Jaime had thrown away trash in his trash bag, and we headed to Los Olivos to go wine tasting after dropping by my new studio to hand over my deposit.
We stopped into two different tasting rooms before heading to Wine Country. See, we all look very young, although they are 26 and I am 24 and we are all very young, we are not the kind of young that cannot be in a wine tasting room. The green hair doesn't really add to my maturity level, which is kind of the point. People judge me, is what I'm saying, and I revel in it. There is little greater pleasure than knowing I am more successful, more satisfied, and more well-read than the asshole who rolls his eyes as he asks for my ID, than the bitch who won't even acknowledge my existence. No one was taking us seriously or treating us very well and we were supposed to wine taste for free, being in the industry, but they insisted we pay. I was a little embarrassed when Kristie kept sharing her tastes with Jaime, who never has any money and so didn't throw down the $10 for eight sips of wine, because I fear tackiness. Then again, I thought, there's nothing tackier than throwing away perfectly good money by treating your customers like crap just because of how they look, so I say we came out about even.
Then we drove to a vineyard to have a picnic, nap in the sun under the willow trees, and give massages. The drive back was filled with Interpol, Belle and Sebastian, and San Marcos Road, which is, you'll recall, my favorite stretch of asphalt. We turned up the music and I stood on the passenger seat and danced outside, half my body poked through the sunroof as Santa Barbara slowly revealed itself to me, curve by curve, whizzing past the die-hard cyclists, smiling broadly at the couples parked at the vista points, ducking down when a SUV got a little too close for comfort.
By the time we got back, I needed a nap, but instead spent the next several hours applying mayonnaise masks to my hair, Miracle Whip masks to my face, honey scrubs to my skin, deep conditioner to my hair, cream oil to my legs, while trying out a new chocolate chip walnut cookie recipe (verdict: success). A boy had called to ask if I was available for drinks that night, but I think it's kind of rude to ask to get together the same day, especially since he knows how busy I am, and besides, I really did have to wash my hair. It had been two weeks and my beehive was sky-high and fabulous, but also pretty rank.
I met Kristie at the bar a few hours later and we drove to the Four Seasons, because when you can't go on vacation, the next best thing is to go to a fancy hotel and drink a glass of champagne. We ordered kir royales and crashed a wedding reception, laughing at how trashed all these rich, beautiful people were. A women wearing thousands of dollars worth of consumables walked out of a bathroom stall still buttoning her pants, complimented my hair, grabbed my arm to steady herself as she noted that it matches my eyes, and asked to borrow my lip gloss. After I explained the science behind the Smashbox gloss I was using at the time, she applied it and thanked me. I saw her later in the night sprawled on a couch. I was sitting in front of the fireplace sharing a blood orange vodka thing with Kristie, brainstorming for my big job interview on Tuesday.
I drove home, let the curtains down so I could remain unconscious past 8am, put on "How To Marry A Millionaire," and fell into a fitful sleep.
That was Saturday.