I hate waiting for people in restaurants.
I hate waiting for people in restaurants when I'm hungover and starving.
I hate waiting for people in restaurants wearing Saturday night's party dress, Friday night's makeup, and Thursday night's hair.
But I really hate waiting for people in restaurants when the very first thing that happens is that I open the front door and the LA traffic combined with the A/C at the 101 Cafe results in my dress flying up very high over my head, exposing some adorable but not terribly modest hot pink Cosabella panties.
However, I don't hate it so much that I'm not immediately charmed when Sam and her girlfriend breeze in (sans exposure) after 40 minutes of frozen mortification with the following announcements:
Sam, morosely: "I'm so hungover."
Erin, proudly: "I'm still drunk! Do they have booze here?"
I was in LA last weekend, drinking beers by the pool with Lindsey, wandering all around LA for the perfect luggage (I got both!) (and Sam negotiated a discount for me!) (it was awesome!), getting hit on at Irish bars in Santa Monica, and waiting 40 excruciating minutes for the lesbians.
LA was fun, but even more fun is coming home to sushi with the boy and drinks with my friends and all of us having a great time, taking over the window table at the Press Room and laughing loudly and often with My Fair Lady doing her thing in the background, the boy adorably all over me to the point that Kristie at one point ahem'd and said, "Yeah, we're still here, guys," and falling into bed and having someone else say, "This is the best part of my day," alone, together.