The Beverly Hillbillies

Here I am arriving on moving day all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed in my one pair of pants.


How’s your week going, dollies? It may be dimmer than Paris Hilton (ouch, sorry Paris, but a girl gets cranksters when she has to do physical labor for more than, well, three minutes), but I do declare that’s a light at the end of the tunnel I’m beginning to see past the 50 or so boxes that still need unpackin’ (at last count I had 60 dresses, which is 33 more than Katherine Heigl, compounded in absurdity by the fact that I only own two pairs of pants. I’ve discovered that nothing makes you feel fat faster than a pair of pants. Is that just me? Kilt-wearin’ Scotsmen aside, how do the fellas do it?).


The Beverly Hillbillies. Granny Clampet.

This is me after three days of unpacking boxes. Quel horror! Bring on the beauty sleep.


Moving on, quite literally. Our move from San Franny to LA LA Land was a breeze, if a breeze is defined as an eight-hour earthquake (let’s just say riding in a 26-foot U-Haul down California’s I-5 has its share of ups and downs and brings to mind the ’90s classic Feel the Vibration. Feel it, feel it. Oh, I felt it, Marky Mark. The upside? Involuntary muscle contractions make for an excellent work out. Which is good, because LA is the town of the skinny minny. The itsy bitsy. The teeny weeny (oh, sorry dear).

In fact, yesterday I couldn’t stop staring at a girl in running tights – I could see her head, her torso, even her rump shaker, but as I scanned lower, I had to do a triple take. Her legs were so minuscule, they were nearly invisible. I wondered, as I nibbled my almond croissant, if they were wooden and she had lost most of them in a forest fire. Smokey the Bear was right, only you can prevent forest fires.

I digress. Aside from the loser neighbor next door who plays Rock Band for three hours straight everyday (and is the only reason I’m awake at this ungodly hour of 11am), we couldn’t be happier. I’m looking forward to decorating, to treating my pie hole to all of LA’s culinary treasures, and then to Sweatin’ to the Oldies with Richard Simmons himself (half of the reason I moved to LA was because a fab friend tipped me off to the fact that Sir Richard himself still conducts classes in his Bev Hills studio, Slimmons – yes, SLIMMONS!). Oh yes, I will be reporting on that, you bet your Deal-a-Meal, buster.


Richard Simmon. Slimmons.

Watch out Richard, here I come!


Until then, I will reply to the myriad Pandora’s boxes that are taunting, Open me, open me,  I dare you. Who knows what treasures I will find… Perhaps the 61st dress?

Weekend wishes to my favorite bisshes xx,


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