Column: Making it in Missoula

A Montana Girl in Southern California

By Little Sis, 4-26-07

My exciting visit to Southern California began when I opened my blinds in the morning in my hometown and discovered that this damn winter follows me everywhere.

Nevertheless, I decided to go for a walk in the rain since it was a balmy 45 degrees, which elicited incredulous stares from the neighbors—it was freezing by SoCal standards.  Or maybe it was the gigantic jacket I’d found in the closet.  I didn’t bring my own rain jacket because I’m eternally optimistic.

I took advantage of the warm sun the next day to hit the beach.  I breathed a sigh of relief to be reintroduced to diversity; I was hit on in four different languages between getting out of my car and laying down on the Santa Monica shoreline.

Because even I got chilly just lying there, I went for a walk down to the Venice Beach boardwalk.  I passed a band of old hippies singing unintelligible music in front of their unintelligible art for sale, and as I stared in fascination I was hit by a parade of Hari Krishnas.  I jumped out of the way into an elderly Rastafarian playing an electric guitar as he whizzed by on oversized skates.  I later passed him as he was being interviewed by a guy in a gold wig and sparkly pants.  I’m not making this up

In the midst of all this diversity, my friend, who’s now a big-time stylist for magazines and music videos, called to make plans for the evening.  It went like this:

Me: “I’m on the boardwalk watching a Jamaican streetdance/comedy show.  What are you up to?”

The Stylist: “Well, I’d like to stop by a premier party in the Hollywood Hills for a friend that just released a movie.  And then I’m going to my friend’s birthday party at this swanky bar downtown that has burlesque dancing.”

Me: “Umm, I brought jeans and cowboy boots.  What are you going to wear?”

The Stylist: “Oh, stylists don’t style themselves.  I’ll probably have to call someone.”

Me: (casually) “Oh, right.” Can I call someone to dress me?

So we made plans to meet at 7:30, and I left the boardwalk right then because it was 5:00 and I remembered that a.) it takes several circuits around the block and some creativity to get lucky enough to find parking, and b.) my friends take twice as long as me to get ready to go out.  I always feel like I must be missing some crucial step in the process, like I forgot an invisible layer of clothes that would make me appear hip instead of like the girl who’s lived in Montana or her car for the last few years.

Upon arriving to my friend the Fashionista’s apartment after the mile walk from where I parked my car, we discussed dinner possibilities.  Again, it went like this:

Me: “I’m pretty hungry; we should probably eat dinner before we go out drinking.”

Fashionista: “Me too.  I had Boba and tomatoes today.”

Me: “Huh?”

I wisely hid the fact that I missed the chic train and not only had no idea what Boba was, but I ate roughly quadruple that amount.  Instead, I quickly donned my cowboy boots and size 8 jeans and messed around with my hair, which looked decidedly windblown and un-chic. 

Fashionista walked out looking gorgeous in black stiletto boots and a high-fashion tight black dress that looked like a size 1 and emphasized her perfect tan.  She looked at my bungled attempts with pity, and offered to help me out.

We finally met the Stylist (who was also looking gorgeous in a black dress and heels—I was starting to be embarrassed of my cowboy boots) at a fancy sushi restaurant where I received a microscopic $9 salad accompanied by their single sushi roll each.  Maybe I should have stopped first to pound a Boba to make up for the dearth of food. . . I briefly considered chugging the Stylist’s un-drank wine as we left, but I figured that would have elicited more pitying looks. 

We entered the swanky downtown bar, and I realized I hadn’t had a non-gin based drink in months (gin’s not that classy).  I panicked when the bartender appeared, and ended up with something fruity in a glass that seemed very small for the $11 I paid for it. I kept spilling down my chin because I’m used to drinking out of pint glasses.

To distract from my lack of class, I tried to discuss the finer points of fashion with my far more hip friends (which unfortunately emphasized my lack of hip-ness). 

Me: “Oh, look at her fur boots.  I just got a pair!” I was proud of myself.

Stylist: “Those are definitely not hip.”

Me: spill my fruity drink down my shirt.

To be Continued!  Will Little Sis blunder her way through the rest of the night or give up and go home?  Will she share her adventures in the Palos Verdes mansion or the tandem surfing with acrobatics?  Probably; that’s why she’s writing this.

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