Column: Making it in Missoula

A Montana Girl in Southern California, Part 2

By Little Sis, 4-26-07

(Context: Little Sis finds herself in a swanky bar in downtown L.A., surrounded by chic outfits and expensive drinks in tiny glasses.  She’s been introduced to several men who’s names she can’t remember, yet they don’t seem to care. Catch up with Part 1 here.)

I had completely forgotten about the phenomenon of men in Southern California when confronted by women in a confined space.  They do a complicated dance in which they mark their territory by invading your personal space, plying you with alcohol, and make sure one of their friends is talking to you when he goes to the bathroom so no one else moves in on you.  I didn’t buy one drink after the first one—which was a good thing, because I ended up with much better ones.

Actually, it was a really fun night, despite feeling bulky and graceless in my size 8 jeans, and the gin and tonic I finally broke down and had handed to me by a territory-marking male.

One $40 cab ride later, minus the Stylist, Fashionista and I stumbled up the stairs to her apartment (those little glasses pack a surprising punch).  I declared that we needed some food to counteract the microscopic-salad/dangerous-fruity-drink combo.  I opened her fridge to find my choices were hummus and I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter spray.  I sneakily searched for Boba so I could appear knowledgeable about it in the future, but was unsuccessful.

Driven by hunger at 2 am, I marched to the 24-hour Vons and bought a giant loaf of rosemary bread, which I triumphantly brought back to the Fashionista.  She ate a bite and went to bed, leaving me tearing at it like a starving coyote.

We woke up the next morning and discovered the monstrous hangover left by fruity martinis.  I should stop making fun of them—they’re lethal.

I stumbled around packing my clothes, as I had a date later that morning to tour my aunt and uncle’s new home in Palos Verdes, where a single patio chair cost more than my college tuition.  I decided I’d fit in better (and kill the damn fruity headache) with a cup of trendy coffee from my favorite trendy coffee shop.  I’ll admit it; I also ate the rest of the bread while driving around trying to find parking in front of my favorite coffee shop.

I arrived at this house, walked through a foyer the size of my bedroom, and stood in awe in front of a pool that resembled Thunder Mountain (for those of you in the dark, that’s a Disneyland ride).  I got lost in the walk-in closet in the master suite while trying to find the bathroom.  We’re pushing to have family reunions here.

Not only is there a TV in almost every room, but the drawers all have electric hinges so that they close softly.  I’m not making this up either.  The only downside is that all their neighbors are USC fans.

I reluctantly left the “princess castle,” as my little cousin calls her new house, and drove down to Huntington Beach to visit a few more buddies.  Following my friend, the 6’2” Aerospace Engineer, we waded through the abundance of Volcom shirts, tattoos, blond hair, and volleyball players with impossible bodies to get to the beach.

Me: “A surf competition!”

Aerospace: (bored) “Oh, they’re here all the time . . .”

Me: “But there are two of them on one board, and he’s holding her up by her big toe!”

As if traditional surfing isn’t hard enough—it’s like doing power yoga on a slippery moving surface.  These competitors even wiped out gracefully.  In between sets, the conversation again turned to fashion:

Aerospace: “Why would I buy $120 jeans, when I can buy $30 ones that DON’T already have holes in them?”

Me: “I can’t believe furry boots aren’t in.”

Don’t get me wrong, there are tons of aspects of Southern California that I love; great music, great food, sunshine, beaches, diverse people, endless opportunities, Boba (turns out it’s an Asian drink with jelly balls in the bottom).  It’s nice to be in a place where you can be anonymous—except for my friend’s old roommate who works for my uncle with the new palace.  But that’s rare. 

It was nice to come back to Missoula.  The Old Post deck is open, and my boyfriend is secure enough to leave me alone when he goes to the bathroom.

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