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.
Would anyone be interested in a 2-part rambling of my last trip to Roundup?
I went there in a gold wig and sparkly pants, mistook country music for western music, got lost in a palace-like hay barn, watched a power yoga-like bullriding competition, and also got a hangover (I'm also not making this up).
Min is a riveting tale of overly descriptive, yet useless observations. Just say the word and I'll write it up.
Oh, please, pretty pretty please, Senor Pendejo--I'm waiting with bated breath for all of your useless observations.
Oh...wait. Maybe I'll just read the re-runs of the useless comments you've posted under EVERY COLUMN. One would think you'd just stop reading and commenting on something you so obviously didn't enjoy.
I personally liked the story, found the observations funny, and had more fun reading it than the paper this morning, with its depressing stories on death, arguing, and political gridlock. Thanks for the chuckle, Sis.
Bated Breath: Is that a 'no?' It's kind of hard to understand your position. I kind of sense that you don't want me to write it, but it's difficult to tell through your masterfully neutral response. I just can't tell. Do I write it up or not?
How about my trip to Poplar - now that's a freakin' story! I took a big ol' chance, but they didn't really care for the sparkly pants there. There was no question about the gold wig; it was left in the truck (with the Boba).
Thanks, Bated Breath. I found nothing neutral in your response; perhaps Pendejo's lack of a grasp on sarcasm takes him out of the running for writing a column.
Comment By Helena, 4-29-07Didn't you move to Montana from California? How does that make you a "Montana Girl?"
If you had moved to France, would you now consider yourself be a French girl?
It's kind of hard to be of the culture when you grew up in a different culture? Have you even been east of Chico?
I was born in Connecticut and my family moved 16 times before I went to college. I've moved several times since then, also. I've always identified myself with my current living situation and would never call myself a "Connecticut girl". I'm very reality-based (possibly from moving so often as a kid) so where I'm living now is part of who I am.
Maybe when you're born and raised in the same area in which you currently reside you tend to have territorial feelings. I wouldn't know about that. I do know that most people have been very welcoming no matter where I lived and didn't seem to mind if I adopted their state.
So little sis being a Montana girl is fine with me.
Little-bit:
Seriously now, you have people running to do your job?
Poplar, Roundup, and Miles City - all excellent stories of pillage and plunder. Everyone should go to the bucking horse sale.
I roller skate in furry boots in all my 'runnings' anyway, so it wouldn't have been me targeting presumably cheap wine and week-old flowers. Way to hang tight and stick together, though.
Helena-
My original title for this piece was "My Fun(ny) Visit to Southern California". If you have any problems with the current title, please email the editor. But yes, I've been east of Chico.
I think your original title was better word play and should have been used.
Comment By liz, 5-01-07since you say you have lived here for only a few years i agree, you are not a montana girl. time to go home to your princess palace
Comment By BW, 5-02-07I don't get it: what's with all the animosity about whether or not you're a "true" Montanan or not? I mean, I'm a transplant, too, so maybe I'll just never understand, but who cares?
I buy the argument about out-of-staters buying up land, slapping down expensive homes and then never showing up; that's a total suck on the economy, the culture, etc. But why snipe at people like LS who not only enjoy living here but actually contribute something to her state of residence? Where's the love?
Or is it just that she's from California? 'Cause that one I'll give you...
Regionalism, attitude and the whole "us vs. them" thing will distract everybody in Montana long enough for the resource profiteers and developers carve everything up for themselves. Enjoy the Montana you have now and the cute little debates about where you bought your outdoor gear and who's been east of where. It won't matter in 20 years, because it'll look the same in Missoula as it does in much of the rest of the country. Mall, Outlet Store, Gas Station, Highway, Subdivision. Like it's on a reel. I'd stop looking at where people wer born now and start looking at values. There's still a chance.
Comment By Kate, 5-02-07Um, if you're white, you're not native. And you can try to claim that no on is native, but you're still including yourself. I'll say one thing that IS truly unique about Missoula--that people really believe being born here (or whatever permutation of that you choose--"Un-ahem--Welcome to Missoula--how long have you been here?) is a credential. Many beautiful destination towns harbor a certain snobbery toward newcomers and make their share of rude comments, but I've never been anywhere people actually put stickers on their cars to announce their provincialness. Here's to non sequitors!
Comment By Little Sis, 5-03-07Yes, it is a never-ending debate about where you're from, or where you can say you're from. I no longer feel at home in CA, but apparently I'll be skinned alive for remarking that I feel at home in Montana. Perhaps you can begin taking some ownership of a place after you've put some work into it. For example, working toward basic human rights here, working on environmental issues, or striving for political change. Being a productive member of a community means that you are part of it.
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