3 new ways to torture myself

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Dear Valentine,

Sitting in a coffee franchise, drinking water because I am already caffeinated. Killing time until my noon business lunch, which hopefully will not include business talk at all. The barista here is nice—he didn’t make me pay to enjoy the sunshine at this corner table. And for Beverly Hills, that is a rare treat.

In my suit I fit right in, but they don’t know that my 3-day bed head smells of smoke and bars and a comedy club where Chris Rock stopped in to practice his Oscar routine. For West Hollywood, I guess it is a common occurrence to be graced with celebrity. But after paying a measly $17 cover, I was thrilled. Cheap thrills baby, that’s what I like.

I really feel like calling you lately. Probably to tell you all the little meaningless details of my everyday. And to tell you that I keep dreaming of you coming home early, catching you waiting for my surprised gaze and amazed grin. I miss slowly wandering with you through crowded market stalls in search of fresh bread. I miss those rare moments when I could reach inside of you and pull out exactly what I came to you longing for.

I miss you, Valentine.

Nikki the Wonderdog

Home Cheap Home

I've been thinking about life lessons lately. And nothing can teach you a life lesson like moving back in with your parents. After college. After living abroad on your own for a year after college. In Italy. Now, you would think, being the reasonably level-headed individual that you are, that a post-college post-Italy baccalaureate-holding girl with a 3.7 college GPA would move in with her parents for one reason, and one reason only: TO SAVE MONEY. Well, my level-headed friend, you would be right! Hey, at least my motives were noble...

Now, while living rent free in your parents' house, you learn a few things very quickly. The first of those things is that you need to reclaim the room your brother stole from you when you moved to college. Why, you ask? Because it's in the basement, of course! The 15-degrees cooler in the summer basement. The 3-full-floors below your parents' boudoir basement. (And there are so many graphic reasons that you need to be as far as possible from that room it would take an entire Blog in itself to chronicle--see "Kelly Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus" for more on that). The I'm-the-only-one-living-on-this-floor-so-I-can-pretend-it's-my-own-apartment basement. Sorry, bro, I'm bigger and meaner and I'm taking back what's by birthright mine!

Secondly, while living under Mom & Dad's roof, I learned I really missed Mom & Dad's cooking. I mean, really missed. Sure, I learned how to throw together a feast for 20 out of a couple strands of spaghetti and a can of tomato paste, but why do it if starving legions aren't banging down your door? (Just kidding on the tomato paste part, my friends can attest that I am a competent cook…some might even say Emeril could learn a few things from me. But maybe that's just wishful thinking…)

And I think my third point goes right along with my second. If Mom & Dad are cooking for me, and paying for the roof over my head, (the water in my shower, even the toothpaste on my brush) why should I think about budgeting? I have a full-time job! And absolutely zero daunting bills called "utilities" and "cable". What is a single 24-year old to do?

"Hey, Mom, we got a letter from Nordstrom in the mail reminding us that the Anniversary Sale starts on Friday. Oooh! And we are invited to come to the VIP early opening at 7 a.m.!"

Third lesson learned while living with my parents, in their basement, after college was this: My parents' hospitality was a gift. And my saving of all my hard-earned money while living (again) under their spacious roof was going to be a valiant effort--a gift of financial stability to myself. And as with all gifts, it's the thought that counts… right?

Chrisisms

This document is a testament to the education 2 American boys, 1 American girl, assorted Italians and even a Mexican hombre gained after living with Chris Thompson (aka Cheeto) for a year in the bitter bora of Trieste.

Word to live by: 'quillo

Ciao prego,

The Teller