This past weekend Mister and I went to a birthday party at a stunning house in the Hollywood Hills. I have absolutely no photos of the house, as I was riding a Dirty Martini wave the entire night. (In fact, the bartender – Larry – referred to me as the “Dirty Martini Girl” and whenever a waiter asked for my drink order, I said to tell the bartender to make it “Porn Star Dirty.” I’m not proud…)

 

Anyhoo, there was a jazz band playing throughout the evening and the vibe was just super-classy and chill. The night was chilly, but not cold. The lights of L.A. were sparkling on all sides of the house and that party was one swank, adult affair. Conversations ran the gamut, but my fave moments were the times I spoke with people about loving Los Angeles. For some reason, it’s an odd thing to admit. And not just for me. Others seem to sometimes hesitate in expressing affection for this city. But at the party, the love was tangible. Maybe it was the historic house in the hills. Maybe it was the crowd. Maybe it was the dirty martinis.

 

 

By the end of the evening, the Party Girl (it was her birthday) had opted for fuzzy slippers and comfort. I do hope she had a good time. She certainly made sure her guests had a marvelous night. How could we not? We had the entire glowing city surrounding us, all light and love.

 

And I do love L.A. At the party, we all did.

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