L.A. is such an easy target. (Did you know that visible nipple outlines were a trend?)

It's an even easier target if you actually live here. (Have I told you about the time it took me three hours to drive from the beach to Pasadena? You can drive across the entire state of Missouri in three hours.)

But there are times, oh man are there times, when I wouldn't live anywhere else. Case in point: Today.

My husband and I are getting ready to pack up and visit our families back in the heartland, otherwise known as the frozen tundra. One such visit a couple of years ago ended with every single relative within thirty miles of my parents' home taking refuge at our place because ice thick enough to support an adult polar bear was weighing down and then snapping electrical lines across the entire state, and we were the only ones with a generator. A generator, mind you, large enough to power the lights but not the stove, so we all ate Hungry Man TV dinners for days. My mother, to her credit, put the microwave food on actual plates and made some attempt at garnish.

So part of our flight preparations include packing and charging our iPods, but another part included stretching out at a sidewalk café in Venice, perusing our organic/free-range
/cage-free/vegetarian/vegan/fair-trade French-Mexican-
Californian fusion menu options. With highs in the upper 60s, we'd opened the sunroof on the way over and stared up at the clear blue Southern California sky, marred by nothing but jet contrails and tried to remember if either of us still owned coats.

We're happy to be seeing our families. Really, we are. But, please Mom, just one more minute under this palm tree.