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Sunday Diary: An Australian Girl in Hollywood

Kerri Sackville is beguiled by chilli cheese fries and, of course, Simon Baker. Who is, apparently, an Australian actor. Who is fanciable. Kerri says so.

By Kerri Sackville

24 Jul 2011, 13:58

* So tomorrow I leave Australia for the States, and I feel I am just about ready to go. I have written a checklist, rewritten it, lost it, written it again, rewritten it, and ticked most of the items off.

And I'm proud. When I consider what it has taken to get me on that plane tomorrow morning, sans children, I feel an enormous sense of achievement. Enormous enough to justify the generous amount of alcohol I plan to consume on the flight, in the hopes of drowning out the guilt I feel about leaving my kids behind.

So with tears in my eyes, and a vision of Cab Sav in a plastic cup in my mind, here is my checklist:

•     Write list of items to pack in suitcase.
•     Pack items on list.
•     Realise half the items on the list are completely inappropriate, and remove from suitcase.
•     Repack suitcase.
•     Repeat previous step several times.
•     Pour all cosmetics into tiny little bottles to take on the plane.
•     Wipe massive spills from numerous tiny little bottles and shudder at the wasted money (see previous blog post on Clinique).
•     Cuddle my kids.
•     Write extensive lists for my parents and the babysitter regarding kids' schedules, meal preferences and 'treat' allowances.
•     Panic about leaving my kids.
•     Cuddle my kids.
•     Get pedicure.
•     Shave legs.
•     Become temporarily blinded by dazzling whiteness of legs.
•     Attempt to lose three kilos as everyone in LA and NY is really skinny.
•     Gain two kilos as a result of failed diet attempt.
•     Decide everyone in LA and NY will have to love me for my intellect.
•     Buy four big books for the flight (one to read, one spare, and two extra in case either of the first are really crap).
•     Buy special 'facial rehydration mist' to spray on face during flight (knowing full well it is just fancy shmancy water).
•     Go to doctor to get script for sleeping pills.
•     Go to chemist to fill script for sleeping pills.
•     Ask chemist what the maximum dose of sleeping pills is.
•     Argue with chemist about what the maximum safe dose of sleeping pills really is.
•     Ask my husband 17000 times if he has booked the flights and hotel.
•     Discover 48 hours before we leave that one of the flights is wrong.
•     Discover 24 hours before the flight that I'd forgotten to arrange travel insurance.
•     Fix flight and buy insurance.
•     Criticise husband for nearly stuffing up flight. Neglect to inform husband I nearly stuffed up insurance.
•     Cuddle my children.
•     Buy combination locks for suitcases.
•     Spend an hour trying to figure out how to use combination locks for suitcases.
•     Collect recommendations from friends about where to go / eat / shop in NY. Currently we would have to stay in NY for around a year and a half to get to all the places.
•     Cuddle my children.
•     Leave.

And so far, I've done everything but the last. But I intend to do that tomorrow morning.

Speak to you from the United States, people!

DAY ONE

* I arrived at the international airport on Friday morning with high hopes (that I had actually packed the right things in my suitcase). My husband and I checked in, went through customs, and then proceeded directly to the bookshop to check on the placement of my book (which, to be honest, was really the purpose of my trip – after all, you can’t visit the international airport bookshop without a boarding pass).

The book was placed appropriately and I took the opportunity to tell the salesman how utterly fantastic it was and that he should recommend it to all his customers. He seemed both unconvinced and unimpressed (his exact words being ‘Well, whatever rocks your boat) but I felt secure in the knowledge that he would not recognize me as the author, given that my makeup-free, eye-bag ridden* face bore no resemblance whatsoever to the glowing, heavily made-up woman on the cover.

After an hour delay (during which I didn’t pace or worry the plane was never going to take off) we entered the aircraft and took our seats. I immediately began investigating the on-board entertainment system, which was comprehensive indeed. I watched several episodes of ‘How I Met Your Mother’ before I began to experience difficulties. You see, the high-quality headphones were simply too small for my gigantic ears, and my ear-flaps were aching where they had to be folded back to fit.

Yes, like severely obese people who require two seats on a plane to accommodate their girth, I require special, giant-sized headphones to accommodate my ears. And the airline did not supply them. A clear example of discrimination.

In despair, I decided just to have a glass of wine and a sleeping pill and go to sleep (despite it being only 1pm Australian time). I ordered some red wine with my lunch and drank it all in a big gulp. Unfortunately, though I ordered red wine with my lunch, it actually arrived before my lunch, and I drank it on an empty stomach. With a sleeping pill. So by the time my lunch arrived, I had pretty much lost control of my limbs, and knocked the empty glass on the floor, shattering it into a thousand pieces. As the flight attendant picked it off the floor, I tried to offer to help, before realizing I couldn’t really speak properly, and focused on carefully eating my lamb-something-messy before lying comatose in my seat.

I awoke two hours later feeling remarkably refreshed and rejuvenated. At least, that’s what I thought, until I got up to go to the toilet and found I had troubles walking down the aisle. When I returned to my seat I asked my husband ‘What is time now confused?’, thought ‘That doesn’t sound right,’ then explained ‘I don’t think had enough tired still sleep’.

I lay down again for ten minutes, then suddenly felt much better. Except it turns out it wasn’t ten minutes at all. It was two and a half hours, and the trip was nearly over.

If you call ‘six hours of flying time left’ nearly over. Which I didn’t.

DAY TWO

* So we arrived at our hotel in LA at 10am (3am Australian time) after our long haul flight during which I may or may not have combined pills and alchohol (see previous blog). My husband and I immediately fell into deep sleeps (read 'comatose states') from which we awoke five hours later refreshed and rejuvenated (read 'jetlagged and feeling revolting'). We decided to get out and into the sun (read 'shop') so left our hotel and walked to the nearest shopping centre (read 'caught a taxi'). We were near Beverley Hills, and so the clothes were prohibitively expensive, but I still managed to find some sale bargains and bought a few items (read 'lots').

We were both hungry so we hit the diner scene for some food. It was a day of culinary firsts for me. I broke my chilli cheese fries cherry, and then I broke my cherry pie cherry (I am SO proud of that line. Let's say it again, shall we? 'I broke my cherry pie cherry'. Ah......)

The chilli cheese fries tasted great while I was eating it and then horrible five minutes later. The cherry pie tasted great fullstop, until I saw apple pie on the menu, and noticed that 'added melted cheese' was an additional $1.95. I was nauseated, and let me tell you, it wasn't because of the cost of the cheese. It was because of the concept. I mean, apple pie with cheese? Have some dignity, Americans!

We returned to our hotel, and discovered a girl in undies lying in a glass box behind the front desk. She had her back turned to us, so I assumed she was cranky, and didn't knock on the glass, despite being hugely tempted. I asked if perhaps I could be paid to lie in the glass box for the next couple of days, but my offer was politely declined (read 'declined with a look of horror').

And then we went to bed.

This morning we awoke and headed to meet our LA friends. We hopped in a taxi which was driven by a very angry Bulgarian, who abused us all the way there, claiming we were making him drive to another city, we didn't know what we were talking about (even though all we'd said was the address) and were grossly inconveniencing him. The ride took twenty minutes.

We ate at a very posh cafe which we were assured by excellent sources is frequented by Simon Baker. To my profound disappointment, Simon was not there, and the only other patron in the cafe was Steven Spielberg. Bummer.

I tried to photograph Steven but my friend Jack's* big head was in the way, so Jack's wife Rhonda took the photo for me. She was not pleased, as apparently it is 'very uncool' to photograph celebrities in LA, but I threatened to cry unless she did. So she took the picture as discreetly as she could, which turned out not to be very discreet as all as the flash went off on her iPhone. She then slunk in her chair  muttering 'I'm so humiliated' for the next half hour, whilst I waved and tried to make eye contact with Steve.

My friends had business to attend to so my husband and I did another spot of shopping, during which time I picked up this important self help manual for him. Honestly, I don't know how we've survived so long without it.

We then proceeded to Venice Beach, which was just like Bondi Beach, only virtually everyone there was at least one of the following:

•     Black
•     Exceedingly well built
•     Obese
•     Covered head to toe in tattoos
•     Covered head to toe in gold jewellery
•     Eating a chilli cheese dog
•     On rollerblades.

Being none of the above, we stood out like sore thumbs. This is probably why I was chosen by two performing artists to dance with them. And because I'm on holidays and no-one will ever see the evidence, I did.

Later, dudes.

*Names changed in case Steven Spielberg reads this post.