WHEN I first met Ricky I was a Central Valley bomb- shell, which, as anyone who’s traveled far enough north to know, is quite different from the L.A. bombshell variety. In NorCal you only need to shave more than twice a week to be considered feminine, so you can imagine how little it takes to be glamorous: wear a charmeuse gown to bed instead of a t-shirt, trade your boots in for a pair of kitten heels—no matter if you kick them off at every opportunity—and always insist on gin.
When Junah died I stopped wanting to be me, and so when Ricky and I moved to L.A. I suppose you could say I wasn’t really myself. Maybe, if Ricky and I had stayed up north I would have tired of gin-induced tantrums and dangling diamond earrings, maybe I would have joined forces with my father and poured my creative talents into the renovation of our vineyard, but after Junah’s death Ricky felt it might be a good idea to get away for a while—“breathe some new air” were his exact words—and so we moved south where everything smelled like acetone and Errol Flynn.
from So L.A., copyright 2012, Bridget Hoida