Date Night on vacation

My Kiwi and London friends are always surprised to hear the weather and water in coastal California is not terribly tropical.

It's often foggy here in the morning and chilly at night. And you need to wear a wetsuit to stay in the water for any length of time. Dining with Al (Fresco), as my Dad calls it, happens only a handful of times a year without a patio heater.

This makes for tricky outfit planning on what my American friends call Date Night. For the last couple of years we have gone out every Sat night. When the kids were tiny we went out Wed and Sat nights.  I figure someone else can keep the homefires burning while I have a (few) cocktails, some chortles and kick up my (high) heels with the ole hubby. As a fellow blogger Kayce writes, date night "is a wonderful habit if you don't have kids. If you do, I consider it a necessity". She has seven kids.

Some of the fun is choosing the heels and the ensemble. But after eight years here in CA I've realised that with every outfit the most important thing is the cardigan or jacket. Because sometimes that's all you end up seeing.  On vacation in Santa Barbara, my two old staples came out again: the Marc Jacobs shorts suit from five years ago, a riff on the military look, hopefully without seeming too Boy Scout.

True I'll never get a job as a stylist, as this pic at Bacara in Santa Barbara shows me in all Marc Jacobs. Jacket on and jacket off. Left pic with one of the shoes on the seats. This is the second photo you've seen of this shoe, which is a bit sad and pathetic of me. Poor old things they no longer have their ankle straps and they're falling apart. Much loved and much worn.

And on the other end of scale, a couple of nights later out come my other uniform of newish crocheted tunic, long sleeved has to be, and old Joie shorts.

Soon everything is covered by my camel (or do you say butterscotch?) cotton jacket from MikeandChris also five years old.

My new shoe obsession is my  Stuart Weitzman rope sandals. Good with shorts, trousers, bright dresses. Saw them on Jennifer Aniston in OK mag, blimin' copy cat, and everyone I meet says they have just bought a pair. If you want to make some quick dosh, start making rope sandals or in fact wrap rope around everything. Toot sweet.

Have you got a favourite Date Night outfit?

pom pom ponchettes in Paris

My sister, Pietra - yes, she of the Cooler Than Me -  just posted a photo on Facebook wearing what her friend calls a "pom pom ponchette". The pic instantly got a million comments.

It's a fabulous little red knitted thing that Shakira herself would lust after. Pietra explains that in fact Mum made it. "I started it, doubled back on myself and it would be covering only one shoulder if I carried on" she says "so thankfully Mum unpicked it and started again". Well some things never change. Mum always did my "Home Economics" sewing projects, though I must say I shone when it came to cooking. My Invalids' Pudding was par none.

Anyway, Pietra appears to be driving some sort of yacht (Dad says he's never seen a tea cozy steering a boat before) and she writes: "Just sailed into Paris at sunset, past the Eiffel Tower and Notre Dame..with champagne of course" Apparently she's had a few days on the boat and appears to be with two boys (Boys! Telling Mum!).

Then she will head off to Amsterdam to join eight other hand-picked documentary makers from around the world for a workshop. Then to India to research a doco.

Well there's a lot going on here at our house in Oakland too. Quite a lot, in fact. Don't worry about me, no sireee! It was Back To School day today. Big Day. A heart wrenching milestone of not inconsiderable proportions. You see it was Harley's ninth - and final - year at our K-8 Oakland public school, a lovely little school where all four kids now go. Just before we headed off, I gathered the kids for a photo in front of our house. Then looking over, I realised the kids hadn't put out the recycling properly last night. There was paper and rubbish everywhere. Nothing had been consolidated. Nothing was tidy. I was utterly furious! So a good time for a rant and rave and wee bit of scream in front of neighbours who were heading off to work. Pic above shows kids in happier times, just minutes before "Garbagegate".

So not Paris, not sailing, but very very....not Paris and not sailing.

Generation Subprime?

A recent Yahoo article asks: what will we call the next generation of kids? We've had X and Y,  not sure what happened to Z.  One of my friend despairs it will be "Generation Subprime" - greedy, entitled and broke.

In a previous post, Carpentry Kids, we talked about whether it's better to allow kids to roam freely as we did when we were kids, or schedule them in camps. Many parents complain that their kids don't know how to entertain themselves anymore...without the aid of screens. The recent movie "Grown-Ups" chronicled a re-union of of childhood friends who meet in the woods. The most interesting scene was on arrival when the kids could not be parted from their screens and didn't know how to play outside.

Anyone who reads this blog is somewhat familiar with my cynicism, but after our week in LA  I am cautiously optimistic about this generation.

All five boys - my three and my friend Cameron's two  - had mornings on the beach at Will Rogers Park in the Palisades, LA. Cy, six, went by himself to 'Fitness By the Sea" with 100 activities to choose from (of course this is LA!) including Tai Chi and surfing. My eldest two, Harley, 12, and Jackson,11, joined their friends in surfing and beach volleyball  taught by two former champions, Sinjin Smith and Randy Stoklos. (of course former champions, this is LA!)

But the afternoons were the revelation. Getting back to Cameron's house in the Palisades, instead of heading straight for the TV or screens they played...Monopoly. Not just for a couple of hours. These five boys played at least five hours straight for five days straight. That is 35 hours of Monopoly.  There were intervals of bouncing their brains out on the trampoline, but for the most part they pretty much played Monopoly. Without fights, whining or anyone upending the board (which er, yes I might have done once during my childhood). I was doubly gobsmacked that they are playing a game since I have always disliked games, with the exception of ones like bocce ball  where you can play with a glass of wine in your hand.

There was a brief spell of the Game of Life on the last day: "I'm a lesbian' said Cy matter of factly when it turned out he was a woman marrying a woman.

When we got home last week and the boys reunited with their sister Tallulah, nine, amazingly the good stuff continued. They played Monopoly for more days on end.

You will rarely find me so glowing and positive, so bask in the goodness...

Shoes on the streets of LA

During my week in the Pacific Palisades, a discretely but immensely wealthy town between Malibu and Santa Monica, I learn the only shoes you will photograph before lunchtime are sneakers. I don't know who is holding down the fort in Hollywood, but everyone in this hamlet exercises until noontime. Not totally sure what happens after that - still loads of people walking around with yoga mats and sneakers but presumably the movies gets made between sweat and stretch points. Long story short, Sunday afternoon at Farmer's Market made for a more interesting sartorial scene.

This Pali mama shopping, above, in the Palisades Farmer's Market was seventies Amalfi Coast with her floppy hat and linen dress with strip of leather belt, but very California chilly morning with the addition of her two-toned leather and suede boots. I keep thinking people here are going to be annoyed with my incessant picture-taking, but she was gracious and sweet. 

Just down the street,  a store called Elyse Walker offers red carpet outfits (good to know if you need an Oscar frock in a hurry) as well as the casually pricey beach look.  Inside it is very "Chateau chic" chandeliers,  red curtains and sequined skull cushions for "Westside starter wives" as LA Times says. From the outside it appears an unflashy store on an incredibly low-key street, but in fact it's the site of many frantic run and flash scenes. Youtube  has two vids alone of Jennifer Garner shopping with 20 paparazzi noses pressed to the shop window. It's a small schadenfreude glimpse into her life, in case you were contemplating A-lister celeb status. One of the saleswomen opening the shop (above) encapsulates that shiny beach look with her silver filigree shoes and earings and simple sand-coloured sundress.

Yelp has may complaints about the service in this store, citing vapidness and indifference to the non-celeb shopper, but I found the staff okay, even though I was wearing cut-offs and Havianas. While I was mooching around, there were two flurries of staff-fluttering. One around a young woman, who was either someone or daughter of a someone. She was pointing, saying: "What about that... I like that...what colours do you have that in.... I'll take that and what she's got on". This is not surprising in an area where some teenagers get $200 every day during vacation to spend at the mall. (True) Another mature woman wearing a very tight mini was also being fluttered upon. She was viewing other similarly small skirts and sighed with angst: "All I just need a purple bag. Do you have any of those?"

This young woman in The Coffee Bean also works at Elyse Walker but shows you don't need to spend a lot to get that glowy by-the-sea style. Her shoes are from Zara and her pale pink oversize chiffon shirt is from Urban Outfitters as are her black chiffon scalloped shorts.

On the Santa Monica Promenade after 5pm, the proximity to fame and the chance of a few bucks draws acts which are good, bad and indifferent. There is the requisite Micheal Jackson impersonator who said he only posed for tips.  He was more than sniffy when I gave him three dollars. How much should I have paid...surely not $20 which was the alternative. Just maybe Cy's (six) moonwalk was better and Santa Monica Micheal was wearing a prosthetic nose and cheeks so wee bit cheating of him and no need for him to be so sniffy. Looming over Micheal was an ivy dinosaur and behind him some observant Jewish students who were canvassing passers-by to get a Facebook grant for their university.

The next act down was an exuberant English band called Buffalo Skinners playing a mash of Bluegrass and Irish country. We all decided they had very English shoes, winkle-pickers in leather. I'm not sure if it was leaping around to all that clattery, battery music or the starving artist element, but they all had such skinny legs. Maybe that should be their signature. Their music was pretty good, but skinny legs are much easier to market here.

Next door was this chap, who we decided was either a bit bonkers or  quite genius. He had no discernible talents and kept calling: "Yo Yo get down homies in Santa Monica" in a monotone. He then waved around prongs wrapped in aluminim foil that looked like he might be gearing up for some magic tricks or creating electricity, but turned out to be just ... waving around  prongs wrapped in foil. Considering the eclectic nature of his act, the surgical cap paired with  rainbow painted shoes were totally in character. Our verdict? Genius.

Just to round off the satellite Hollywood crowd was a stream of women walking into Yankee Doodles restaurant carrying red folders. They told us they were "Miller Girls" for the evening. We met them while sitting in the restaurant area, which was everything you would imagine a restaurant called Yankee Doodles would be. It offers 2lb burgers and a veritable bucket of Margarita for $6 and more sports on more TVs than you will ever see in your life. "Should we pose for her...not sure" one of the girls said, but they had a confab and decided it was okay to be in my blog. I'm not sure what the "Miller Girl" duties entailed as I was not allowed past the red cord. Apparently my days of impersonating a Miller girl, red folder or not, are over.  (Or, more likely,  never started.)

The next day along the Santa Monica pier, this young father was looking for his shoes. Where did he put them last? Hmmm....What sort of work does he do in Santa Monica,  I asked.  He shrugged: I just hang out, he said. Fair enough...seriously, having this original a hairdo is a sufficient career.

Round the corner is this golden guy who is a gardener in real life but does this on the weekends so he can donate money to a children's charity. Cy posed along with him.

Cy, (sorry) now in the Nike store, a  cornucopia of black velcroed shoes. Fueled by a Pinkberry ice-cream high, Cy starts leaping, posing and dancing with all the mannequins. The floodgates open and a torrent of other tourists start doing the same, leaping all over the show and taking snaps. Amazingly the staff seemed very tolerant of the sudden shenanigans.

Next day found me driving to Beverly Hills. 20 mins there, two hours back...the mysteries of LA traffic. You just can't go to LA without walking up (or is it down?) Rodeo Drive, one of the most exclusive shoe shopping streets in the world. It's the same deal here in the morning, everyone still exercising so only a dribble of European tourists and Bev Hillbods. Most of the people I  photographed were foreigners, even those who lived right here in the Beverly Hills. In all the stores, Dior, Chanel and Prada, the staff make for a restless sight, standing around,  intermittently primping the racks. One of the Prada staff said the stillness would last until 12.30pm when the streets would suddenly be four people deep. I wasn't allowed to take photos inside the stores, but sneakily took this one in Dior of a Russian local called Rita who was looking at key chains. She is in a black Singledress with patent leather peep-toe black heels showing black can still look summery. Earrings by Avakian, where she works.

Outside Dior this woman told me she had bought her glorious pinky-red frilly shoes in a downtown alleyway store. I loved how she let her shoes be everything, a red punctuation point.

Most shades of pink are incredibly flattering on most women, but so often I hear: "I really don't see myself as a pink person". I've read interviews of designers who have learned the hard way to stay from total pink, it doesn't sell. But many of us will buy something with pink in it. This Eqyptian woman below had just flown in from Vegas, where she had bought her entire outfit, purple-pink tie die dress, bright pink purse and the grounding canvas wedges.

Also looking breezy in a few slices of hot pink was this Swiss woman who lives in the area. I've always loved bright red hair and hot pink. Where did she get her bright pink-red sandals? "Somewhere along here"  she said, waving at the street.

Down the road, a Dutch woman was wearing an even hotter neon pink and still looked laid back and bohemian. 

And this French woman in front of Chanel wears classic big pearls, white lace dress and silver sandals.  Most little girls don't shy from ballet pink.

Another French woman in a classic white sheath with tan sandals and husband in Breton stripes. Let's face it - classics that need no improvement. They are standing in front of a yellow convertible Rolls Royce. RR hasn't stuck to the classic, but this I like. If you're going to get a ridiculous car, why not go the whole hog?

Back to the Pacific Palisades and The Coffee Bean. This hail-fellow-well-met guy was high-fiving everyone in there. He came bouncing in on his big white sneaks and a bright red sweatsuit in 90 degree heat. A kickboxing teacher, he is currently coaching the world champion. Off he bounces again, a testament to the joys of kicking and coffee. Sure it's LA, but not everyone is on a Pinkberry high.

Wineau column: Pretty label wines under $10

Every two weeks I write a column for the East Bay Express called Wineau, reviewing three wines under $10. This week we tasted three whites with beautiful labels. Are they as pretty on the inside?

Also press here for Kiwi Wineau, my video log of the actual tasting which this time took place in Santa Barbara.

Pretty Label Wines 

But are they beautiful on the inside?

By Jody Brettkelly

Many of us occasionally buy wines because they have a gorgeous label, but few of us admit to it. We were heading for a week's vacation in Santa Barbara, which is surely the supermodel of seaside towns. This may have something to do with the orange-tiled Spanish buildings, lush-green hills, and shiny, wide, pearly-white beaches. So it's only fitting that I would choose three wines based on their labels. At Paul Marcus Wines at Oakland's Market Hall, I found three whites that appeared outwardly glamorous and luxe in very different ways.

Ten of our vacationing friends in Santa Barbara gathered for the task. Our portentous challenge was to determine if these wines taste as good as they look, or if their charms are only skin deep. First on the catwalk was Rocaberdi from Catalonia in Spain ($7.99). The yellow leaves on the bottle looked very "fashion-forward," said Melinda. There were some mixed feelings about this wine. Sally and Barry are partial to the plus-size range of wines such as loud reds and kick-butt Chards, rather than the willowy thin ones. They found this almost tasteless. "Thank goodness Spain has a great soccer team, because this is not good," quipped Barry.

But five of the others liked it better. Everyone categorized it as grassy and a bit acidic, and found it calling for a pairing with something stronger like spicy tuna rolls to counteract the acidity. "No finish at all, though," Tom said.

The second was Vestini Pecorino Terre di Chieti from Italy ($7.99). The label features young, Spartacus-like males cavorting nearly naked, clearly dancing to the tune of the devil in the background. "It looks like an orgy," Sally observed. But her enjoyment was short-lived: "The label is deceptive because there is no flavor in there at all."

However, a few of the rest of us agreed with Anne's take: "It's much smoother than the first, and I can imagine sipping it around a pool and eating shrimp." Obviously the saucy, naughty label was making poets of all of us — Melinda and I agreed it could be sipped on its own by a pool in the Hamptons, though neither of us had ever been to the Hamptons.

The third was Consono Verdichio Dei Castelli di Jesi (2009), from Italy ($9.89 on sale). Its label features a Mondrian-like astrologer with a checkered, Dali-esque scene behind. So a range of artistic bases are covered, but does it have any interior complexity? No one liked the scent of it, very rotting tropical. Tom found it flat: "There's something off about it."

At last, the Santa Barbara sun set on our three beauties. How did they fare beyond their modeling careers? Anne said the first and third "need to go to rehab," but the second, the Vestini, is an "up and comer, quite lovely tasting." A beauty with a nice character? Now that's a keeper.

Secret sweaty stairs of Santa Monica

My title is a little deceptive as the Santa Monica stairs are not secret to the hundreds of hard bodies who run up and down them all day long.

I am talking about the 170 wooden steps between Entrada and Adeleide in Santa Monica and another set a few paces down, the even steeper 189 concrete Fourth Street steps.

Today the busiest stairs are the wooden ones, which on Yelp have inspired untold vitriole and passion, from: "If Dante's Hell had a stairmaster this would be it!" to another who gets really upset at the "hater comments...stop whining - the stairs are free!"

The first thing you notice is the scores of people on the sidewalks below and above the stairs stretching and warming up. Some are on yoga mats easing the pain of push-ups and downward facing dogs. Someone has soldered a high bar across two poles creating a pull up bar which is only for the very tallest and toughest. These young women above and below are part of a training session with Dino Mosley who used to work with Nicole Kidman "high maintenance" and Julia Roberts "very nice woman" and up and coming basketball and football stars.

Women with the fully glossed tout pout pull up in Escalades and Range Rovers accompanied by buff personal trainers. They rub glutes with college basketball hopefuls, wanna-be actors and all sorts of bods from all over the world, all sorts of shapes and sizes. There are men who have their shirts off and men who should keep their shirts on. One says it's great for fitness mavens who are single and actively looking, another decries it as a horrible "meatmarket".

The up and down stations are often littered with Evian bottles and Starbucks cups and some enterprising person even put a vending machine - well hidden - on one. One day a German film crew turned up to hold a reality fitness show, forcing the  to run up and down all day.

Everyone has to warm up on the sidewalk. According to the Secret Stairs guidebook, you will never see anyone stretching or exercising on the 4th street median: local homeowners became so irritated by the incessant stair-climbers driving up day and night, using their street as an exercise studio that they've called the police to issue tickets to anyone doing push-ups and sit-ups on the grass.

I'm thinking most of the stair runners love being outside, but not sure any of them notice the ocean and canyon views and the facing Rustic Canyon hillside homes. Walking up and down four times, I see why, it's so crowded and so steep you have to keep your head down. And they may not notice the architecture. According to "Secret Stairs"  one notable home belonged to British novelist Christopher Isherwood, who in 1952 called the Canyon our "western Greenwich Village'. And another house was designed by the architects responsible for the Chinese and Egyptian Theatres in Hollywood.

So up we go again... (and my whole body ached the next day after only four sets and many people do an hour's worth). It's not organised in an way but the unwritten rules are obvious: don't pass unless you're going faster. Some people are now complaining about those who take stairs two at a time or who go backwards. Or runners swinging medicine balls (!) all over the show or people who kick one leg out at each step. The newest complaint is the number of people who bring their dogs and there is concern about the stress to the dogs' hips and back.

Another stair runner pleads : "Ease up on the Gieorgio!" The most hilarious recent complaint on Yelp ( and I think I spotted the chap in question) is about Old Man Tea Bag, an odd hippy guy who insists on wearing the shortest of shorts and stretching out his legs and other bits at the top of the stairs.

These stairs are apparently the favourite of  the LA firemen. One runner says: "If you ever have a fire, just come to these steps are yell "Fire!". Alongside them on the weekends are acrobatic hippies, some of whom apparently try to scale the steps in a handstand position.

Noone really knows when stair running became popular here, but apparently last Thanksgiving Day at 7am it was packed.  Some drive from 45 mins away to work out just here.

Brian M sums up the oddness of this phenome: "Um, they're stairs... really tall steep ones. Not sure what the cult fetish is with these stairs. It's LA and that pretty much explains it all."

Pacific Palisades: where the mountains meet the sea... and stars

This week I am with my three boys, Harley, 12, Jackson, 11, and Cy, 6, in the Pacific Palisades.  It's a tiny town between Malibu and Santa Monica.  This is where the laid-back A-listers live, like Tom Hanks and Jennifer Garner. They are a casual beachy lot here, even parking their vintage Bentleys and Rolls Royces on the street.

I am staying next to lovely Cameron, my Oakland friend, who moved down here three years ago. I wrote about her in "Bit of a Doodle Do" - she is the one who owns Blue and has Labradoodle playdates. 

I am hoping for some star sightings. The tabloids and celeb mags have led me to believe that the place would be chockafull of celebs. "Oh it's you! Oh you again!". A huge percentage of the paparazzi photos you see in mags are shot on the beach here, at the Starbucks or in the park. Around the shops and cliff front some of the houses are smaller with compact yards, but even the most modest home here will set you back $2m. Jamie Lee Curtis is just around the corner from where we are staying, Sissy Spacek is apparently always out walking her dog, Tom Hanks is always spotted, here -  sitting on school bleachers - and there - knocking on bookstore doors.

Further up the hill on bigger gated spreads on Amalfi Drive are Spielberg, Oprah and Sugar Ray Leonard. In the park (seemingly constantly) is Jennifer Garner, who is often seen at the small Farmers' Market on Sunday and just generally out for coffee with her husband, Ben Affleck and her two girls, Violet and Seraphina. Suzanne Somers was spotted at a beach cafe the other day but I am after bigger fish, no offence to Somers, apparently she looked great for 60.

So we head down to the Farmer's Market, not to be stalker-ish or anything. We had to get some organic $2 organic nectarines anyway, to go with the $30 rotisserie chicken from Gelsons (I thought the sign said $3 and I bought two ). But there was no Jennifer Garner. I hung around the cut flowers stand for an indecent amount of time but no luck. You can do this kind of odd lurking when you're got kids on bikes and razors and walking Blue the labradoodle.

Dropping the kids off at beach camp this morning, I kept a close eye out, but the truth is everyone looks like kind of famous here. The friendly guy who checks in Cy, six, at  "Fitness by The Sea" camp looks just like Colin Farrell.  A couple of the blonde mothers dropping off look familiar in a full-lipped and tight-eyed way. Maybe the ubiquitous expensive dark glasses and long scruffled hair for both women and men makes everyone seem terribly importante.

On a special tour called  "Adventures in Santa Monica" held by the Santa Monica Conservancy, one of the featured attractions was Popeye's creator who was buried at the Woodlawn Cemetery. We pulled up inside the cemetery and one of the docents said "The Popeye guy is very lonely up there, he would love you to go up." Standing by the grave was an actor, who fair dues, stayed totally in character as Popeye, the spinach eating sailor man. I was never that much of fan of Popeye but someone was, because the show was popular for five years and resulted in a 33% increase in U.S. spinach consumption.

More exciting for me was the fact that Granny Clampett  from "Beverly Hillbillies" was resting in the mausoleum nearby.  That dang little old lady was always whacking the heck out of Jethro for being a numbskull and fending blokes off poor stunning Ellie May.

Before that we had just briefly missed "the Bill Cosby women" as we arrived at another tour. Resigned to a no show on the celebs this week, I contented myself with a photo in front of this house, which is down the road from where we are staying. Much sought after for its all-American charm, it has been featured in numerous catalogues and adverts, so many in fact that one neighbour wrote to the local newspaper to complain. So in the end I have my A-lister - albeit retired - of location houses.

Zsa Zsa Gabor: I meet her publicist

This week we are staying with a friend in the Pacific Palisades in LA, which is reputedly home to many of the genuine A-listers. But two days have gone by without a celebrity sighting. Not even a brush with fame.

But that all (sort of) changed yesterday. During a tour of Santa Monica Civic Auditorium, I brushed with someone who creates fame. We were doing a backstage tour of the auditorium, where the Oscars were held during the Sixties. The host of many of these Oscars was Bob Hope and our docent was introduced as Bob Hope's publicist. "Oh yeah, " I thought cynically, "If he's that big, why is he leading us around the wings of the stage and showing us the backstage toilets?"

It turns out that our docent really is one of  better known publicists of all time, and has in the past worked with pretty much everyone, including Michael Jackson, Jane Fonda and Arnold. A glance at his website reveals these days he is shorter on the mega-star names. But he is no slacker and along with producing three TV shows including "Who wants to be a Princess?" he writes on  travel and wine and works for a variety of charities and businesses including, interestingly, the National Watermelon Promotion Board.

John is so unassuming it beggars belief that he has worked for so long in such a ego-driven world. With wispy red hair, very ordinary clothing and a quiet mid-western manner he is very un-LA. And I guess that's the point: his clients are the stars, not him.

John Blanchette tells us about his weekend's work. One of his clients Zsa Zsa Gabor, 93, asked him to fetch a priest for last rites. John also found the time to write a press release about her request which was consequently highly publicised. Pic above of him in less stressful times with Zsa Zsa and her ninth husband, Frederic Von Anhalt

According to John, Zsa Zsa is very proud of her Jewish heritage, but we're guessing she is covering all bases with the priest. John has been her publicist for 23 years '"longer than eight and a half husbands". She is a "pain in the a**" he ventures quite fondly.

He has collected stories galore from Zsa Zsa over the years. One does wander how much of them are completely true, but maybe it hardly matters. Her mother bought up her daughters to succeed financially. As a schoolgirl, Zsa Zsa was told by her teacher that money should not be your life goal. "You're changing schools" was her mothers' reply.

At 16, Zsa Zsa lied about her age and married someone who could gain her entry to the US. Then she reported her new husband as a Nazi supporter and lost her virginity to his prosecutor.

Clearly John Blanchette has done a brilliant job publicising Zsa Zsa. There are fewer women more iconic that Zsa Zsa - but for what reason? Yet even at at the age of 93 she still makes front page. Over the weekend, the photo of her being wheeled into the ambulance, looking every inch her age and being tended to by a distraught husband, was heavily featured in many tabloids and newspapers. OK magazine said this week she was the top of the Yahoo "trending topics" whatever that means.

We are still hard-pressed to remember what she is famous for. For sure she is known for her nine marriages, flamboyant lifestyle, legal troubles and propensity for calling everyone "darling" in that very distinctive accent. People who have sat next to her in restaurants says she still whips up a frenzy of waiters, managers and fellow diners.

Finally I remember what she was in. Green Acres. No that was her sister Ava, says John Blanchette.

Apparently one of her big movies was John Huston's Moulin Rouge. On Zsa Zsa's instructions John Blanchette called Nicole Kidman yesterday morning to see if she wants the movie rights to Zsa Zsa's life, as they both played that same role. Before that, he called Drew Barrymore to see if she had wanted the rights. Wow, he had a busy morning. Apparently Zsa Zsa took Drew under her wing at a tennis match, when Drew was just a child and wandering around by herself. So she feels a connection there as well.

John once asked Zsa Zsa why she calls everyone"darling". "I can't be expected to remember everyone's name' she answered "and it would be rude to say 'hey you'." "Besides..." she added "All my friends go to the same plastic surgeon and they all look the same!"

I've always wanted to write this line: What a Dame!

Shoes on the streets of Santa Barbara

There is no doubt that Santa Barbara is the supermodel of seaside towns. Something to do with the glossy green hills, orange-tile, rusted bells and white curves of the Spanish architecture. And beaches as big as football fields, clusters of yachts and tug boats and long piers of candy shops. But what sort of style will we see on the streets?

I did a bit of a cheat and headed straight for thrummingest of all the clothing stores on State Street, Wendy Foster Pierre LaFond.  The women below, who work in the store, are both wearing scarves and diaphanous long layers -  "We're off to lunch with our scarves!" they laughed - but one has simple white flip-flops and another little grey Edwardian-like booties.

Not to be too pathetically breathless about this place, but the entire store has a beachy spa atmosphere of driftwood chandeliers, banana leaf plants and oil paintings of elephants. It has the usual boho chic suspects: Joie, Linea Pelle belts, Chan Luu scarves. But the styling of complete outfits makes us feel we too can have a piece of the JenniferAniston-KateHudson just off the beach, bath, bed and beyond perfection.(does it ever stop with those two?). The other assistant below wears biker boots with white and somehow makes it look summery.

High-waisted shorts are totally easy to pull off...if you have 19 inch waist and ripple free thighs. To be honest that is just the start of the requisites. Needless to say, if you ever see me in them, gently straight jacket me: I have lost the plot entirely. But this young woman in Blue Bee (the second best clothing store in SB) makes them look elegant. Her boots are from Milan, her shorts and top from London, so how does she look so Californian? 

                                     

This art student below balanced her high-waisted shorts with boyish boots and a fresh buttoned-down fifties shirt and glasses. So I guess we can learn from these two entirely successful short shorters: little denim nmbers have to balanced with a more demure or fuller shirt.

Vans (below) with cut-off shorts and a white tank are as classic and easy as California living used to be ...before everyone got into real estate..or didn't, but talks about it endlessly anyway.

This was the most effortless look of the day (below) and she was wearing moccasins which usually look too Lost Boy in a Daniel Boone episode. Ripped jeans and a shirred top are often a total disaster piled on a total disaster with the strapless top causing endless tugging and adjusting and crises barely averted. But she makes the combo look fresh and wearable. (It's not, it just her).

I  found this mother daughter couple holding hands and giving each other pecks on the cheek. Their devotion was genuinely touching, the daughter was visiting from Texas and  both wore classic English countrywoman with an urban twist. Mother had yellow leather flats and daughter wore black high Mary Janes. They asked about our vacation and I told them it was great because the kids were being taken care of. Daughter and mother agreed a little gentle apartness was a good thing and daughter said she takes a morning stroll to the beach, daily. One of my American friends advises to always limit visits to parents to four days."The fifth day" my friend says "they start treating you like a child and the sixth day you start acting like one."

                                   

On the wharf, another mother daughter team with a more casual very pink style with flip flops.

This red skirted girl mixed it up with a large African necklace and delicate black Audrey Hepburn flats.

Mixing it up in a different way were this couple. I told them they looked just as ready for a jungle trek as for shopping on State St. They laughed uproariously and happily posed for photos and tucked my card away in one of their many, many compartments.

Down at the beach many were, of course, shoeless. This guy has built an elaborate new sandcastle nearly every day for 25 years. He lives in a nearby boat and says most nights his sandcastle is bashed down and he starts again the next day from scratch. 

Just a few steps across the sand are these two roller girls from Italy.

At the end of the day I find this bundle of bridesmaids-to-be, waiting for the rehearsal dinner. All school friends, their shoes run the gamut of flat sandals to patent pumps. What have we learned from today? I'm still not certain I can define Santa Barbara style but I am certain that I will continue to leave ripped jeans, high waisted shorts and strapless tops to those who can inexplicably wear them with dignity.