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cruise around looking for a meter. Back in Wichita, only the snootiest of restaurants even dare to have valet, so after eight years of living here, it still pisses me off to pay.
    Fortunately, I manage to find a space right across the street (thank you, parking gods) and make the death sprint across four lanes of traffic. The valet dudes at Café Rouge nod at me with respect, acknowledging my rare feat.
    As I slip inside the restaurant, I catch a glimpse of myself in the glass doors. Great. I look like shit. I forgot that I’m wearing my long black sweater, bought circa 1995. Zoë hates this sweater and I’m seriously not in the mood to hear this particular variation on her standard, What Not to Wear , speech.
    “Hey, Chicken,” Zoë calls out to me from a table in the back.
    I slide into the booth and pick up the menu. “Hey, I’m kind of in a hurry today. Do you know what you want?” I don’t know why I ask her, since she always orders the same thing.
    She looks at me and smiles. “I’ll decide when the waitress gets here.” Within seconds she gives me the once-over. “Oh my God, I hate that sweater. It looks like you’re wearing a trash bag. And it’s like 85 degrees outside!”
    Great, here we go.
    “You have such a beautiful face and…”
    “Not today, Mom,” I say as I open up my menu. “I work in Siberia, remember?”
    “Then you wear a cute pashmina or a little coat, and when you walk out, you take it off. I just don’t get it. I think you’re crazy for hiding your figure.” Zoë shakes her head at me. “What I wouldn’t give for those extra four inches.”
    The thing is, I don’t necessarily want to hide my looks. I know I’m not unattractive. I just can’t be bothered with the typical L.A. Woman Beauty Regime. First off, a weekly manicure is required. I, on the other hand, have never touched an emery board in my life. Oh sure, I give myself weekly manicures, but my nails and cuticles are cut the old-fashioned way…with my teeth. And on top of the manicures, there are the monthly facials, all sorts of bizarre massages, sessions with personal trainers, oh, and let’s not forget the haircuts that would throw any working girl intodebtor’s prison. What’s the point really? I’ve just never been particularly tailored or put together. I guess you could say I’m rough around the edges, but I’m okay with that.
    “I love you. Can we change the subject?” I say as I scan the breakfast section on the back of the menu. Today is a pancake day, damn it.
    The waitress walks up to take our order. “Hi, ladies. What can I get for you?”
    “You go first, I’m still trying to decide,” Zoë says as she studies the menu.
    “I’ll just get the macadamia nut pancakes please, and a cup of coffee with cream.”
    Zoë lifts her head from out of the menu. “Oooh, that sounds so good. Okay, I think I know what I’m going to order. I’ll have the egg-white-and-spinach scramble please.” Zoë looks at me as I let out a long exhale. “Don’t even start,” she laughs. “And I’d also like an order of bacon. But I want it really black. Like black black. Like, the-thing-hasn’t-lived-in-a-decade black.”
    Zoë and her post-apocalyptic bacon. It cracks me up every time. Zoë’s dad grew up in an orthodox home and while he doesn’t keep kosher, for some reason the anti-pork mandate still sticks in their household. So although Zoë professes to not eat pork, that girl really loves her bacon. And the only way she can justify eating it is to turn it into a piece of charcoal.
    “Hey, so how’s work?” Zoë gnaws on the straw floating around in her glass of ice water.
    “Ugh, don’t ask. How’s your day?”
    “Crazy busy. I’m doubling for Rachel McAdams and she has the most toned arms so I spent four hours at the gym this morning. I’m starving.”
    I love that the most stressful part of Zoë’s day is trying to look even more like Rachel McAdams.
    “So what’s up? Your message on my