The four days back in Los Angeles, even without having to watch my kids much at all, was absolutely exhausting. I ran from party to party, from breakfast to coffee to lunch to dinner trying to see all my amazing friends back there. Funny, during my seventeen years living there I always said my best friends were still back in New York. When I turned forty my big party was in Manhattan.

Back this time I realized just how many close friends I’d made and how much I enjoyed their company. I’d always said that the weather was the only thing going for Los Angeles. If it turned ten degrees colder it would empty out like a pool with a floating turd.

Now I’m not so sure.

I'd also run to Manhattan to get away from Hollywood bullshit but I have to say going to Jaime Foxx's party for Jennifer Hudson in a penthouse suite at the Beverly Regent Hotel was sweet. Janet Jackson was there with her bodyguards, Ludacris, Isaiah Washington, Hill Harper, Bai Ling, Bill Maher and a ton of hoochy mamas. I stayed out till three. The next day I went to the Independent Spirit Award nominee reception and there was every single person from the Indie world. I brought the lovely writer Claire Smith who has flowered since I last saw her. My friends all thought she was a movie star. Nope. Just a writer.

Still, it was freezing most of the time. People in L.A. look at the palm trees and convince themselves that they live in the tropics. Sleeping at night is like camping under thin blankets. When I get back to Manhattan I’ll warm up.

UPDATE:

I’m back. Manhattan is covered in a foot of brownish slush.