“What’re we doing today?”

“I dunno.”

“Everyone we know is out of town…Well, to be more exact, all of Sophia’s friends are out of town.”

For a couple of seconds we contemplated going to Disneyland, but today was a blocked out day for the Annual Pass holders (like us), so we decided to do other touristy things instead.

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We started off in Pasadena, where we had breakfast at Mi Piace, which has a very, very good brunch. I was biased against Mi Piace for the first several years we were here, because we went to the one in Burbank a couple of times with Darin’s friends and every time we went something horrible went wrong. The Pasadena location, however, has always been very, very good to us.

We hit the Barnes and Noble for an hour of so of story reading time (and Darin went nuts buying books, something he hasn’t done for a long stretch—yes, we’re about to move, but hey, someone else will be carrying the boxes), and then we hit the road.

“How about we go to Malibu?” Darin said.

I said that was fine with me. Probably not too many Malibu driving trips on the agenda in the near future.

There was terrible traffic on the Pacific Coast Highway, but who cared: it wasn’t like we were trying to get anywhere, and the kids were asleep anyhow. I looked out at the beach as we drove.

“We never took them to the beach!” I wailed.

“Hon, we’re still going to be in California. It’ll be the same ocean even.”

Okay, so I’ve been freaking out about the little things.

We parked in Santa Monica and decided to get some lunch at Il Fornaio. I wasn’t terribly hungry, so I just had soup. Darin had a small plate of ravioli. Sophia ate nothing. Simon ate almost an entire plate of pasta with cheese. Every stereotype I’ve ever heard about the differences in eating between boys and girls…well, let’s just say the kids aren’t dispelling them right now.

Then we got very touristy and did something Darin and I have never done, with or without kids.

The Santa Monica Pier is a boardwalk filled with junky food (cotton candy and churros), junky clothing (does anyone except anorexic fifteen-year-olds wear those clothes?), games where you win gigantic stuffed animals, and carnival rides, including a pretty big roller coaster. But everything was for the taller end of the human spectrum.

We thought we were going to get out of there scott-free, until we discovered the kids’ part of the boardwalk: rides just for the 48-inch and under set. You tell me if Sophia wanted to go on rides and whether she enjoyed any second of it:

Crying. Hysteria. “I don’t want to leave.”

Daddy took Sophia down to the beach, where she could kick off her sandals and run free:

(Poor Simon. Trapped in the stroller. Although if the past few days give any indication, he’ll be running on that beach with Fia in less than a week.)

When it was time to leave the beach…Crying. Hysteria. “I don’t want to leave.”

We were dragging her off the pier when we discovered the Carousel. Oh, can’t resist a carousel. Mommy and Daughter rode the Carousel twice. Before the second ride I explained that this was the last time. At the end of the second ride, Sophia began to negotiate for “just one more ride.” We said no. Crying. Hysteria. Etc.

By now Sophia was finally hungry and wanted chicken. More specifically, she wanted chicken with peapods, which is her favorite dish at PF Chang’s. So we found a Chinese restaurant.

“Does she eat Chinese food?” the waitress asked.

“In fact, she’s why we’re here,” Darin said.

Sophia ate—and, to no one’s surprise, so did Simon—and then we headed home. Amazingly, none of us (including parents) fell asleep in the car. The kids fussed a little about going to bed, but it was strictly pro forma fussing.

It took a while for us to find restaurants in LA that we thought were something special. I think I spent the first year here thinking that there was no decent food in Los Angeles.

But we eventually did develop a repertoire of excellent little places. One of the places we discovered—okay, we found it via Zagat, which isn’t exactly like a secret passed on in a back alley—is Osteria Nonni, a fantastic little Italian restaurant in Silverlake. The neighborhood doesn’t exactly scream “great restaurant”; it kind of screams “slightly seedy part of town we’d never visit otherwise.”

If you decide to go there, do not skip this important step: get the sautéed lemon chicken with spaghetti. The standard way they prepare the spaghetti is with oil and garlic, but we always ask for it with butter and parmesan. The lemon butter sauce on the chicken is…well, how can I put this? I’m not a religious woman, but if I were, this sauce would be proof of Divine Intervention in this universe.

If the lemon chicken isn’t your thing—what are you, a Communist?—then get the penne with eggplant. I’ve never actually had the penne with eggplant, because once I found the chicken I stopped there, but Darin assures me the penne is quite tasty. The porcini mushroom ravioli is fabulous. The arancini appetizer (rice balls with cheese and peas inside) is extremely tasty.

Osteria Nonni is hardly next door to us, but we manage to get there at least once a month. It’s completely worth the effort if you want to try it out. 3219 Glendale Blvd., in case you need the address.

Because you go to your daughter’s dance recital at North Hollywood High and amidst the clutter and nonsense of parents getting tots and slightly-bigger-than-tots ready for their appearance on stage, you say to yourself, “Hey, that’s John Wells in the row ahead of me.” He delivered the commencement when you graduated with your MFA from USC. You wonder if you should introduce yourself.

Because your friend whose daughter is in the other dance class for 3-year-olds mentions that Eddie Murphy’s daughter is in their class and you wonder if you should switch to that class, just to see the kid, ’cause you know the dad ain’t dropping by.

Because when you take your kids to Art’s Deli for lunch, you say to yourself, “Hey, Joe Mantegna! And that guy is…Paul Williams? The Phantom of the Paradise guy?” You still remember the day you were there with your friends after yoga and Paul Thomas Anderson and Fiona Apple came in. Before your friend confirmed who the couple were, you thought Fiona Apple kind of looked like another goddamn Fiona Apple clone.

Because every single barista at Starbucks is a musician, plays in a band, or already has a friggin’ recording contract and they’re still mixin’ the Frappucinos.

Because your friend Mary is in town to pitch every studio and producer in sight with her latest sure-fire pitch, and she makes you realize that you don’t have to live in LA. Well, I guess that’s not so much scary as unbelievably empowering. Although you’re sad she won’t be able to stay with you on future visits, because you won’t have a house here for her to crash at. However, she’ll probably be able to afford a little pied-a-terre in Beverly Hills any minute now.

Because you just don’t expect to be able to go through a green light until 3 or 4 cars going the other direction have finished going through the intersection.

Because it’s March 11 and unbelievably gorgeous out. 80 yesterday, maybe 75 today.