If it’s true that Nancy O’Dell is bolting Access Hollywood because she thinks the show has taken a turn for the sensational worse as People reports, then I applaud her.  I decided in the fourth grade to become a journalist and am sometimes embarrassed for what passes for journalism these days.

Before I get on my high and mighty horse, let me say that in the past I have helped contribute to the slinging of gossip but there’s a tipping point for everyone. There’s news, gossip and getting down and dirty in the smut bin. I don’t know when journalism became going through someone’s trash, videotaping a subject through the windows of restaurants and boutiques and ambushing them at airports and valet parking stands with microphones and cameras. I cringe every time the recent clip of Tigers Woods’ wife Elin Nordegren is shown and a British female is heard asking her if there’s anything she would like to say to Tiger’s “14 mistresses.” The female throws out a couple of other tacky questions before an American female is heard telling the Brit that she should try asking a question like “How are you holding up?” The Brit then asks that question.

But the question journalists should be asking themselves is how can I do this to someone whose idyllic world has just been rocked? Apparently, it is one that Nancy asked herself. And she gave us her answer yesterday. Today marks her last show. She had two years left on her contract and word is she already has another gig lined up.

I don’t watch AH as much as I used to when I covered entertainment around-the-clock but I like to tune in when my friend Shaun Robinson is anchoring. I admit I was a little shocked two nights ago when I saw D.L. Hughley note the similarity of the scandals between Tiger and O.J. Simpson because both involve race, a star athlete and a young blonde. His comments made news and that is the point of journalism today. Last night I was equally shocked to see Bill Plaschke, whose columns I have enjoyed reading in the L.A. Times for years and whom I have much respect for, on AH questioning Tiger’s muscular body in light of the New York Times‘ story linking a doctor being investigated for providing performance-enhancing drugs to the golfer and other athletes. As Bill said on air, if Tiger takes chances off the course with all of these women then maybe he takes similar risks on the course as well. Wow! Talk about jumping to conclusions. I thought he was out of bounds with that shot.

But there comes a time when we should stop and think about what our bosses (because this often comes from above) are asking of us. We’re instructed, no make that under extreme pressure, to produce content that is going to make headlines in other media outlets. It used to be get it first and get it right. Now it’s just get it first and make sure you say or write something sensational enough to make news. Journalists have never been known for being the most sympathetic bunch so rarely have feelings mattered.

I remember when I was a cub reporter in Iowa City. I was the last one in the office one evening in December 1986  and news came over the police scanner about a disgruntled resident of nearby Mt. Pleasant walking into a city council meeting and opening fire. There was a mention of the shooting victims, the mayor and two city council members, being taken to the University of Iowa Hospitals in Iowa City. Being the eager-beaver reporter who is drawn to crime and the law, I decided to drive by the hospital on my way  home and do interviews. Once in the parking lot, it took me no time to recognize the cars from the nearby county because in the state of Iowa, the county names are on the license plate. I parked my car but never opened my door. I sat in my car and thought about how I would feel to have a journalist in my face with a notepad when doctors were trying to save the life of my loved one. I turned on the ignition and drove home. The mayor, Ed King, died and the other two victims survived.

I knew then that covering sports was the right decision for me. With athletes, rarely is it a matter of life and death. Back then, the most difficult question may have related to a missed shot or NCAA violation. Not asking an athlete’s wife about her philandering husband when she’s out running errands with her children.

I end with Gabrielle Union’s post on Russell Simmons’s website UrbanGrind.com. She asks that we all, not just journalists, look in the mirror. And I say, if you don’t like what you see, change it. Nancy apparently did and I applaud her.

My mouth dropped open when I saw this image on the Dec. 14 cover of Publishers Weekly. While I love the creativity of the Lauren Kelley image itself, it has no place on the cover of a trade magazine touting what’s new in African-American books.

In an article titled PW’s African-American Cover Image: Black Beauty or Big Mistake, Calvin Reid, a senior editor, explained his reasoning for selecting this image, the back story on the image and writing the questionable cover line.

The image was reminiscent of the 1970s and appealed to me, someone who grew up in the middle of the 1970s-era wave of black pride, black power and big afros with big afro picks stuck right in the back. To me it is a sweet, tongue-in-cheek funny and striking image of quirky black hair power. And while it never occurred to me that anyone would be offended by these images, I was very wrong and I have to acknowledge that. Quite a few people were offended by it and outraged by what some perceive as a disparaging or degrading image of a black woman. I certainly regret offending anyone and while I still love that image, I intend to think long and hard about whatever  image is chosen for next year’s cover.

I’d be curious to know how PW illustrated its annual African-American issue in previous years. This image, called Pickin’ and taken by Lauren Kelley in 1999, is included in Posing Beauty: African American Images from the 1890s to the Present, a photography book compiled by Deborah Willis. It is clever as a work of art. While Calvin notes that, for him, the Afro is symbolic of black hair power, I think for many others it is deemed as being rebellious and militant. The whole hair thing is a separate subject unto itself and one I’ve shared my thoughts on previously.

It’s hard enough to get other races to read our books, see our movies, watch our television shows, visit our art galleries, all ways to help us understand one another in today’s multi-cultural society. Therefore I don’t think using this image on the cover is a way to draw even the readers of PW into Felicia Pride’s article, which is more about what sells and today’s economy.  Slap the words “Afro Picks” above the picture and it demeans what I think is indeed a thought-provoking and beautiful image and does a disservice to the article. Would NBC, for example, use “Afro Pick” when weatherman  Al Roker announces his pick city of the day as he does daily on Today? Would ESPN super impose an image of an Afro pick behind Michael Irvin’s head before me makes a prediction for Monday Night Football? No. That’s why I cry foul for Calvin’s choice.

And this is why it’s important to have diversity throughout the workplace. Granted, you’ll never  please every member of any race all of the time but a reasonably intelligent person should be able to discern whether a particular race would be offended by something like this by asking around.  I have no idea how many minorities PW has on its staff but numbers can be misleading anyway. I remember when I first walked through the headquarters at People in the late ’90s when I started working out of the magazine’s Los Angeles bureau. There were so many chocolate faces looking back at me. Little did I realize they were the support staff. I can’t recall a Black being in a decision-making position and attending key meetings. And that’s the way it is throughout mainstream publishing. This is how come offensive images, or in this case an inappropriate image and words, continue to pop up every so often.

When I worked at the now-defunct Pittsburgh Press back in the late 80s, there were a few unnecessary instances where the paper ran less-than-flattering photos of blacks. I finally said something to an editor and it was as if no one had ever noticed. I also had to speak up in defense of then University of Pitt basketball star Charles Smith. If I remember correctly, there were some rumblings about whether Pitt had violated NCAA rules by providing him certain things, like a car. I explained to my editor, perhaps rather naively, that it is possible for black parents to buy their college child a car. Heck, I had a car in the 11th grade and so did many of the Black teenagers from my neighborhood.  The idea seemed so foreign to my editor. Really??  It was as if it had honestly never occurred to him that a Black family would be in such a financial position. And as I recall, Charles came from a middle-class background. BTW, no violations were ever found to have occurred with Charles and the university.

As for PW, well, that was a major violation.

For a former sportswriter, one-time “Insider” columnist for People and ex-gossip blogger for BET then Essence, I admit the Tiger Woods scandal held my attention for days. I felt like a crack addict as I clicked on the New York Post, The Daily Beast and even (gulp) TMZ to get my Tiger fix every morning. Thankfully my short attention span kicked in. I soon grew bored with the story and tuned out. During a weak moment (or hour), I watched Dateline’s The Secret Life of Tiger Woods last night.

Now that the game’s best player has decided to take an indefinite break from golf, can we too take  one from his life? Let’s all enter Tiger rehab, who is probably one PR step away from saying he’s a sex addict, and let him and Elin alone to work on their problems in privacy or on Privacy, the name of his yacht.

Instead of trying to uncover more dirt on this scoundrel, let’s look at our own lives. Some of you are cheating on your spouses. I know because you’ve hit on me or women I know. But don’t worry. I’m not going to expose you although you, like Tiger, have the brain of rocks and left electronic evidence.

I actually don’t know why so many people are shocked at Tiger’s behavior. He’s a professional athlete, for goodness sake. Did you really think he was faithful? Okay, so maybe you assumed he had a transgression here and there but not that he picked up Waffle House waitresses at every stop. Sorry guys, but I just assume 95% of you cheat. That’s what happens you spend as much time as I did on the road. I watched married NBA players scrutinize seat locations on comp tickets to make sure that their multiple hos at the game didn’t sit near each other before sending the tickets to will call via ball boys. I watched a player whose wife I considered my friend spend a couple of days on the road with a woman who could have passed for his wife’s twin. I told him, “At least you’re consistent.” I never said anything to his wife and not surprisingly that marriage didn’t last.

Covering the NBA means finishing work late at night. With hotel restaurants closed and 24-hour room service rarely an option back then, often times I would find myself in the bar enjoying a dinner of red wine, nuts and pretzels. I must have looked like easy prey for the countless businessmen who tried to pick me up. Don’t even get me started on the referees, assistant coaches and sportswriters.

But cheating is not limited to men with money who travel. Poor men who never leave their hometown cheat just as often as rich. The trips may be to the local motel instead of Australia and they are probably cheating with their wife’s sister or best friend. Married women cheat too but for some reason don’t seem to get caught up in the sex scandals that men do. There’s a school teacher here and there but I don’t even know if those women are even married. The Daily Beast ran a post on this topic and I have to read it. I think that’s allowed while I’m in Tiger rehab.

I thought I had my first hot flash yesterday. But I’m still unsure. It could have been my second glass of red wine that warmed me to the point where I wiped the back of my neck at lunch. Every time my body temperature rises these days I wonder if it’s a hot flash. And understandably so. I turned 37 47 (gulp!) last week and haven’t had a period in a couple of months.

What’s that clicking sound? Oh, it’s just the guys clicking to another website. Now that it’s just us girls, someone tell me, how does one know for sure that “the change” is occurring? Do women go to the doctor for an official diagnosis? I’ve asked a couple of my friends of a certain age and the first thing they ask is, “Are you having hot flashes?” Hell, I don’t know. This is when a girl needs her mother to ask her what it was like for her. Although my mother never talked about such things. Unlike her less conservative daughter who puts it out there in the open.

For me to be warm is an oddity. This I know. I awake every morning, see the room temperature is at 68 degrees and turn on the heat even though I work in a sweatshirt, pants and socks. Always socks. When I travel, I sometimes put a note on the thermostat for housekeeping not to adjust the heat, even if it is at 72 degrees. Chill bumps pop up if I’m in the shade, even at 80 degrees. Don’t ask me how I survived winters in Iowa City and Pittsburgh at the start of my career. I guess it shows just how determined I was to become a sportswriter.

To a point I know what hot flashes look like. I’ve seen beads of sweat break out on the foreheads of some on my flashing friends, and one celeb as I interviewed her. I didn’t have that yesterday. I just felt warm. I mentioned this to a friend this morning and she said wine flares up hot flashes. Is that true?

Could Aunt Flo be gone after all these years? In the last several months, her visits haven’t been as extreme. So I stopped buying tampons and pads for fear of being stuck with boxes of them. I don’t even know if the fact that Aunt Flo hasn’t dropped by since September is proof that I am going through “the change.” I decided to get off the pill after my last prescription ran out in September. I’ve been on the pill, on and seldom off, for years. I don’t recall missing periods when I stopped taking it previously. I know I don’t have a bun in the oven. I’ve always been regular, whether on the pill or not. And in recent years I’ve only been on the pill to control the size of my tiny fibroids and flow. A few years ago multiple doctors determined that it wasn’t worth me getting my fibroids removed since I was so close to menopause. Just wait it out, they all recommended.

And now I think I have. But I’m not sure. It could have been the wine. When did you know for sure?

The other day I Tweeted ” A bad hair day…even for me. No time for taming of the ‘do. This is when a wig comes in handy.” My Tweets go directly to Facebook and one of FB my buddies wrote “Don’t do it, Kel. Wear your hair like it is.” Of course it was a man.

So easy for him to say. I sometimes think men are absolutely clueless when it comes to a woman and her hair. Maybe he thought I was going to wear plop something outrageous, like an Elvira or Tina Turner wig, atop my head. Not hardly. My Beverly Johnson wig is short and, I think, so cute. It’s not wiggy (as you can see from the photo above) and even has natural bounce when I walk. How could I not wear it when my own hair was so out of control and would only be tamed by a shampoo and conditioner, which I didn’t have time to do because I was on my way to the radio studio? Most days I wear my hair natural so we’re talking at least three hours of air dry time before I even untwist it after shampooing because I try to control its wildness.

I subscribe to the Tyra Banks school of thought and am not ashamed to say I own a wig or two (okay, girlfriend probably has 100). When I wore a weave and folks complimented me on my coif, in a New York minute I’d respond, “You can have this hair too because it’s a weave.”  I remember being in Cap Cana in the Dominican Republic on a press trip. The humidity wreaked havoc on a hairdo, but not mine . By day two, the other female journalists (none of whom was Black) asked me which hair products I used because they wanted them. Please! It’s my Indian weave that is not affected by the humidity, I said.

Some women are embarrassed at the thought of such a confession. Get over it.  To me, hair is an extension of one’s style, which for me changes from day to day. Just like I stand in my closet and decide if I want to wear skinny leg jeans, bell bottoms, a wrap dress or a mini-skirt, I should be able to stand in the mirror and decide do I want to straighten my hair with a hot comb, use a relaxer, rock a natural style, wear a wig, add in pieces or have a weave sewn in, which is the best thing for a travel writer who is constantly on the go and can’t bog down luggage with hair products.

For most women, changing one’s hairstyle takes a bit more time than selecting an outfit to wear. And this is when a wig is most appreciated. I don’t imagine I’d wear a wig if I expected to get busy. I can just imagine being all good to go and saying, “Wait.” I slip off my wig to reveal a stocking cap covering my 12 twists. Talk about spoiling a mood. Maybe my male FB friend had this happen to him so now he’s against women and wigs. I have to ask him. One thing he should know is that more women wear wigs than he thinks. Check out Nia Long on the November cover of Essence. When promoting the movie Good Hair, Nia said this wasn’t her hair. Did any man have a problem with her in this photo?

Candy Spelling dahl-ing, I can certainly relate to your life these days. You’re giving up your 56,500 square feet Holmby Hills manse to move into 16,500 square feet of condo space in Century City. I had to do the same. Well, maybe your dimensions are larger but our percentage is somewhat similar.

When I moved to Italy, I gave up my nearly 2,000 square-foot townhouse with a backyard and garage for much smaller digs for a year in Florence then 15 months in Positano. Afterward, I spent four years in New York City in various 500-square-foot apartments.  So I’m here to tell you Candy, it can be done. You may not like it. But then again, a story in today’s L.A. Times said you’re not even sure how many rooms you have in The Manor, which has been on the block for eight months at $150 million and is not being reduced. Do you know how many rooms I had in a couple of my Manhattan apartments? One room plus a bath and kitchen. No flower-cutting room, gift-wrapping room, wine cellar/tasting room, barbershop, silver storage room and the such for me. Your service wing has five maids’ bedrooms and two butlers’ suites. My overnight guests had to share a bed with me and I considered it a big deal when I had enough room in one apartment to push my bed over a few feet and put a blow-up Aerobed next to mine.

I embraced my downsizing (to a point) and am sure you will too. Being forced to live in smaller quarters taught me how not to be a pack rat and how not to spend money frivolously on kitchen gadgets I might never use or clothes I may never wear. I only kept a year’s worth of magazines on hand and shredded docs on a regular basis. I not-so-kindly asked publicists to quit mailing unsolicited press kits to my home as not only did I not have any room to store them but it was a waste of trees and their clients’ money. I adhered to the rule of if I hadn’t worn it in a year then I had to get rid of it. Because I’ve always loved to entertain, I reserved the party room in the luxurious Manhattan high-rise ($2541 a month for 500 sq. ft) I lived for a year and planned to give an Emmy party. Then I realized, I didn’t have any of the proper party accoutrements, such as serving dishes, etc. If I bought those things then I wouldn’t have anywhere to store them afterward because my kitchen was full. And so was under my bed. So I cancelled the party.

Now that I’m back in my spacious (by my standards) pad, I wonder where is all of my stuff. I went to my closet in search of a white skirt this summer and there was not even one. I guess I gave the one or two I had away when I lived in NYC. I could have sworn I had more shoes and purses than what is in my closet. Why did my friend Renata have to go to a store to buy me a USC shirt the morning of last Saturday’s homecoming game? Because I had somehow tossed my lone USC sweatshirt too, although I know I could still fit it. The holidays are coming and I don’t have a red sweater. What happened to them? I had three George Foreman grills. Why do I now only have one, and the smallest one at that? Over the summer as I prepared for my high school reunion picnic I realized I didn’t have an ice chest. I know I used to have one or two. Stacked in the closet in my office are oodles of boxes of books purchased when I lived in Italy and New York. What happened to my bookcases? Where are all of those flower vases I somehow accumulated? I remember a stick mixer that I won in a raffle at a company holiday function when I worked at the Pittsburgh Press in the late 80s. I never used the gadget but I looked for it the other day. It’s gone too. I have an ironing board but no iron, not that I’ve ironed in a decade or so (that’s why dry cleaners are for) but overnight visitors expect me to have one.

When I was away, I just assumed some of these effects were in storage. But they weren’t. I gave away more than I realized since I never  planned on coming back from Italy and continuously purged in NYC.

Now that I’m in L.A., I want my stuff again. Candy, I don’t know what you plan to do with all of your belongings on your 4.7 acre property aptly called Candyland. You can’t take everything with you and I have a feeling you’re not giving anything to your daughter Tori Spelling. So if you’re looking for someplace to unload your unwanted possessions, look this way. I have room.

Here’s the condo building Candy plans to move into next year. She bought the top two floors for $47 million.

Open my freezer and you’ll likely only find ice. I haven’t bought a loaf of bread or salad dressing in over six years. I go to the grocery store once or twice a week, buying only what I need for the next couple of days. I take daily naps. I believe wine is a food group. When I cook dinner at home, I eat my salad after my main course. A stick of butter lasts me for weeks yet I can go through olive oil by the vat.

These thoughts come to my mind after reading a post on my friend Maureen Jenkins’ UrbanTravelGirl blog about her inner Italian. Maureen and I met a few years ago when we both lived in Italy. Sadly, both of us returned to the States for financial reasons after begrudgingly accepting the difficulties in earning enough money as a freelance writer to live in the manner to which we had become accustomed. And sadly, neither of us found un bello ragazzo to marry and hopefully take care of us. Not for lack of trying and not that it was our priority. But that’s a post for another day.

Sharon Sanders, a friend of Maureen’s, spotlighted Maureen in her award-winning blog “Simple Italy: Italian Food, Culture, Lifestyle and Travel. ” Her blog is for “all those who embrace la bella vita.”  As she writes, “Even if we don’t live in Italy, Italy lives inside of us.” (For me that is so unbelievably true.) At the end of the post, Sharon, who lived and worked in Firenze (Florence) many years ago, asked the question: Has Italy changed your life in a profound way?

That question brings me to how I began this post. It’s about how living in Italy changed my life. I’m still amazed that our stores have oodles of shelves of salad dressing when olive oil (and sometimes vinegar) will do just fine. I don’t believe in buying a shopping cart full of groceries and freezing fresh food. I wonder why waiters look at me strangely when I ask for a wine list at lunch time.

When I left Los Angeles for Italy in April 2003, I did so with the intention of never returning to the States. Or at least now for a couple of decades. Not that I dislike the U.S., although with all of these senseless shootings I do sometimes wish it were harder to buy guns like it is in other countries. I love my country but also get a kick out of growing (not taller because I think 6-foot-1 is tall enough). Outside of prison, where I have no plans to go, there is no better way to learn about oneself and test one’s limit than to live in a foreign country. I just figured I would grow old in Italy, either alone or with a husband, and preferably not someone else’s. Although I didn’t want to return to the States in 2005, I like to think I did so a wiser soul with more patience and tolerance being that I know what it’s like to be an immigrant barely able to speak a country’s language, more of an ability to appreciate the simple things in life and with a polished palate.

I don’t miss living in New York just yet but I daydream about returning to my simple life in Italy, where stemware wasn’t a priority when I drank wine and I really didn’t mind when my heel got caught between cobblestones while walking down a charming, dim street. The other night I had a chance to reminisce about those carefree days when I enjoyed a delicious Italian meal at Cafe Angelino with author extraordinaire Tracie Howard, whom I had the pleasure of meeting when she traveled through Firenze with a mutual friend and others. Tracie, whose latest must-read book is Friends and Fauxs, and her crew sailed through Italy in July 2003. I was still a newbie and under the belief that I was in my adopted country forever, thinking my oh-so-Italian apartment (one of the ones whose windows you see above because my bedroom and living room faced the Arno River) was going to be mine until the end of the time. Or until I married, whichever came first.

Maybe one day I’ll have the chance to move back to Italy, a country full of faults and pleasures. Until then, I have to embrace my inner Italian from here and try not to weep in my vino rosso when I look at old photos like these:

This was my first apartment in Firenze. An American neighbor eventually loaned me an expensive, antique desk from which to work but initially I sat at the dining table, which faced the Arno, and wrote masterful stories. Yes, that is a USA Today on the coffee table!

I lived right next to the Ponte Vecchio, which means “old bridge” in Italian. It used to be full of butcher shops but today has an excessive number of jewelry stores. The Germans spared it, but not the other bridges, during WWII.

This was the very first meal I cooked in Florence, when drinking wine from a tumbler suited me fine. I wish I had that ravioli and sauce now.

Clothes dryers were uncommon in Firenze so I used a clothes rack after washing my clothes in my little washing machine that took hours to go through one cycle.

Lucy’s name was changed to Lucia when we moved to Firenze. She looks evil here but really she loved living in Italy because she likes to hear the Italian language. Just like me!

I first heard about the film Precious: Based on the novel called “Push” by Sapphire while covering New York Fashion Week’s in February 2008. Director Lee Daniels, producer Sarah Siegel-Magness and newcomer actress Gabourey Sidibe were backstage at one of the shows I covered and we were introduced. I already knew Lee from Monster’s Ball, not that he remembered me. His new project didn’t interest me much. Instead, I wondered if Mariah Carey, who is in the film and a good friend of Sarah’s, would show as I had been told she would. Little did I know that the movie I didn’t give a darn about would turn in to what will undoubtedly become one of the most talked about films this year. I attended a screening last night (thank you neighbor Angela) and tell you that this is one you don’t want to miss.

I went into the theater thinking the movie would be too sad and wondering if it would be a box-office flop like Beloved because moviegoers don’t often rush to see depressing films — especially one dealing with incest, physical and mental abuse and a character, frankly, as unattractive as Gabby. We want to feel good, especially when our portfolios no longer do thanks to the economic downtown, and look at pretty people. I never saw a trailer for the film. I just knew what it was about and saw a clip on Oprah when Mariah was a guest recently. And I knew that Lee was the director. He directed Halle Berry in her Oscar-winning (and steamy sex scene with Billy Bob Thornton) performance in Monster’s Ball.  I could only imagine what lengths he would go to to illustrate Precious’ story. But I was shockingly and pleasantly surprised by what I saw on the big screen. I didn’t expect humor to be laced throughout the film. What a relief it was. But in the end, you can’t tie a bow on this disheartening package with humor. It is what it is. An illiterate, no self-esteem having teenage girl pregnant by her father for the second time who lives with a mother who beats the hell out of her and curses her like she is her worst enemy. Their dismal living conditions in Harlem. The smell of no hope that permeates throughout.

When the film ended, a lady in front of me turned around to say how different the film we saw was from the one she saw four or five months ago. That one, she said, was so raw and vivid that it left everyone speechless at the end. She walked out and went right to McDonald’s to get her two Happy Meals to cheer her up. She needed it, she said, after seeing a film that showed more of the rapes than what we saw. I won’t write what takes place but it’s safe to say I was enthralled. It’s a good sign (and a rarity) that I never reached for my BlackBerry to check the time during the screening and that I didn’t want it to end when it did. But you’ll have to check it out for yourself when it opens on Nov. 6.

I will say Mo’Nique should receive an Academy Award nomination for her portrayal of the abusive mother. If you think she looks scary in this photo, just wait until you see her on the big screen. I hope that what I’ve read about Mo’Nique demanding money to promote the film is not true. Usually when an actor signs a contract to make a movie, they also agree to promote the film.

It wasn’t until after the film was in the works that heavyweights Oprah Winfrey and Tyler Perry signed on as executive producers. Their power will undoubtedly help marketing efforts by Lionsgate.

I told Chef Jose Andres that he’s lucky he’s married, because otherwise I’d propose to him. I had just finished devouring his delicious brunch at the The Bazaar by Jose Andres at SLS Hotel at Beverly Hills yesterday and was caught up in the delectable culinary experience that I imagined him serving me the exact same brunch in bed every weekend.

Okay, so it won’t happen. That means I’ll just have to become a regular at brunch, offered on Saturdays and Sundays. I first met Chef Jose (and his lovely wife and three adorable daughters) in Aspen at the Food & Wine Classic, where I interviewed him for a story in USA Today. At the time I hadn’t been so lucky to eat at his restaurant, which opened about a year ago. (He has several in D.C. as well.) But since June I’ve had the pleasure of dining at The Bazaar not one, not two but three times! It is my new favorite restaurant in Los Angeles and the one I send everyone to when asked to recommend a restaurant.

Because pictures tell 1,000 words and I want to keep this post short, here’s what we sampled at yesterday’s media brunch. We started with a snack:

Cotton candy foie gras and bagel and lox cone with salmon roe and herb cream cheese

Air bread with smoked salmon tzatziki yogurt

Cava mimosa; with modern traditional olives in the background. The olives burst in your mouth and are beyond description.

Then it was on to tapas:

Watermelon and tomato skewers Pedro Ximenez reduction, lemon dressing

We also enjoyed free range Iberico ham, Catalan style toasted bread, tomato and Escalivada Catalan style roasted red pepper, onion and eggplant but I didn’t take photos. I was too busy watching this being made:

Made table side, it’s a blood orange screwdriver frozen with liquid nitrogen

Here’s how the blood orange screwdriver looks when served. Yes, it’s frozen!

Next it was time for the “brunch” portion. Since we already had mimosas, then we moved to another morning favorite:

Bloody Mary made with freshly made tomato juice and celery-wasabi foam. Spicy and good!

12 tiny eggs sunny side up; huevos a la Cubana “Andy Garcia”

Eggs Benedict “New Way” with Fermin Iberico ham (above)

Olive oil pancakes with bourbon barrel-aged maple syrup and season mixed berries. Best pancakes I’ve ever had!

Tortillas de Patatas potato foam, egg 63 and caramelized onion puree

Gin and tonic with a spherical ice cube was served at some point.

We dined on the beautifully-decorated terrace overlooking La Cienega Blvd. I don’t have the details on the design.

And then we adjourned inside for high tea

There were so many goodies on this table that I finally had to step away — but not before I gobbled down caviar buns, foie gras sliders and other delicacies.

Anyone who wants to treat me for brunch at The Bazaar let me know.

There are pitfalls of being 6-foot-1, such as theater seats, flying coach, shopping for pants and anything with long sleeves, not wanting to rock a pair of 6-inch Christian Louboutins for fear of being stared at even more than usual and being hit on by diminutive men who are unable to stand on their money and see me eye to eye. And then there are the benefits: not having to torture myself in a pair of 6-inch Christian Louboutins, standing above most armpits, automatically distinguishing myself in a crowd and my newest fave benefit: two glasses of red wine a day.

For a bon vivant like me, it was music to my ears when Dr. Madaiah Revana, a Houston cardiologist and the man behind Revana Family Vineyard in Napa Valley, Alexana Winery in Oregon’s Willamette Valley and another winery in Argentina, told me that because of my height I could consume two glasses of red wine daily and not have it adversely affect my health. Take that you 5-feet women who should stick to one!

I had the pleasure of sitting next to Dr. Revana during a fabulous media dinner the other night at Belvedere, inside The Peninsula Beverly Hills. It’s a sin to nurse one glass of wine over a multi-course, fine dining experience and this group was not about to sin. We started with an amuse bouche of duck confit risotto with butternut squash, compliments of the talented Executive Chef James Overbaugh, then moved on to Dungeness crab chowder and Dungeness crab souffle (paired with the 2007 Alexana Pinot Gris) . The next course was pan roasted veal sweetbreads (paired with the 2006 Alexana Pinot Noir) followed by braised lamb shoulder and roasted lamb loin (paired with 2005 Revana Estate Cabernet Sauvignon). We finished with a plate of pistachio ice cream with strawberries, and a healthy serving of chocolate but by then no more wine was necessary.

Revana, planted in 1998, is fairly new on the wine scene  but already making news and selling out its limited production yearly. It’s no wonder why. Be sure to catch Dr. Revana discuss wine and its health benefits on the radio show I co-host, “What’s Cookin’ with the Bikini Chef Susan Irby,” on Sunday, Nov. 1 from 9:30 a.m. to 10 a.m. PT on KTLK AM 1150.

I can’t wait to visit Revana Family Vineyard in St. Helena!

If I were not already towering over everyone then I would rock these. But I already get a backache bending down to chat with short folks at gatherings when I wear two-inch heels.