Only in LA

That’s right. I just voted two streets up, in my neighbors garage. Last time I voted in the furniture store down the block, and before that in a 6$ per head hair salon. It feels sorta backwards for a big city like LA.

As a kid in Texas I remember my parents voting at a school. I tagged along and felt pretty cool. There were lots of people, signs and all kinds of activity, it was the happenin place. This morning, not so much. 

Waiting on their sidewalk in line felt like I was in a small town, with a very hip community. Who lived inside and where were the refreshments I wondered. And I’m sure it was all on the up and up. Cause after voting, the pretty little ballots were all shoved into a giant tupperware bowl thing.

What happens next, only Oprah knows.

I run by this cute house all the time and now it’s for sale. I’ve accepted the sad reality that I can’t afford to buy in my neighborhood. Shit, none of my friends can afford to buy in my neighborhood. But I was curious and it’s actually a bargain at only $995,000. Crazy right. Two bedrooms, one bath, 1000 square feet in a great location right across from a pocket park. 

This is what a million bucks gets you in Santa Monica. Well, this is what a million bucks gets someone else. I prefer something smaller and crappier anyway.

Once upon a time I had a date with the guy that created Thirtysomething. The genius behind some of my all time favorite shows – I cried when that went off the air – thinks I’m funny. He was almost 20 years older than me, I was too flattered to notice.

Forget love, I wanted to talk about his work.

He was polite, but surely disappointed. I was silly and talkative. I was wearing jeans from the Gap, hoping my cute hair might do the rest. There were lots of good stories from him and yes yes yes, I let him know how much his shows meant to me. I even (insert gasp of shame here) mentioned a specific episode of My So Called Life that I practically knew by heart. He gave lots of credit to his great writer Winnie, who he said had a vivid imagination and a way with details. HELLO Mister TV Man. That’s me.

The audition wasn’t going well. In the back of my mind I hoped he would want me, for a job. But no, he didn’t even want me for a second drink.

Mr mid-life crisis in gold chains pulls up to the repair shop in his Honda S2000. It’s the color of cheap mustard. Ick. Why do they even make cars in that color? I feel bad for his wife, mistress, girlfriend, one night stand, all of them.

Now I have a craving for corn dogs. I really want to tell him he looks like a huge weiner in that tiny clown car. And he actually tells the repair guy “I love it, and so does everyone else”

Dear Weiner,

Everyone else is lying.

Living in LA did take some getting used to. I’m pretty sure I used to be nicer. Just another girl from Austin, I moved here 13 years ago. It was 1995 and I swore to never own these 3 tools of the devil: a black leather jacket, a cel phone, a car alarm. My second year I really needed the jacket. And the phone. But steal my Honda, see if I care.

Here’s my list I like to call Hey Dumbass, WELCOME TO LA:

Grow bigger boobs. Or install fake ones.

Tan is better.

Excess weight is acceptable only for tourists.

Grey hair? What grey hair.

Teeth were made to be white.

The newer your iPhone/car/husband the better.

An RSVP yes, only means maybe.

Enjoy that martini, it was 23$.

The weather is either sunny or fucking sunny again.

Flaky is the new black.

Share personal information with everyone: your rent, your mortgage, your unresolved childhood issues.

Have a therapist, or talk like you do. (see above)

Some days I really wonder why I live here? My boobs are just normal sized and I enjoy sunscreen. But wait, there’s plenty of reasons I live here. And lucky for me I’ve made lots of friends like me, totally inadequate by LA standards.