Just touched down on the home soil of angels…only there wasn’t exactly a choir singing praises as we trundled home in our mini-van cab.
Where you go?
That’s right, we live in a relatively nondescript section of LA. I have grand plans for its future, but in the meantime, someone’s building a LOWES. Okay.
I’m home after two long weekends away – first in the hinterlands of Utah and the eye-rubbing gorgeousness of the Sundance Resort, and most recently, the the equally beautiful, if completely different aesthetic of the Bay Area. NorCal. To see two lovely individuals wed. There was a plethora of good times and giant cupcakes.
But now we’re home, in our tidy little place, and I’m feeling a bit of what I’m going to call adrena-angst. Heroin-laced ennui. Fun and exciting for a split-second, and then – GONG. Gotta DO something! Gotta memorize these lines! And then those ones! Make pizza! Eat it! Empty the suitcases! Scoop the litterbox!
I’m chomping the last of our self-appointed airplane snacks (Virgin Atlantic, for all of its groovy lighting, charges for EVERYTHING) and whinging as the cool, golden breeze lifts the curtains. It’s the post-travel blues, I guess. Back to reality, to my checking account balance, and all the obligations of everyday life. I imagine I’ll steer my little car of self-pity back onto the track soon, but in the meantime, I’m chewing dried peaches and delivering DiGiorno to myself. Olivia eyes me balefully. Yeah, yeah, YOU want to go on vacation. So pack your little cat bags and go. Take the extra set of keys and keep your money close to your cat body. Check in every once in a while.
For all its glaring faults, I’m always happy to come home to LA. If you’re like me and you spent your first year here hating it with the passion of a thousand fiery suns, when it finally dawns on you that you dig the town, you’re pretty defensive of it. Does where I live possess the chlorophyll-laden air of the Utah mountains? No. Does where I live contain a vibrant urban center with a usable subway system? Not quite. But here are the things I’ve come to love. Here are the people I call my family. Here are the foods I fantasize about, the work that delights me, the art that makes me want to smack those who say LA is devoid of culture, of humanity. Because after you live in a city long enough, you really have only yourself to blame if you find those things lacking.
Sally forth, brave soul. Eat some pizza, and then get ‘er done.