Type Stereo.

I used to wonder why everyone in L.A. was in therapy. "Buck up, dudes," I used to think. "Just go buy a dress/DVD/series of pharmacy phancy hair care products to make yourselves feel better."

Because that's what's I do. I've heard of wives whose husbands gave them a piece of jewelry to try and redeem themselves every time they were unfaithful , and how, as a result, each bijoux had a name. I have quite a few named dresses hanging in my closet, which, I will admit, is a little weird. It's easier to wrap your mind around a ring named Deborah than a fun little swingy dress named I Hate You So Much, but whatever. The point is, it helps. And I used to think that I had all the answers and that I was so smart for finding a way to avoid uncomfortable couch time with a random stranger who's paid to care.

But, lo and behold, at this rate it's probably cheaper to just shrink it up. Disappointment in L.A. flies fast and loose and is, as a result, plus cher. 

It starts off well enough. I'm all, "I'm so angry I could punch a wall, so I'm just going to go inflict the equivalent amount of physical pain on myself: running." So I put on my stretch pants , which make me feel like a total athlete ballerina when I wear them, and set off like a CHAMP, fueled by rage. 

The problem is, now I live in an area chock full o' retail, as opposed to my previous locale, which was chock full o' wig shops that were less wig shop, more front for a drug/prostitution ring. So I run for 5 minutes, land at the mall. Oh, well.

It's my own fault.

Pas de Shabby

Oh look at that, it's Sunday morning and I've already had my cereal but would you look at that, I'm still hungry. Whatever shall I eat...

...Maybe a few of my own words?

C'est vrais. With a full week of Non-Valley Los Angeles life under my belt, I can safely say that I understand the Valley prejudice. I GET IT NOW. That shit's far away and there's nothing you can get there that you can't get on this side of the mountain. I GET IT NOW. Also, being ten minutes away from work gives me so much more time that I can even feel my fists unclenching a little bit. WHO KNEW? I realized this yesterday while I was traversing Laurel Canyon to return my old garage door opener. Enough.

The fact that this apartment was practically built with [my roombirds and] me in mind definitely doesn't hurt. I mean, yes, there are the obvious things like three perfect bedrooms that accommodate each of our individual needs, but for me it's in the details. Like, par example, our kitchen hot and cold water spouts are on backwards so C stands for hot and H stands for cold, or, as we like to say, C is for "Chaud" and H is for "How cold!". You know. Things like that.