Secret Pop

Sep 23, 2001

Two girls and a Thomas Guide. That spells "adventure."

I spent the entire day combing West Hollywood for a place for me to call home. I had my mom along for the ride and for free lunch, for which she is always good. She manned the maps, and that was a mistake. But it was a mistake cheerily had, with laughter and much amusement. It was only towards the end that we both began to feel our nerves fraying and decided to make for the freeway with all due haste. But I'm skipping around a bit.

Everywhere we went, people assumed we were going to be roommates and were stunned to learn that my mom is indeed my mother. "You're so young!" "It can't be." "You look like sisters." "This girl doesn't even look like you." These are but a few of the objections that were cried at us. It's good, because my mom loves that stuff. I always believed my mom would be impervious to age or the fear of it. She's always been so lovely and energetic and almost unsettlingly youthful. But I guess even a pretty dynamo like her can take some pleasure in having everyone believe she can't be old enough to remember Nixon. Either that, or they all think I look 45, and that's a disheartening thought, so I think I shall forego having it.

I'm stuck in that dilemma between choosing the apartment that will be most comfortable with the most modern amenities and pretty carpets and nice bathroom fixtures and choosing the apartment that is a little weird but chock full of character. The only real issue weighing against the character-rich pad is that, for all its character, it manages to not have air conditioning, and that is a mighty strike against it. Maybe I'm spoiled, but I prefer to sweat on my own calendar -- not whenever the sun shines on my bedroom or the Santa Ana conditions take hold. I wonder if my priorities are misplaced.

I will really miss San Diego. In places, it is staggeringly beautiful, and the memory of that will be handily juxtaposed against my experience in the smoggy city. All the same, I may have outgrown San Diego just now. I'm due for a new port of call, and L.A. is far enough away to make it new and close enough to make it manageable -- particularly when I inevitably get a hankering for my mom's pan fried noodles or a pet of my little sister's dog. I know I will miss the casual convenience of my close proximity to everyone in my immediate family. I fear that I will miss it with great aching. I know how easy it is to take things for granted until it becomes painfully evident that you have taken them for granted to death. I'm resolute in my determination to not sqaunder anything anymore. Not time. Not money. Not affection. Not avarice. Not hollandaise sauce. Even the most benign thing is precious.

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