I am taking a trip to LA next week. I leave Sunday, and I return, I think, the following Sunday.
It really snuck up on me. I didn't quite forget about it, but it was perpetually a month off. Then this week I realize, oh, March is almost here! I'm way behind on my freaking out.
I am a terrible flyer. I make frantic last minute calls from the runway with instructions on what to do with my private stuff when I die. ("Burn it! Don't let myt mother see it!")
If I forget to make that call, I will die.
If I forget to tell my mother I love her, I will die.
If I have premonitions of death, I will die.
If I think everything will be fine, that's the worst. That means I will definitley die. Don't these things always happen when you least expect them? So I better start freaking out.
Then we get to LA. We are shackled to a car. And there are Beautiful People everywhere, and I feel like a schlub. Josh's family (who I genuinely love) are Bel Air/Palisades people. They have actual Art in their homes. I miss the gritty sidewalks and regional working-class accents of home.
Don't get me wrong. There are definitly things to like. I like visiting much better than I liked living there. The house where were staying has a cute backyard with an orange tree, and I'm looking forward to letting Naomi outside to play (without having to suit up and walk to the park!) while I squeeze the juice from freshly picked oranges into my glass for breakfast. Yum.