Lately I’ve been frustrated with how expensive it is to live in Los Angeles. Even a moderate middle class lifestyle is difficult to maintain out here. And, hey, I may want to get Botox soon and that shit ain’t cheap. Sometimes I have these fantasies of just getting the hell out. Selling the house for an okay profit, relocating somewhere lush with greenery, building a lake house and living a peaceful small town existance.
A close mom friend (we met in Target when the babes were ten-weeks-old)who has a chic Hollywood job is cashing it all in to move across the country to some state that starts with the letter A where she can smash her Blackberry, spend time with her daughter and let her husband run an electrical company. I’m jealous. But I can’t do it. First and foremost, no one is going to be impressed with my resume of working on shitty reality shows in Alabama. The folks in Arkansas won’t care that I wrote “the funny” on Show Me the Funny. No one in Alaska has probably even seen Blind Date or the two Chuck Woolery hosted seasons of the All New Dating Game. And who am I fooling? I couldn’t pull a Men in Trees and move to Alaska anyway. I wouldn’t last ten minutes in a state with cold weather. I don’t even own a parka. In fact, I’m almost certain I’ve never spoken the word parka out loud. I freely admit I’m a weather wuss. Not too mention the lack of consistant sunlight would be hell on my S.A.D. I spend enough on anti-depressants as it is. I’m not a big seasons whore either. I’m not interested in scraping my car windows in the winter, raking the lawn in the fall or shoring up the roads for hurricane season. Yes, there are earthquakes here. I’m aware of that fact I just try not to think about it.
As far as my husband goes, he’d love to move for the sake of raising our daughter somewhere safe, clean and quiet but he has no electrical skills to speak of. So he won’t be running an electrical company – he could produce a documentary film about one but I’m not sure the broad appeal of that.
So, the other day I was in a toy store with my daughter trying to burn off the morning and I started thinking that maybe I could work in a store in my new lush green, seasonless fantasy state I’d be moving to. Wouldn’t it be nice to just have no drama for a few years? Hang out behind the counter of a little bookstore, greeting customers by their first names. Sure, minimum wage is a kizz-unt but that’s just the trade off. That’s when I overheard this conversation between the only two employees in the store:
Slightly Grumpy With Big Hair and Bigger Glasses: I just don’t see why Clint has me doing the puzzle section. It’s ridiculous. He was supposed to do it himself but he clearly just doesn’t feel like it and thinks he can put it off on me because he has seniority.
Navy Blue and Red plaid Teddy Bear Sweater: Well I had to work overtime three days straight because he couldn’t get the books to balance. I don’t see why he doesn’t do it on the computer. My seven-year-old grandson could figure it out on the computer. Last week the trains never came in, he blamed ME. Of course, he just forgot to order them. I swear if I knew I wouldn’t have to resort to eating dog food the second my social security check was a day late, I’d quit this hell hole in a heartbeat.
Okay, the last sentence was added in my mind because I was thinking, it’s all the same wherever you go.
Except in some other A states there are a lot more Republicans and my husband might punch one and get us 86’d from Arkansas. So we may as well stay put.