YES, STRIP POKER
I can't say enough how much I love my new apartment. It's a cookie-cutter apartment in a sea of cookie-cutter apartment complexes but it's so clean and so big and so very quiet. We're on a secondary road through here and there's quite a bit of traffic but it's nowhere near as noisy as it was living on Venice Boulevard. Last night, I saw a cop roll by and was simply shocked that it didn't have lights going, horns blaring. Our perspective has really changed.
When we came up here a couple weeks ago to do job interviews we were warned about the morning commute traffic. We got on the interstate and headed into downtown. We didn't slow to less than 30 miles an hour at any time. Later, a few people asked if we hit traffic we told them that we didn't know. Was that traffic? That wasn't traffic.
Last night I had a cigarette (I know, I know -- shut up!) on our balcony (which is huge) and sipped a Black Butte Porter (there's really nothing better) and relished the feeling of aloneness. I could never feel alone in L.A. Even holed up in our crappy apartment I couldn't get away from the noise of our neighbors and the door to door solicitors. Never alone and always watching my back. It gets tiring.
I don't know what to do with this journal. I did like writing about L.A. I liked having a fall-back topic which wasn't about me and what I was doing with my life. Los Angeles is the pop-culture capital of the world and as a study of human socialization and civilization it was very interesting. Well, I find that stuff interesting, anyway.
What can I write about here? The Pacific Northwest is largely about the outdoor lifestyle -- booring. I guess I'll just see what comes along and try not to feel to guilty when I just write about me. Silly, for an online journal, I guess.
Last night was fairly boring. T. and I went to Old Navy and I spent $100. No, I did not buy drawstring anything! I'm vehemently opposed to drawstring cargo pants for adults, kids and baby. I did buy a pair of jeans, some khakies, a pair of khaki shorts to replace the ones my apartment manager stole, a checked, short-sleeve blouse and a white blouse. Pretty good for a hundred bucks, no?
T. called the apartment owner and let him know about the stealing of clothes by our manager. I think he was pretty surprised, too. He wants a letter from us documenting it in writing. I wonder what he'll do about it if anything. It's hard to figure out just what to do in that sort of situation. I'm sure if we were still living there it would be another story but with us gone... what can he do?
So, last night, after our trip to Old Navy, we came home and drank more beer. We decided to play cards and played Gin Rummy to 500. I won. I'm uncannily good at regular Gin. The first time I ever played Gin with T. I beat him something like 32 hands in a row. It was pretty awful. Spring break came within the first month that we were dating and I went with him to Tahoe with a bunch of his friends. They were all great people and we had a wonderful time but we played Gin one night until the wee hours of the morning. I beat the pants off of all of them, too.
After Gin Rummy, T. thought up the grand idea of playing poker. Strip poker. Hey, we're married, nothing risqué going on here. At first I was losing horribly. I was down to my knickers and T-shirt when I started calling 5 card stud, dueces wild. I got a run of four and then a flush and then a full house. Games of chance are obviously right up my alley. We played for what seemed like hours and by the time it passed 12:30 I was ready for someone to lose and get naked so that we could go to sleep. Well, T. lost.
Today we have all sorts of boring stuff to do. We need to go to the bank and see if we can close the account we have and open a new one at a better bank. We need to go to the gym and see if they'll set us up with free passes. It doesn't sound like they have much in the way of boxing or kick-boxing which I'll miss. I might go downtown and buy some bras and other really not-fun stuff.
There's almost nothing I hate more than bra shopping. It's such a humiliating, excruciating, tiresome chore. And why are the dressing rooms in the lingerie department always hot and messy? Gads, it's almost noon. Time to get moving.
[ less ][ more ]|
[ directory ]