Apologies for the light posting. Since Monday, Leigh Ann and I have been traipsing through Greater Los Angeles trying to find somewhere suitable for Nate’s first few years. (For why our current apartment sucks, click here.) At this point, we’ve got it narrowed down to two places, both with something in common: they’re in the valley.
For those of you not familiar with California, “the valley” is the San Fernando Valley, a 260 square mile flatland bordered by 6 different mountain ranges. It’s where you end up if you walk up past the Hollywood sign and fall down the other side. I kid you not, that’s the way it’s regarded around here. You know that “farm” your parents told you your Golden Retriever was going to when he got real sick that one time? Well, that’s the valley. Where coolness goes to die.
Lucky for us, our coolness is already dead. We wear three-day-old clothes, for God’s sake, and smell vaguely of milk. But we’re about to get duly rewarded. With hardwood floors. A second bedroom. A den. Two and a half baths. A fireplace. A private patio. Granite counter tops. And a washer & dryer. All for the same price we’re paying in Weho.
As J. Alfred Prufrock almost said:
I grow old . . .
I shall move to the valley, oh!