Welcome to Los Angeles

Yesterday I got on the plane and headed out to LA with the parts of my life that could fit in two stuffed suitcases and a carry-on book bag. (My build-a-puppy Wallace made the cut; underwear did not.) I had this really awesome plan to only sleep one hour before heading to the airport so that I could sleep through most of my 4.5 hour flight. It didn't work. The 4.5 hour flight stretched out to a 5 hour flight, made worse by the fact that a Martin Lawrence flick was selected as our in-flight movie. (I did not have my headphones in, but even without sound I could tell Raven TOTALLY carried the movie.)

About three hours into the flight I pretend to go to the bathroom so that my legs don't atrophy. I return to my seat and pass the time watching CW sitcoms while praying that we crash on an island inhabited by Matthew Fox and Emilie de Ravin, who thankfully are not related in real life. (It would be hot, and you know it.)

I land, my awesome friend whom I owe about 1 million favors picks me up, we eat, I buy underwear at Walmart, and we head to our super-secret celebrity sighting spot. I decide that my first "resident of LA" sighting will be indicative of the year I am going to have - an omen, if you will. I search desperately, and finally see a recognizable face, but do not immediately remember from where. Once I remember, I realize it would have been more exciting to see him 10 years ago when he was relevant. Interpretation: My year = not noteworthy. Which pretty much reflects what it always has been. Sigh.

Anyway, directly after I reunite with a friend I haven't seen in a year and we eat ridiculous amounts of dead cow with dead pig. Quite delicious.

I still can't believe I'm actually in Los Angeles, and that I'm actually here to live and get a job and buy groceries on a weekly basis. To me, this is still a visit. And yet, my bank account is rudely reminding me that the honeymoon is about to end. Yikes. Welcome to LA!