West side story

Thoughts on discovering the west side: That weird guy I would occasionally see in the store with the pants that have holes where there definitely shouldn't be any, isn't just the weirdo at the grocery store anymore. He's now my neighbor.

I am currently slumming it on the west side. Of course, I say this all tongue in cheek. There really isn't any place in Santa Barbara that you could consider a slum, but the block where I've been waking up is renown for being barricaded for domestic disturbances. Guns? Possibly. Knives? Most likely. Do I care? Eh...not for the next two weeks.

Anyway, back to the colorful west side...I saw some pretty interesting things tonight while getting groceries. I saw two different male employees at Ralph's sexually harrass a female employee (we're talking blatant lude gestures and ass pinching). And she wasn't exactly turning them down. This might have been interesting to watch if the guys hadn't been 20 years her senior (and looking like old truckers) and if she wasn't my age.

Ew. Is that throw-up in my mouth?

Next, I will paint a picture for you regarding the two different Ralph's stores in Santa Barbara. The one I used to go to (in the good neighborhood) has a fountain out front and underground parking. The one I went to tonight is next to a seedy liquor store and a Taco Bell. In case you want a fifth of Jack to go with your double decker burrito.

Classy.

As I proceeded through the check out line I set my little basket down on the conveyor belt and apparently in doing so ruined someone's night. Because the lady behind the counter scowled at me and then proceeded to turn my basket upside down and dump my purchases everywhere. Good thing I wasn't buying eggs!

And the conversation of the night from said Ralph's is (drum roll please):
Checker: Do you have a Ralph's card? Do you want to sign up for one?
Man: No. I only like getting credit cards.

Hey, me too!

Ode to The Little Apartment in The Big Yellow House

Tonight I came face to face with The Move. It was the first night that I actually had time to put things in boxes and thoughtfully decide which pieces would be each others moving buddy. I thought I would maybe crumble under the emotion of boxing up all my stuff (or at the very least tear up), but I was oddly calm. And the rhythm of dropping things in a box, folding the flaps together and stretching out the clear plastic tape over the top to seal up all my belongings was peaceful. It was the same feeling I have when I'm out surfing and just resting on my board in between sets, feeling the rise and fall of the waves as they make their way toward the shore.

It just felt right. And I've only had that feeling a few times in my life where a situation felt wholly and completely right. One of those times was the day I stepped into my current apartment 7 years ago. I knew I would live here for a long time before the real estate guy uttered a single word. And this apartment...well, it's been a big part of my life, much like the way a city or place is a big part of a story. This apartment, with its ridiculous idiosyncrasies, has been more important to me than the things in it. And I don't know that I truly realized that until tonight. It wasn't the stuff that tugged on my heart strings; it was the room that held it all.

Looking back, there has been more activity in this room than a metro station. I've had good news and bad news delivered to me here, mistakes and accomplishments made, survived earthquakes and had plenty of crazy times and good times in this room. I've had good neighbors, bad neighbors, weird neighbors and the sound of sirens surrounding this place non-stop. I've cried in this room more times than I can count and laughed more times than I've cried. And it seems so silly to be all mishugina over a room! Four walls, a few windows and a roof. But I've lived life in this place.

I grew up here.