I moved in with Ervin in June. And this is our new place in Hollywood. I want to be like one of those bloggin’istas that posts some adorable sneak peak, that makes you immediately Google your brains out, to find every last on-trend item for your very own.
But this is not that apartment. And I’m so not that girl.
It will probably make you appreciate your actual home mortgage, even more. (My GOD I have never been so grateful for this dishwasher in all my LIFE, you will tell your nearest pet, as you sashay through a dining room that’s only for the nice suppers, not the regular ones — just because.)
Ervin and I are currently two aspirational, broke people. Did I mention that we live in Hollywood? Whatever money’s left after rent, goes to gas.
Like, tons and tons of gas. I feel like I have earned a portion of the Middle East. Or wherever they decide the marketing behind 9/10ths of a cent.This is our front door. It is blue. Just like our apartment number. Since the porch light has no bulbs in it, this number is invisible at night. So, like… Janet – the Persian Domino’s delivery lady – can never find us. She calls and says “Pick up. Pick up. Pick up…” until we pick up and also open the door and yell our coordinates to her.
It is the best.
And this is what it looks like from the kitchen window. It’s noisy. But there’s something going on, which I like. There’s a time and place for a retreat in the desert. This is not it.
There are also hundreds of tour busses that drive by. We can always hear the tour guides’ jumbled explanation “MRRRR-MRRR-SHMRRRRR-MRR-MRRR” and then we watch a bunch of sunburned Europeans take photos of our corner.
We sip coffee and watch the activity on the street every morning, like old retired people. It is relaxing. We say things like “GOLD LAMÉ for a hike? No”, and “SOMEONE just bought a Ferrari and does NOT know how to drive it. She is DE-STROY-ING that transmission”, and “How come we didn’t start cold-brewing a long time ago – this is so good.”
Fast forward 20 years and with any luck, we’ll be the same people, looking out some window somewhere, talking about how weirded out we are that those individual-toe-sneakers are still around.
This is where we sit.
It’s also where I
work do stuff on the computer. I wanted to hang up all my shooting targets like a hobbyist assassin, but Ervin thought that might be creepy. So, there’s one, on the wall there. *(I kill by shooting the getaway vehicle first. Then I go for the hands, according to this poster.)
This is the basil plant in the window of my kitchen. It is the third life form in our apartment.
Every morning we look at each other and think:
Basil: “Will this be the day she kills me.”
Me: “Will this be the day I kill you.”
Nearby, on the counter, are a few cookbooks and one head of garlic. And ne’er the two shall meet.
I’ve always wanted a bar in my house. Like, fully stocked… artistan cocktails at any moment… booze n cheese party? What? Oh! I have everything on hand like a friggin Martha Stewart robot, but less drunk! CHEERRRRRRZ!
So, that’s still on my someday-to-do list. But this “bar” has been sentimentally assembled, actually. Except for the booze, which are missing. I don’t have a lot of possessions that mean anything (Really, who gets attached to leggings from Ross. Who.) – but these have a lil history on them.
The weird fingered vase is my MaMa’s (she’s my grandma on my Dad’s side) and I love it. The mirror was my Great Aunt Ethel’s (who had her bright red hair tied into a perfect bun, right up until the end). I’ve carried it with me everywhere I’ve lived for the past 13 years. The horse head, I bought from a guy on Santa Monica Blvd. I made him paint it black — and then I painted it gold because I got tired of the black. I got it because my Chinese sign is “Horse”, and design-wise, thankfully not “Rat”. The Puerto Rican flag is Ervin’s. And the coral-like thing is from our trip to the island.
This is where a fireplace would be. Except it’s an organ that a friend gave Ervin, and it holds up a stack of Seinfeld DVDs. It also works. I play pretend church music for my stoned neighbors at least once a week.
I’m pretty sure they like it!
You might know that I used to have a French Bulldog named Poquito. WHO was crazy and I loved him. Now, he lives with a great family in Portland, and I stalk every Frenchie I can find, in LA.
This Frenchie holds pennies. Someday we might have a whole dollar.
That’s also the art I purchased from David, the homeless man, and a picture of Audrey Hepburn in Breakfast at Tiffany’s because I like her spirit in the midst of a mess, in that movie. I feel like that here, sometimes. Except I would be eating donuts and standing outside The Dolby Theatre, lining up my reflection to look like I’m holding an Oscar.
The wardrobe is from my good friend Crystal. And it holds my secret plastic Oscar for “BEST ME”. They will totally give them out for anything these days, amiright?
SO NOW IS THE TIME when I show you my sweet walk-in closets full of Louboutins and designer dresses, ya’ll!!!
Noooo… Real beauty is on the inside. And on your teeth and skin (– Until I can afford the shoe closet and just let my teeth and skin decay as they may!). Apply your toothpaste and SPF accordingly.
I don’t know how this ended up as the grand finale photo, but… here it is.
Our bathroom.Our apartment has dimmer switches on EVERY switch. At first, we were like “What? This — we don’t need this. What good is a dimmer in the bathroo— OH. Ok. Oh, that’s nice.” I never knew how relaxing it could be to sit on the toilet at night, in low, romantic light, by myself. Because I’m not the kind of person who does bathroom business in public of any kind.
We have matches on hand, always. For guests, and mainly for us. Because we love each other. And it’s just nature. But for godssakes we don’t need to smell it.