For that to make sense, you have to sing it to the tune of “So This is Love” from Cinderella. And then you have to include a beat up Caddy with a custom horn blaring La Cucaracha so it’s authentic, because many of my sentences and thoughts have been punctuated by such horns, and I’m trying to give you the real experience, here.
I let those horns go, though, because you can get a real margarita and some UNREAL huevos rancheros at every restaurant for a mile (and there are about 15 of them in that square mile are), and, according to the boyfrusband, the carne asada is legit enough to make you think you’re in Tijuana (which he and all other San Deigoans call TJ, because apparently they all spent their formative years hopping the border to get drunk “legally” and watch donkey shows… please don’t google that).
The NoHo Arts district is insane. Boyfrusband loves it because it’s home to the nicest vape shop either of us has ever seen, one where you can go in and find clientele who will gladly recant stories of snorting lines with Billy Mays, rest his soul, and how Vince, the ShamWOW guy, beat up a hooker, and did you know he was still working? Unfortunately the coils needed for boy’s box mod are $25/5, and that’s more expensive than we’re used to. And money matters right now, because we’re stuck between HOLY GOD WE LIVE IN LA LET’S EAT ALL THE FOOD FROM ALL THE PLACES AND SPEND TOO MUCH TIME AT CITYWALK and ohdeargodfillingupthetruckcostsathousanddollarswehaven’tsetupinternetandhotspotonyourphonewillexplodeourbillintothehudnreds. For the record, I am TRYING to keep my use of my phone hotspot down, but if I don’t catch up on what’s happening in the world outside our studio, I will explode, and if I explode, who will make boyfrusband’s lunch for work? And decorate and unpack? And provide interesting commentary and explain that this part of LA is more fun than that part, and regale him with tales about when I lived here, only to be reminded that he’s lived in California his entire life and I was only here for a short time, and hush, because I don’t know LA like I think I do, BUT YES I DO, SHUT UP. YOU DON’T EVEN KNOW WHAT THE PUB DOWN THE STREET IS FAMOUS FOR AND I PLAYED AT THE WHISKY AND WALKED EIGHT BLOCKS TO FIND A BODEGA THAT SOLD ROLLING ROCK.
Basically, I’m a freaking blast to live with, and I never argue about anything or wax nostalgia until you literally have to stuff a sock in it or I won’t shut up. I’m the epitome of class and ladylike behavior, and I have never, EVER made ANYONE pull off the 101 because I saw what might have been a gas station while we were going 95 and I needed a Diet Coke.
Someone get the boyfrusband a medal. Or a 12-pack and a new Xbox. He’s had a hard weekend.
Until I have time to sit for more than ten seconds between unpacking, calling cable companies, and attempting yoga without bother my downstairs neighbors,