Adjusting

Well, the wrecking ball has started rolling.

On Monday, a big truck came and moved my wife, son and I from our spacious (yet not spacious enough) home to a small apartment in Santa Monica. The move was relatively painless (beside needing to grease the mover), and it actually felt good to get rid of a lot of stuff that I never really needed. Hell, parking on my lawn white-trash style felt fantastic.

The new place is comfortable, the landlord is a nice man, and the location is great, but I still can't help but feel that I'm taking a step back in time, back to my 20's, when I rented apartments all over the Westside of L.A.. Perhaps it's because, when you own your own home (or condo, or apartment, or yurt, you feel responsible for everything that goes on there. In a sense, your home becomes an extension of you. But this apartment belongs to -- and will be returned to -- someone else after our palatial abode is finished. It's like a walk-up waiting room.

Meanwhile, whenever I wallow in my unwarranted well of apartment blues, I think of this picture of my son and remember that I'm luckier than most. And besides, I don't have to fix the toilet when it overflows.