Just last week I wrote a “KateInLA” blog post about neighbors — the concept of neighbors, really, and how that idea presents itself in my world. You see, I used to absolutely loathe the idea — plainly the thought of people who lived next door that I would actually have to interact with. Yuk. In my smug, arrogant world it just seemed so weird. Weren’t they all spies, anyway?
Well, I guess we should start at the beginning.
A day or so after I moved into my house in what the Internet ad defined as the “Architectural District” of Santa Monica, I got a little frightened. What had I possibly been thinking? Moving to LA? Question: Why didn’t it seem like such a shocking idea at the time? Moving 3,000 thousand miles at the ripe old age of 40? Had I gone mad? Perhaps.
OK. Kate. Buck up! You moved to Santa Monica. Let’s make it work.
Camera pans forward 72 hours. I find myself pacing up and down the sidewalk in my olive-green cargo shorts, Ugg clogs, Mickey Mouse tie-dye T-shirt and a bad funckin’ attitude. As I shouted into my mobile at a customer service rep from the local high-speed Internet company (to no avail, by the way), I heard a pit bull bark and looked up to see my neighbor from eight doors down, Bonnie.
The pit bull I heard was Ricky’s, from across the street. Baby had had 13 pups the night prior. Bonnie, on the other hand, was clutching the hand of her youngest son, Elijah. She smiled and offered me a seltzer infused with lemon. As I sunk down — squatting, actually — onto the bricks of my stoop, I saw Bonnie and Elijah, backlit by the afternoon sun.
I remember thinking at the time that she looked like an angel. I later found that out to be true …
TO BE CONTINUED …