I found this article on Yahoo yesterday titled "America's 10 Richest Zip Codes, 2011". Santa Monica is number 10. I live where people are rich? But I'm not wealthy! I demand a recount! Recount I say! I'll pay for it!
No, but really how did I get here?
I must have some terrible high stress job that I spend all my time at just to pay the bills. No, that's not true. I snuggle the most adorable baby in my arms all day and think, "If only I could get someone to pay me to do this, then I'd be set. HOLY CRAP SOMEONE DOES PAY ME!"
But they don't allow "the help" 'round these parts! Mhhhh....
I must be a drug dealer. No, that can't be. I would remember how much crack is an ounce, but currently that number escapes me.
Perhaps I'm homeless? They're always hanging out by the beach. I wash my clothes in the same laundromat as they do, I know that much. And I have been known to soil myself when the opportunity arises. But I think I know I'm not homeless by the fact that this laptop has not been traded for Skittles by now.
My parents must be rich. They must support me and my husband and our "buy-milk-by-the-gallon" lifestyle. No, no, no, I'm mistaken. As I recall my father and mother saying every night before bed as they tucked me in and kissed me on the forehead, "You are indebted to us for life."
Ah! When we got ready to move to LA we were so clueless where we were going to live, how we were going to afford to live, and where I would find a job. But we put it in God's hands and knew with faith He would provide. I think we live here because this is where God wanted us to live. ("I didn't know she was gonna get all preachy with this blog" -You.)
There really is no other explanation how us and our '99 Nissan Altima snuck in but I'm thankful we did.