Fortunately I’ve got Nate and Thalia with me, one of the absolute killer benefits of having a SAHD for a partner. And thanks for your concern, but no, I’m not in the same scary hotel as my stay a few weeks ago.
This time we’re in a long-term corporate apartment that’s not too bad. While it does feel a little retirement community-ish and I’m totally freaked out by the wall-to-wall carpet as all New Yorkers are genetically programmed to be, it does have a gigunda swimming pool that had Thalia squeaking and jumping up and down the moment she saw it. Followed by whining and crying and sobbing the word “swimming!” over and over the moment we kept walking past it.
Swimming! In February! Outside! LA does have its advantages, even if you are forced to sell your soul to obtain them.
So Nate and I are on the couch watching Seinfeld reruns, trying desperately to stay away past 8pm PST. (Update: It’s now 6:56 pm and Nate is snoring. Rats.) Our room is on the second floor, with a little concrete terrace off the window. Unfortunately, it faces the adjacent building, about 35 feet away, and looks directly at an exterior stairwell.
So here’s the thing:
For the last two hours, a middle-aged woman with a midwestern haircut (sorry midwesterners), wearing jeans and a watermelon Juicy-style sweatshirt has been walking slowly up two flights of stairs reading something in her hand, then slowly down two flights of stairs. Up…and down. Up…and down.
Never looking up.