My January Horoscope: “Plan to be home at month's end, however, for as said, the full moon January 30 will bring closure to a very important home-related topic.”

Jan 22: Our offer was accepted.

When I left Venice guy [To refresh your memory, read Beach Blanket Bingo] the very day I needed the apartment, I found it. It was a small complex of only eight apartments on La Mirada. The area had a dash of the Latino ghetto mixed with several cups of dirty Hollywood. Some days I would see white knee sock wearing gang members unloading a car in front of my house. Other days I would see a 50 year old hooker hobbling on crutches from her night job on Hollywood Blvd. There was a methadone clinic on one corner; on the other a small building that housed a Payless Shoe Store, a dry cleaner and a beauty supply shop. I lived in a melting pot on boil which conversely, made me feel invincible.

One morning a group of gang kids were blasting the base waiting for another member. I disheveled my hair, walked out in my robe and slippers, and headed straight for the car. Strangely, they all sat upright as I approached. “Guys, I’ve been up all night with my baby. Can you please turn that down?” They immediately complied and were very apologetic for waking my fake baby. Another morning at 5am one of the meth clinic security guards (I am sure that is a terrible job for a woman who had better dreams for herself in high school), left her car door open and set her stereo on full blast so she could hear the last half of a song while zipping up her official security guard slicker and finishing her menthol cigarette. It was beyond asshole. This time I didn’t pull the baby card, I pulled the gang card. I stuck a paper on her wiper that said if she can’t respect our neighborhood, we can’t respect her car. The fun was watching her paranoia as she slowly opened her door.

There was some predictability on the street. On Wednesdays the local crazy woman would unload 25 cans of wet cat food on the drive way of an abandoned home next door and all the feral cats in Hollywood came running. One particular cat, Whitey, lived around our complex. He was absolutely gorgeous, diminutive and full of chutzpa. No matter what trouble he got himself into, he greeted me every morning when I left and every night when I returned. But one night my furry chaperone didn’t show up to escort me from my car. My downstairs neighbors were a small Mexican family and the lothario dad was the apartment manager who never did a damn thing except for that day; he chopped down the tiny tree Whitey used to climb to the roof, leaving him for dead in the LA sun. As I reached my door, I heard Whitey’s scratchy mewing. I looked down the galley way and I saw him peering over the roof to get my attention. I hung myself over the edge of the railing and made a gangplank with my arms. The little shit actually tested the strength of the plank with one paw before leaping and turning his body like a question mark to get it under the roof’s overhang. As soon as he made contact with the last leg, I pulled my arms to the galley way for a landing. We both collapsed and froze for a minute. “Need a drink?” I said, wishing they made cat beer.

My other neighbor was a woman who looked like that curly blonde haired comedian from In Living Color. I mistook the resemblance for sanity and greeted her the first day she moved in saying, “well, if you ever need anything” to which she replied, “Really!?! Anything?” with an overly eager smile, wide eyes and raised eyebrows which could only mean one thing: fucking mental. She confirmed it one evening when I caught her standing in the space between my two windows, swaying from side to side in order to see into my apartment through the gaps in the blinds. I bought thick ass drapes from IKEA the next day but whenever I was home I could hear her fiddle with her keys for almost five minutes lingering outside my door in hopes that I would open it, greet her, and invite her in for a glass of wine. Then she could use my only kitchen knife to stab me forty times, put on my clothing and call my boyfriend.

My favorite character, which says a lot given his competition, was my landlord. His name was Jose Ortiz, a Spaniard who was married to a German woman named Uta. Even though he had to be over 60, he was adorably sexy. He always wore a white button down shirt, European shoes and frayed jeans, but mistakenly frayed through work which made them look like designer jeans purposely frayed by posers. Each time he stopped by, mainly to keep an eye on the land manager, he lectured me on “The American dream, Jeris….You must own a house, get married, have baby.” My fake one didn’t count apparently. “You can’t stay here with me long. You must move on.” I listened out of politeness, and out of obsession with his accent, but it never really hit home.

But, here I am now, ten years later, right where Jose wanted me to be, except for the house, almost. It seemed the more we looked at houses the more I didn’t know what I wanted. I think it is because over the past twenty years I have had many dreams that took me many places and after those dreams became reality, I dreamt again. But, never have I said, “I want a dream home” which is why I readily sacrificed that concept and lived in temporary crash pads, in shitty make shift apartments, on couches, and haven’t owned my own couch since 1993. The only reason I am tired of temporary living now is because I’d like more for my kids. Isn’t that what every parent wants? Not much, just not an air mattress on the floor, not “in storage” as the answer to the location of everything they care about, and not nights spent listening to the guy downstairs playing the same notes over and over ‘till 5:00am.

This home isn’t my dream home but our home; the place I will help build my children’s memories and the foundation from which they will pursue their dreams. Unlike my mother, I don’t really give a rat’s ass about the color of the carpet or how my living room is received by visitors. I am more concerned that I create a home base where my kids feel loved and encouraged. That way, when they take a risk to pursue the impossible, they can feel assured that the tether will pull them back to safety where they can regroup and head back out again. That is my American dream.