It was Joe the actor, not football player

My trip to New York this week reminded me of just how hard life was when I lived there. From dodging sidewalk grates so my heels don't get caught, to hailing cabs just when they go off duty (and juggling various shopping bags, my coat, an umbrella and a pocketbook while doing so), to dealing with the personalities that color the city, like the lazy Kinko's employee I fought with or the cab driver who smelled like he hadn't washed his hair in a week. Did I really live there?

I'm not trying to paint LA like a total Pleasantville (although it kind of is). But boy have I gotten used to the temperate weather, my solitary morning commute, the quiet of the streets, the smiles of the passers-by. The way the Starbucks guy knows my order every morning, and asks where I've been if he doesn't see me for a day or two. The fact that there are flowers blooming in my front yard right now (that's right, I said yard). In New York I was constantly some shade of angry, frustrated, annoyed, worried. Here, I am, for the most part, pretty even keeled.

But my friends are there. My family is close to there. I just want to pick everyone up and move them out here. Because I really don't want to leave, but I don't have any particular reason to stay, either.