My first home as a grown up was so bitchin. It just was. The location was movie set worthy. Right on the Strand, same beachfront as the Santa Monica Pier just steps away. The little funky bungalows and homes were an art colony. We were all actors, musicians and, okay, one sweet guy was our local postman. I lived there with my boyfriend and my beloved, fat Siamese cat Cosmo.
When the boyfriend was either at work or school, I would crank the heat way up, shut all the windows and fall into a near coma of sleep. It’s a miracle I survived and didn’t succumb to carbon monoxide poisoning. Cosmo would get hungry while I slept and feed himself; not an easy task because he had to climb up on a shelf, knock the box down, pull out an individually wrapped bag, open it with his teeth, then paw out each piece of dry food. He was very respectful of my sleep, never waking me up.
On many of these days, I feel like my life might have been saved by my friend Peter. He would come wake me up around noon so we could head over to our favorite little Mexican place on Pico — Campos (for taquitos). These were the days that I never ate breakfast and went straight to lunch upon waking.