Los Angeles Day 5- Where Do the Poor Live?

Los Angeles Poor

I am in awe at the wealth in Los Angeles and the surrounding area. The number of porches we’ve seen must be no less than 50. We’ve seen several Bentleys, Lotus and Mercedes-Benz. I don’t think I saw my car the entire time I was here as it’s probably something driven only by the housekeeper of the housekeeper.

I was curious at the house prices as we passed so many adorable bungalows. $1.2 million, $935,000 and if you were in the mood for a project, you could purchase a 2 bedroom shit hole that a hoarder used to inhabit for the bargain price of $835,000.

“So where do the poor people live?” I asked F and his friend S that accompanied our last excursion to Malibu or as a valley girl would say “Maa-bu”. They thought for a moment.

“Thousand Oaks maybe. Sherman Oaks? The Southeast of Los Angeles?” This question obviously was a good one because it took some thought. At one point I likened L.A. to the Capital in the Hunger Games. Everyone everywhere is poor except for the stupid rich in L.A.

And even if you were middle-class here, are you dirt poor? Do you have to shop at the Salvation Army? I mean, I see so many service roles here- janitor, drivers, waitresses and maids. It just absolutely baffles me.

I’d Live Here

I’d live here but with many stipulations, including:

  • My blog would have to hit the big time or somehow I successfully publish one or all of my books. Basically enough to buy a house outright.
  • I would be able to write at home, all day long as my way of making money.
  • My husband would have to find an amazing, well-paid job.
  • It would have to be a house, not a condo and it would have to have a nice yard.

The Last Day

F and S (S is my cousin F’s friend) took us to “Maa-bu”, to experience a beautiful beach. The drive up was scenic and at one point hilarious. A young girl in the car next to us, had a parakeet on her head. Both the girl and bird acted as if this was the most normal thing ever. I however, wanted the bird to shit on her head.

At the beach, the waves crashed hard against the cliff and rocks. Because of the intensity of the water, I threatened C’s life if he even attempted to go into the water.

The CliffAfter a half hour of running from the sea-foam, S offered to take the boys up to the top of the cliff. Though it looked like other people were just one trip away from falling to their death, I knew S would look after them. This secure feeling immediately went out the window when they made it to the top of the cliff and began their shenanigans. First they waved at me, then they began to climb a rock on top of the cliff. Their next move was to break out into dancing, on the rock….on the cliff. I immediately began to lose my shit.

“Get down!” I screamed as I made dramatic hand motions for them to come down.

“I’m sure its safer than it looks F assured me,” as if he was trying to convince himself.

When I saw this,

CliffOfDeathI flipped.

“Do something!” I screamed, forgetting his name and calling him my husband.

“That’s it!” I grabbed my phone and text the 13-year-old:


I then heard his phone buzz next to me.


F picked up his phone and dialed S.

“It’s time to come down. I’m sure it’s safer than it looks but Angela is freaking out. Ok? Ok? Good.”

He hung up.

“Thank you!”

Why do children taunt death? It’s like they do it on purpose. Like bounce a ball next to a busy intersection. Or stand on the railing of a balcony, you have visions of giving way at any moment. Why? It’s like they look at something and think,

‘This looks dangerous. I’m totally doing it!’

As I type this, we are flying over Utah, about to make a connection in Denver. None of us want to come home and my boys have absolutely fallen in love with California. This sucks, I don’t want to come home! (Que adult meltdown)

Little Bird




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