My LA residency is now legit. I have the unpaid parking tickets to prove it.

After three months of free tenancy on sister's almost comfortable couch, I am the proud renter of my own place. Of course, I am not eternally grateful for sister kicking my butt to move to California and sleep rent free in her bitchin' pad. Plus, I got total bragging rights for living in Venice. Yes, it is as bohemian, grimy and riddled with celebrities as you might have imagined.

Through spectacular planetary alignment I found the lovely Fraser to move-in with. She is a bubbly, vivacious Aries who enjoys our 15 minute walk to get to the beach. The quiet little neighborhood has just been hit with an exponentially higher cute factor.

The streets are lined with towering, full trees and quaint houses covered in vines. Sounds of the neighbor’s wind chimes fill the apartment on certain nights. Couldn't be more pleased with the near full sunset is visible from our back porch.

Unless maybe we were living upstairs.

Our cozy two-bedroom apartment has a retro feel, lots of natural light and hard wood floors throughout. Although I have yet to find a bed, the air mattress will do as long as I have the freedom to put my stuff wherever I want and have boys over. Take that big sister.

The shower does sound like the furies are going to come flying out of it every time you turn it on. The first time I heard the wailing I crouched to cover my vitals and looked for any flying banshees that have entered the room. We’re working on it.

Out back there is a lovely courtyard with multiple plant arrangements. The light is perfect for all the veggies, herbs and succulents that I want to plant. So far my arrangement consists of a cactus brought as a housewarming gift from Michigan (thank you Ben), an adorable unidentified

succulent and some collected pieces of ice plant that Sarah brought back from our trip to Pismo Beach.

Fraser, I promise I didn’t know that the tenacious ice plant is ravaging the wilds of coastal California. We just thought it looked neat.

Said plants have also started a covert battle with one of the neighbors. I keep putting them on the ledge, so we can see their beauty from the window. It makes me smile.

Someone who does not share this sentiment keeps

moving the pots onto the ground. This has now happened multiple times.

When the pots are on the ground, I can’t see them until I walk to the ledge of the porch. This defeats the purpose, so I move them back. Sneaky neighbors.

I blame the cantankerous guy who lives upstairs. I can’t remember his name so let’s call him Darryl. He gets so agitated by our boisterous talking that he stomps on the floor.

Pause for ridiculous laughter.

I am going to invest in a special broom so that I can communicate back to him by knocking the handle on the ceiling. Call it a battle of wills between floors. Our hopes for a real-life recreation of Friends is finally being realized (true Friends fans will remember the cranky downstairs neighbor who for some reason always wore a robe).

Maybe the next time he stomps, I will rush upstairs in apparent fright. When he answers I will look him up and down. Then ask if he’s alright because I heard what sounded like a fall, which may have resulted in injury. Upon explanation I will politely request that he refrains from stomping about as we enjoy a calm environment.

He does however seem to be building an ark by day. The clanking from above can only be made by the heavy machinery he sporadically drops on the floor. He may also be loading the ark full of bowling balls.

Being the understanding neighbor I am, I haven’t brought it up.

The apartment is still pretty empty, not for the lack of yard sailing and curb cruising. Anyone in LA County that has a box spring, bed frame, side table, lamp of any kind or coffee table, let me know. I’m not picky.

At least we don’t have to entertain by sitting on the floor picnic style like I did for NYE. Fraser’s mom gave us a couch and beautiful kitchen table to use.

Best. Roommate. Ever.

Especially if she remembers to turn the lights off when leaves a room. Ahem.

New ways to interrogate and identify with friends, family or perfect strangers

Are you tired of the doll-drum of generic meet and greets or family gatherings? Want to connect with the in-laws or vague family friends without having to rehash their trip to Istanbul for the umpteenth time?

After another hectic holiday season I incorporated a new line of question and answer to entertain not only myself, but avoid divulging too much personal information to perfect strangers. Just because you are genetically related to someone I hang out with does not give you liberty to analyze my career choices.

Maybe I found my passion waiting tables and cleaning-up after ungrateful rich children.

For the record, albeit I was born and raised in the fine state of Michigan, I do not care about any Ohio State versus Michigan State and/or the University of Michigan rivalries. I don’t follow sports, especially American football. Any attempt to incite a competitive reaction is made further moot by the fact that I now live in LA.

Besides, everyone knows that Ohio is Michigan’s sewage drain. As eloquently put by dear Aunt Marge, Those commie bastards.

Thus, I turn the tables onto my counter-part and ask what are their favorite albums of all time. This is similar to the desert island list or the "best music of the year" questions. This is specific to albums, not just artists which presents an interesting challenge.

Respondents are not allowed to pick greatest hit albums that conglomerate every single that an artist releases. Even compilations are a cop-out in my book, but can be admitted with enough conviction and fervor. In a day and age where MP3s are downloaded faster than artists can release music, this question is best made for people over the age of 15.

The real fun of the game is to learn about personal music taste. The answers are just that, personal lists about how certain albums by amazing artists influence someone you know. There are no right or wrong answers. Although disagreements, discussions and modifications are encouraged.

And yes, you only get five.

No matter how many people rave over the White Album or Abbey Road, my unapologetic favorite Beatles album is Sgt. Pepper and the Lonely Hearts Club Band. My affection is founded due to the cohesive nature of the album like a well orchestrated narrative. Yet, it is the opposite reason with the varied, dissimilar narratives that attract White album aficionados.

My list has been modified over time after hearing amazing lists with artists I had little to no exposure to or had plum forgotten. Jeff Buckley has made a fierce comeback on my playlists. David Bowie masterpieces and Demon Days by the Gorillaz have been rotated on and off my list depending on my mood that day.

Response times are always an intriguing indicator. Musicians seem to be able to throw out a list with rapid fire. Others widen their gaze and tell me how they are going to have to get back to me. Either response is legitimate.
Rapid fire is more fun though.

So here is my list in no particular order:
Disc I- Led Zeppelin
Hunky Dory- David Bowie
Sgt. Pepper and the Lonely Hearts Club Band- The Beatles
The Miseducation of Lauryn Hill-Lauren Hill
Wincing the Night Away- The Shins

Deny what you will this is my list. David Bowie is part of my childhood so it pains me to pick just one. The Rise and Fall of Ziggy Stardust often appears on my list instead. Disc II by Zeppelin is amazing throughout, but the nostalgic connotations with Disc I is too hard for me to part with. A Night at the Opera by Queen tries to sneak in, but I just can’t commit.

I lied about the order, Wincing the Night Away is my top album of all time. No explanation required.

Now it’s your turn. What’s your top five?

I would never kick this puppy

Sent from my Verizon Wireless BlackBerry

Despite what might have been said, Gladys, I would only smother this puppy with love and kisses.

Next time I feel the need to punish my body and cry blood I will let you know

Spin was a bad choice. Punishing my body perched on a metal bike while attempting not to black-out is not my idea of a rewarding morning.

It is however sister's new past time. She wakes up at the crack of dawn to get in her exercise before work. She is kind enough to invite me every time.

This is a motivation that can not be aroused in my personal being. We have completely different exercise styles, which is not an issue for me. I go to yoga every week to lengthen, strengthen and be part of a community. She can hustle into the dark of morning and strap herself to a hard bike seat all she wants.

I decided spin at 10 a.m. was doable. Not sure why I thought a time change would make all the difference. Trying to push forward with "climb a hill" resistance still makes my heart want to explode just as much at 10 as it does at seven in the morning.

Dustin the spiky-haired spin teacher helped me adjust my bike as a first timer. He explained the general description of the work-out with a microphone already strapped to his face. I tried to look more informed and prepared than the other new girl next to me.

The bikes are cramped into a small concrete room facing a wall of mirrors. That way we can watch the pounds shed and the blood pour off our thick thighs. This adds the bonus of being able to watch the chunky girl in the corner sweat and feel immensely better about your own form.

Some skinny chick with Rambo arms glared at me from across the room. Not sure if she hated my sweatband or her life for coming to spin class.

Never thought I would ever be so motivated by a Ray J club mix. Dustin seemed extra pumped when the Mylie Cyrus remix and mouthed the words while he told us to "tap it up."

I started to hate him from deep within my burning core.

I tried to find the woman who kept woohooing upon every increase in resistance to give a death stare in the mirror. Instead I found the chunky girl again and we exchanged a mutual look of fear. It's the exerciser's friendly hello.

Tunnel vision brought the exits into focus. No way to sneak out and avoid a complete fail.

For all the times I complained as we moved from Warrior two into a twisted airplane, I repent. Yoga may cause my muscles to be weak and my knee to shake like a jackhammer, but it's nothing a bowl of great noodles can't solve.

By the time I could drown-out Dustin's voice and pedal to the rhythm of beat, the class was over.

I applauded myself for surviving and whispered threats to sister about taking her to see Bryan Kest at Wednesday night yoga. I almost fell asleep mid-step after his last class. I was on the stairs, so luckily that didn’t happen.

At home in the shower, I found a drinking glass I left full of a clear tea tree oil treatment. The glass had a lipstick mark on the rim. I almost slipped on my head from hysterical laughter. Sister does not want to know what I used that for.

Guess we can call it even.

I found the spot. I dreamt Carter was there and Sara and Bryan and Phillip, too.

A comfortable coffee/tea shop is to the writer what the perfect gym is to the health nut or the home bar to the chronic drinker. It’s the home where they don’t make you clean-up after yourself.

Still without an apartment to call my own, finding a spot that I can gather my ramblings and organize my thoughts is crucial.

In most cafes in the area the fight for an outlet or table space is a match to the death. I’m still seething about the owners painstakingly covering the outlets at the Intelligensia on Abbot Kinney. They really just don’t want people hanging around.

I do understand a bit after I almost punched a lady for hogging two outlets leaving me high and dry. Before the rage rose to scene causing levels, I left without saying a word. The heat waves coming off my head must have been visible to everyone in my path.

Named after the location, 212 Pier in Santa Monica however is just the place to sit and stay awhile.

The ample plugs and a free WIFI sign is a welcome view. The rows of bookshelves lining the walls do not detour visitors from grabbing a table bordering the literature. Although they are for sale, many look like they have and will be here for years to come.

Windows with peeling paint and broken hinges allow natural light to soak into the high ceilings. Precariously hung art covers the walls. Mismatched plush seats and tiled tables are scattered into a snug fit. Boys with disheveled hair and corduroy blazer discuss current topics with girls with tight jeans and flannels.

Dear Lord, The Shins just started to play. I might never leave.

I am almost transformed into my Kalamazoo workplace, The Strutt, where I was the counter girl listening to music of my choice, dolling judge on the decaf, non-fat, sugar-free lattes. There is a chunk in my heart missing without my trusted co-workers and favorite regulars.

There is even someone hammering near-by.

Right now at The Strutt I know my former boss is discussing the best way to remove the current stage and build one in the most challenging and impractical matter, tools scattered about in disregard.

In 212 Pier, I found a secluded locale on the deserted end of the loft. Not only do I have a bird’s eye view of the entrance and counter, but I found a leather office chair with a tall back. Everything in the space looks as though someone kicked it a few times.

My smoothie is fantastic made with soy, albeit not acai for they were out. The hip girl at the counter didn’t even tease me for saying it wrong. I couldn’t resist a delightful Christmas tree sugar cookie covered in sprinkles. Tis the season.

Now time for the real work. Let’s just hope the meter maid ignores the time limit for my ill-parked car. This might take a while.

Why must you mock me with your witty marketing and specifically designed font?

Stick a fork in me. I officially don't want to have to look at any more apartments to call me own. When the reports say this is a buyers/renters market this is no joke.

Trying to find an apartment to rent in Los Angeles right now is like trying to find a date in a sex-addicts support group. You score every time.

It's a free for all out here.

For now I will settle for a view.

For every listing that I find there are at least three or four signs posted along the way. I can afford to be picky even though I can't afford to pay the bloated housing prices of yore. The gravitational pull towards to ocean is a draw on the 'ol purse strings, if you know what I mean.

Refusing to settle is downright gluttonous. I can't even chose between detailed menu items or an extensive beer list, let alone a smorgasbord of housing units.

"More hardwood floors please and extra closet space if you have it. Oh, and definitely go easy on the security deposit, they never sit quite well with me."

This search is becoming an obsession. As a Scorpio, I need to be able to find security and comfort within my living quarters. This is an vendetta to find the perfect space for two, albiet tiring.

Two is the perfect number as it turns out. Listings are being thrown at us. Not only do I get to live with a rad chick who boasts a near complete wardrobe, but we get to save loads of money compared to the single chumps living in a closet.

Although I did almost sell my soul for a "two bedroom," or shall we say a glorified hotel room with a stow-away, for the closest I will get to an ocean-view for many years to come.

Somewhere my sanity is out there. Despite severe repulsion to haggling paired with an inability to commit, we will find a place to rest our weary heads. Persistence, my friends is key.

Thinking about what I will do once I strap myself into a lease without any furniture or plans for the future almost made me vomit in the middle of Anthropologie today.

Surrounded by a gaggle of stoneware mugs, clever wall hangings and decorative cutlery I realized that I couldn't afford to furnish the humble abode that I so dearly sought after. Curses.

Once I get the place, I can then agonize over each piece of furniture that enters the threshold. Since I don't anticipate any financial benefactors any time soon, the place will probably be complete by the time we move out. Eight months seems about right.

What's wrong with shacking-up with an air mattress for a while? I can create a nest in the corner with old newspaper and use cardboard for warm. I'll just wear an extra pair of socks to bed.

One thing at a time people, one thing at a time.