The other night, over gourmet cheeseburgers with another thirty-something couple, the huz and I discussed whether kids necessarily equate moving to a suburban bungalow with a yard to host jumpy gym parties—not that we can afford to do those slightly anxiety inducing things. The dream, of course, is a little abode in the hills of Silver Lake or Los Feliz with our urban sensibilities intact. But lately we’ve seen quite a few couples schlepping it to the burbs harnessed with Baby Bjorns, never to return through LA gridlock. In recent years, I’ve seriously renegotiated my ideas about being tied down. I am hitched, after all, and probably en route to barefoot and pregnant. But at the moment Robbie and I are of the (possibly delusional) mind that we won’t have to sacrifice our last shred of cool for space. We’ll simply renovate an affordable dump and take the kids with us to shoot films in Africa. But as Angelinos who aren’t millionaires, I fear we may be headed for Sherman Oaks and jobs at the bank. Time to start playing the lotto and put away the new films from Erika Lust I’ve discovered (sorry, Mum, TMI).