Bob the Hermit Crab

A rainy-day trip to Wings on Newport (amuse the outta-town guests — Seattle/Pasadena — with some local O.B. color), my oldest granddaughter approaches with an obscenely blue shell embellished with a garish Tweety Bird. “Grammy, can I get this hermit crab? I will pay with my own money! He can live at your house, here in San ­Diego!”

No! Of course I say “no.” A common character defect: I open my mouth before engaging my brain. What the hell would I want with a hermit crab? But I look at this kid — almost a teenager, on the verge of real babe-hood — and me, now 100 miles away. The lightbulb flashes: We can keep in touch; we can email about the crab soon to be known as “Bob.” So…okay, you can get him, but ditch that blue shell for a “real” one. She does, and on that rainy day, bobthehermitcrab leaves the edgy, gritty splendor that is Ocean Beach and comes to the strip-mall/tract-house haven that is ­Clairemont.

When I moved here earlier this year I wanted to live in O.B. or maybe Point Loma. Clairemont just ­wasn’t parta the plan, but houses in O.B./Point Loma were trashy or scary or too small or too expensive or not receptive to the 100-pound dog that shares housing with me (and now Bob!). So here we are in Clairemont in a condo — too good to be true. And Clairemont, well, it just is not all that ­bad.

I grew up in a waterfront town east of Seattle. Bill Gates et al. have turned that small haven into an art gallery–

infested chichi wonderland, and you need to drive to a town ten miles away to buy socks or underwear. In Clairemont, commerce that sustains real life is all around us, everywhere. I have never seen so many everyday-life stores all practically within walking distance. And the people — they are all smiling! In the Vons, the pet store, the key place — all are smiling. I know all the guys in Home Depot from helpful and happy encounters. I can see the sunset from my dining room, the bay view is a two-minute drive… and the off-leash park? Where else could there be an off-leash park with an almost 200-degree ocean/bay/skyline view like ­Cadman?

My neighbors in this tiny complex all seem to know each other, look out for each other, notice cars and wanderers that do not belong, and actually approach with a “Do you live here? May I help you?” I was welcomed with goodies. I awoke on ­Valentine’s Day to find a little bag of heart-shaped candies on my doorknob, and everything I want, everything I need is less than eight miles in any direction. La Jolla in the morning, downtown in the afternoon, Sunset Cliffs at sunset — all easy drives. And then back to Clairemont, safe and comfortable by a real fire with the big dog, bobthehermitcrab, and another email from the kid detailing the website she has set up for the care and nurturing of Bob (one section: “Bob the crab in puberty” — she adds, “if he lives that long”) and how we can blog each other re: his ­progress.

From a six-figure corporate controller to a cyberspace grammy in the suburbs — I rush too quickly to judgment. Clairemont is teaching me once again to remember the ­Stones’ profound epiphany: We may not always get what we want, but in Clairemont I just ended up getting everything I need, and I like that. Clairemont is not just ­Bob’s but my new neighborhood, too, where I am cherishing the lesson that somehow took a junk-store hermit crab and the friendly, happy, down-to-earth folks in Clairemont to help me ­see.