I'm So Glad!

My beloved banjo teacher Charlie Tagawa always broke into a big grin and said, “I’m so glad!” whenever I told him I mastered a chord progression or other good news. 

It feels like there has not been much good news this year. I commented that I don’t feel like getting out of bed anymore and several people immediately furrowed their brow and asked “Do you need to see someone?” No. Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar. Just because I don’t feel like leaving the warm blankets and soft pillows and my mountain of bedside electronics, doesn't mean I can’t or won’t get out of bed. I’m more of a  stiff-upper-lip soldier-on kinda gal. But every bit of bad news really makes you think about the world, your immediate circle, and your own place in all of it.

I’m so glad….that Greg and I had a great time visiting my mother in New York during the holiday season. We saw the radio show Prairie Home Companion “Town Hall” live with Chris Thile, the very talented mandolin player. One of the acts was the most famous banjo player Bela Fleck who I’ve always wanted to see and yes, they did a spectacular duet with lightening fingers. Such talent!  

I’m so glad….that we enjoyed dinner at Eataly and lunch at the Porter House, not to mention Gray’s Papaya and the Lexington Candy Shop which is the oldest luncheonette in Manhattan. I played the whistle at an Irish session at the William Barnacle Tavern. They have a very welcoming small group of ladies in this tiny old speakeasy. I think I’m becoming a regular there when I’m in NY. 

I’m so glad….that I got my suitcase back after my missed connection coming back from New York. Santa Rosa is such a small airport that I had to wait around outside United’s empty little mobile office for half an hour for their staff to come back from the tarmac where they were pushing a plane for take-off. 

I’m so glad….that all my plants are doing really well! They were lovingly looked after with just the right amount of neglect both at home and at the office while I traveled. 

I’m so glad….that I had time to spend with friends and family.  Hours of talking to my mother. Days wandering NYC with Greg. Driving to Oakland to finally see Shani and Lex. And catching up with Liane who was home with the sniffles. 

I’m so glad that…I had time to catch up with my BFFs. All are doing very well. 

I’m so glad that …the 2 impatient drivers who nearly mowed me down this week missed!

Now it’s time to wrap up 2017 and get ready for 2018. If you’re Jewish, you just did that at Rosh Hashanah in September. If you’ve been touched by wildfires, you’ve thought about what really matters and if you want to make any changes to live a life of no regrets. This is the third time in 3 months that I'm taking stock and making new resolutions! I'll do it but then I want a break for a few months. You gotta give me time to actually go do the resolutions!

I’m so glad….that you are in my life and that we’ve all made it to 2018 in reasonably good shape.  Now clink those glasses!  May 2018 be a good year for all!

Microwave Thanksgiving

If the title leads you to imagine poking holes in cellophane to get to a frozen dinner with turkey, mashed potatoes and shriveled peas, you are about to be disappointed. 

This year, we followed our tummies to what we really wanted:  fondue and chocolate cake. We took the easy way:  Trader Joe’s little buckets of fondue that you zap for 5 minutes and voila, you are in heaven. They have two different kinds now. We got both. There is no clean-up. You throw away the paper bucket in the recycle bin. 

For dessert we are making 5 minute chocolate cake in a mug. This simple recipe has you make batter from scratch in a mug and zap it for 5 minutes. It’s a miracle!  Warm rich fresh chocolate cake!  We put creme fraiche on top.  

Lest you think our microwave dinner the pathetic height of laziness, let me mention that a few other things happened in our kitchen today just for fun. 

•   Liane has baked a beautiful pecan pie from scratch.
•   Marian made lentils, sautéed eggplant and made a batch of humus from scratch. 
•   Marian harvested home-grown chard and kohlrabi from the garden to prep and   bring to a dinner party on Saturday. 

Happy Thanksgiving!  Ignore convention!  

May you enjoy whatever gastronomic delights are on your table. 

Different Worlds: Catwalks, Wildfires, and Pani Puri

One minute you’re strutting down a catwalk, the next, it’s all gone up in flames. Feeling blue?  Drive an hour away and eat pani puri. 

Wait! I can explain everything!

On Friday October 6 I had the opportunity to participate in an event called Catwalk for a Cure. My company was a sponsor and there was a fundraiser lunch and a fashion show. Local companies sent employees to be the models. The event was set up in a big tent next to the Luther Burbank Center for the Arts - our local big beautiful concert venue. 

As a model, I had gone to a boutique to get fitted for an outfit. The style was boho. I pictured myself in slim pants and a cool tunic. Instead I somehow ended up in a frilly black dress with a long vest over it and too many accessories. The worst part was the hat. The stylist insisted we all wear a big hat with a big feather.  There is a reason you’ve never seen me in a big hat. The outfit aged me 10 years and I looked like an eccentric old lady.

Despite the hours of waiting around and the heat, it was fun. I got to know coworkers I’ve never met in person and enjoyed seeing the other models. There were cancer survivors and great stories. And it really was a bit thrilling to strut down a real runway with energetic music and a cheering crowd. 

Three days later it was gone - it had all burned down. 

We had gone to bed on a windy Sunday night and woke up the next morning to the alarming news that the flames had swooped down a few miles from us and hundreds of people had evacuated during the night as many homes and businesses burned down.

On Monday Oct. 9 the fires were raging out of control and there weren’t enough firefighters to help. 

The way that we got information is a marvel in itself. In an age of many so much communication and so many devices, we were really confused and not sure how to get information. 

Greg, Liane and I learned of the fires Monday morning because we had received texts and emails asking if we were OK. Some were locals who woke up earlier than we did but most were from people thousands of miles away who were in later time zones and were following the news already. 

Most of our morning was figuring out how to get very current and reliable news about our area. How would we know if and when to evacuate? You listen to local radio and it’s about another area or an update on what’s burned down. You look at fire maps online and you don’t know how current they are. You google “Sonoma County fire” and the first hits are from previous years or you can’t tell the date. 

We were all in a state of high alert the entire week. The fire came to Windsor and we could see it burning on the top of the ridge about 2 miles from us. The wind was blowing away from our direction so we were concerned but knew that the chances of the wind changing direction were small. We packed the car with the the most important practical and sentimental things and a few days of clothing and then we all drove to work because it was safer at our offices. 

We drove on the 101 freeway with burning logs along the side of the road, passing areas that were completely burned down. You all saw this in the news. 

The air was choking. We stayed indoors with the windows closed, darted to the car and kept the windows closed. We had special masks. 

The roads were empty. The sky was a strange color. 

Most businesses were closed most of the week. It was eerie. 

The week was spent tracking coworkers and friends - who lost their home, who had evacuated.

By Saturday, the next weekend, we were tired and emotionally very drained. Greg had an event in San Francisco and I was joining him for the event dinner at the Fairmont Hotel. We left home at 7:30 in the morning. The fires were now east of us - past Napa - and the sky was gray in the distance. As we drove towards the city, the sky got bluer and bluer and the air was clear. We dropped off Greg at his event and I had a few hours to roam San Francisco.

Everything was normal. It was a perfect day. Sunny and 70. Tourists. Shoppers. Beautiful stores open. Cafes. Ice cream. The cable cars clanging. My head was swimming and I was almost dizzy. 

I found myself in front of an Indian restaurant. I remembered a well written article in the New York Times just before the fire about a dish called Pani Puri. The article had made me extremely curious and I was dying to try it.  And yes, they had it, in this restaurant!  They’re little crispy round things filled with chick peas and potatoes and you pour tamarind sauce over them. 

Eating pani puri in San Francisco is another world that can make you completely forget all the horrible mess just one hour away. 

Are you OK?  That’s the common greeting here now. And the answer is the story you tell.   

Are things back to normal?  That’s the question we are asked by those far away. 

There is a new normal. 

There are large areas of devastation. 

Two co-workers next to me lost their homes, we follow their progress as they look for housing, deal with FEMA, and decide how much to contribute to the GoFundMe pages. Every day we meet new people who lost their homes - in line at the grocery store, the delivery person. At every regular activity we attend we track those in our group who are out of the area because they have no place to live or we welcome back those who lost their home, stayed with relatives an hour away, and now they found a place to stay.

Every lamppost and fence has thank-you messages to first responders. Every store has free or discounted things for those who lost homes. There are opportunities to donate everywhere. 

I know that just about everyone has experienced a disaster at some time where they live. One day you're enjoying a fun event, the next day there is a terrible event, you cope and process, then you change location and you can experience the pre-disaster routine life again. But your world has changed, even when you come through it personally unharmed. 

The Power of a Donut

Tonight we begin the Yom Kippur holiday, a day of fasting and atonement. The story of Jonah and the Whale is always told during the services. There are several speculations why we do this. The story has all the elements of personal struggle, feeling vulnerable, mercy and redemption - timeless themes to which we can all relate.

I had just started college and lived at home in New York and as always, I went to Congregation Shaare Zedek with my parents. I knew everyone but there had not been any interesting social connections for me there. There were few kids and they were all either older or younger.  Until that year – 1978 – when SG suddenly appeared and my heart raced.

SG was in my Hebrew School class in 5th grade and I had a strong crush on him. After that I lost track of him, until to my extreme delight, he ended up in the seat next to me in a lecture hall on my first day of college. Woo-hoo!  We’d be in class together all year!  And then it got even better!  His parents joined our synagogue!  Now the holidays and long services were exciting!

During Yom Kippur, there is a Yizkor service to remember the deceased. You stay inside to pray if you have lost a parent, sibling or child. Everyone else gets to go outside on break for 20 minutes.

I met SG outside. It was 11:30am and the last time I had eaten was at 6pm the night before.

“Well, I’m off to do my morning ritual,” said SG. “Want to join me?”

“What?” Where?

“Come on, follow me. We don’t have much time!”

I would have followed him anywhere so I stopped asking. We walked 7 blocks down Broadway and he stopped at Biba’s Donuts.

“You can’t go in there!  Not today!”

“Sure I can. I have a blueberry donut every day and I’m not missing it today.  I’m going to have my donut. I can buy you one if you didn’t bring any money.”

God was testing me.  Oh, the anguish!  Love! Hunger! The sweet smell of donuts and coffee. Partners in crime.

I waited outside, staring through the large glass window at all the people sitting at the counter, facing the wall of donuts in their trays, waitresses refilling coffee cups, people wiping away crumbs with little paper napkins from dispensers. SG turned towards me, looked through the window and took a huge bite stuffing half the donut in his mouth, grinning and wiping powdered sugar off his lips. The bastard consumed 2 donuts in 2 minutes and then we raced back to synagogue. 

I retell this story every year to my kids, even as adults. When tested, what do you do?  Would I have gone with SB if I had known where we were going?  Was I afraid of getting caught? Who am I betraying by eating a donut on this day?

Ultimately, we have to make decisions – sometimes in a few seconds - when the only witness is ourselves.

SG is happily married and lives with his husband in NY.

Biba’s Donuts closed decades ago and there is now a Banana Republic in its place.

Shaare Zedek is holding their last service in their magnificent sanctuary. In order to survive, the congregation sold the air rights above, the building will be torn down, condos will be built and the synagogue will occupy 3 floors in the new space. 

I think it’s time I add blueberry donuts to our family table to break the fast. For me, they became the symbol of doing the right thing.

G’mar Hatimah Tova!  May you be inscribed in the book of life! 

Rush-Hashanah

The Jewish High Holidays sneak up on me every year. 

I came back from visiting my mother in New York on Labor Day weekend. It was 110 degrees and smoky when I landed in Santa Rosa. I realized the holidays are happening in less than 3 weeks and I really ought to do something about it.  Get the cards out. Figure out logistics. Plan a menu. 

Rush-hashana has begun.  

Instead, I ate cold watermelon, unpacked and tried to catch up on the mail. 

The office roared back to life in September. The inbox that was almost normal was suddenly filled with unread messages and the desk soon covered with post-it notes. 

My closet became a mess. It was 44 degrees in the morning, 80 degrees in the afternoon but dips to 50 in the evening and I pulled out a few winter clothes. With summer and winter clothes all mixed together, it takes me half an hour to decide what to wear every morning. Too many choices. None of them work. I have nothing to wear. 

Hobbies that were on summer break are starting up again. If I don’t show up, they’ll think I dropped out. I don’t want to be a flake. I leave the pile of New Year’s cards untouched. I go to the hobbies. 

Garden work must happen before it’s too late. I spent a lot of time last weekend tending my bed at the community garden. I picked the last of my cherry tomatoes. There were tons of tiny ones left. It took hours and I had a lot of time to think. 

I thought about how it was less than 2 months ago that I wrote Cheery Note #1 to a friend who was starting chemo. Alone in her “healing cocoon” on the east coast, the only way I could think of helping her was to write a weekly cheery note with some light news as a distraction. In Cheery Note #2 I described what I had just planted and how the first tomatoes were doing. The Cheery Note series became this blog. Cheery Note #6 was the last one she would read.

As I worked, there was the sadness of losing a friend who died too young. I also reflected on the loss of Erwin, an elderly cousin in Australia who was my father's closest friend growing up and he made a big impression on me when he came to visit back in the 1960's. There was the satisfaction of growing tasty tomatoes, sharing them with my neighbors and learning how to preserve them to enjoy this winter. There was wistfulness that I was tearing out all the vines.There was anticipation and excitement of turning the soil and planting the winter vegetables. 

This season, barely begun, has already brought many changes. 

Greg and I affiliated at a local synagogue. We’re looking forward to making new friends in this community. 

Liane came home. Her plans and adventures took a different course than she had hoped. 

Shani and Lex got married in a civil ceremony in Oakland. We had a small celebration and ate a delicious wedding cake that you’d never guess was vegan. 

The Rush-Hashanah cards, calls and emails never got done. 

But we sang Avinu Malkainu with our new congregation. We threw our sins and bread crumbs into the lake at Howarth Park. We ate matzo balls, apples and maple syrup (I forgot to get honey) and lots of tomatoes. I got the brussels sprouts, chard and kohlrabi seedlings into the bed. 

I remembered a friend and a cousin who both had a twinkle in their eye. And I became a mother-in-law. 

May you be inscribed in the Book of Life.  Happy 5778!  

All vegetables are innocent. Unless you're a cucumber.

A few days ago, I checked my work email in the morning getting ready for work. Usually there are none, but here was a note from my boss at 1am that she has a bad sinus infection and is cancelling her 7am meeting. The next email had some instructions to cancel and  reschedule the rest of her day. As I scrambled to reply and send a couple of emails, someone else from the office texted with a problem that needed an immediate solution. I had to think about that one, then we had some back-and-forth texting. I had not even had coffee yet. 

I went to the kitchen to make a coffee for the road. I do a pour-over: the plastic thing with a paper filter that sits on top of your cup and you pour boiling water over the grounds.

I poured too much.

As I held the cup in my left hand and moved it, I somehow managed to spill it on the palm of my right hand.

Luckily this happened in the sink so I could immediately turn on the cold water and let it run over my hand.  After that, I iced it for a few minutes and decided to sit quietly and let myself recover from the shock and slow down. Then I drove to the office.

Gripping the steering wheel hurt. Moving my right hand hurt.

The morning passed in a busy blur and then it was lunchtime.

I went to the break room to make myself a little something to eat. I keep a few fresh vegetables to slice up but I had not refreshed my supply and the only thing left in my stash was an unappetizing semi-withered Persian cucumber.

As I reached to take it out with my right hand, I realized it made the perfect cold-pack. Gripping a cold cucumber on my burnt palm felt really soothing. 

Since we all just completed the new and improved sexual harassment training, I was keenly aware that I may be perceived as performing an inappropriate act in the work place if I walk around holding a cucumber or if I'm seen holding it at my desk. Should I show the HR ladies next to me that this is medicinal and therapeutic?  Or would the very act of showing them “I’m innocent” be considered inappropriate?  Had I chosen a bag of frozen peas, this would not be a question.

Peas are innocent. Cucumbers are lewd.

Deep Pockets

There are two things that really bother me about going to the dentist - besides the usual fear of dentists and hating the poking and cleaning. 

1) I can’t tell if I should believe them

2) I don’t like getting told how to brush my teeth and floss. 

When you go to the gynecologist, does the doctor ask “So are you properly cleaning up there?  How many times a day do you do your kegels?  Well that’s not what I’m seeing…here let me use this mirror and show you where I’m seeing signs of neglect…”

When you go to the optometrist, do they ask “Are you taking good care of your eyes?  Do you wear your sunglasses every day?  Do you sit too close to the TV?  You know that’s really bad for you.”

It is only the dentist who asks how often you brush and floss. And no matter what you say, you’ll get a lecture and instructions. 

After moving to Sonoma County a year ago, I finally signed up with a new local dentist. I decided to try very hard to go without a chip on my shoulder.

At 9:00am, a very energetic lady took me for x-rays and initiated a conversation about her new music lessons; she is learning to play the saxophone.  In between the little things they stick in your mouth between clicking the x-ray button, I provided encouraging banter about beginner saxophone practice. 

The dentist saw me after that. A very pleasant fellow. He told me that everything looked good BUT….I have an old crown that he recommends replacing and one spot with receding gums…I may want to consider a graft and he’s happy to refer me to a periodontist. I kept a poker face but my mind went into panic mode. 

Now…a bit of background:  (yes, you are going to hear about my teeth)  I have pretty good teeth. When I was a kid, the dentist suggested braces. My mother thought that was expensive nonsense. She was right. I got a husband anyway.  And I never had any of the awful dental problems that dentist predicted.  

In my 20’s and 30’s every dentist insisted I get my wisdom teeth removed. They seemed OK to me, but they warned me if I don’t have them removed by 40, it would become a REALLY BIG DEAL.  Hearing the same scary predictions from 5 different dentists, at age 40, I had them removed.  

Quite the hero, sans wisdom teeth, I expected all future dentists to say “Oh…you’ve got great teeth…no problems at all!”  But no.  The minute those wisdom teeth came out, it was “You’ve got deep pockets.  You need a deep cleaning”.  You know when they measure each gum next to each tooth to see how many mm the little pointy thing goes? They should be 3s or 4s. I have 2 spots, way in the back behind my last molars, where the pointy thing is a 7.  That’s a deep pocket. Bacteria can get in. If bacteria gets in then....and…and…and…then your head will fall off.

I’ve had 15 years of nagging to get a deep cleaning and strict instructions how to brush and clean the area near those deep pockets. I’ve heard all the threats of what will happen if I neglect this. I have never gone for a deep cleaning. 

My new dentist did not mention my deep pockets EVEN ONCE.  I asked him, didn’t you find a couple of deep pockets?  Oh yes, but they are behind your molars where your wisdom teeth were removed. Everyone has those. It’s nothing. 

So who is lying????  Who is wrong??  Who do I trust????

As I was puzzling this new news, I got my new hygienist.  Very sweet and pleasant.  And while chipping and chiseling away, she told me the entire story of moving her 86-year-old mother from Alaska to assisted living in Santa Rosa this year. While the saliva pooled under my tongue, I tried not to think about drooling or grafts or crowns and instead to be a good listener and stay present and after spitting, to make supportive remarks like 

<spit>  You did the right thing.  

<spit>  Your mother would have agreed with you on this before she had dementia.  

<spit>  You’re a good daughter.  

<spit>  Yes, I floss every day. Most days.  <smile>

<spit>  OK…I’ll brush better over there in little circles, not up and down.

<spit>  That’s got to be hardest when she doesn’t recognize you. 

<spit>  She knows you love her.

I got out of there after 2-1/2 hours, most of it practicing as an unlicensed therapist while posing as a dental patient.  

So do I worry about my crown and gums?

Do I do as my mother (who has pretty good teeth for her age) and dismiss this as expensive nonsense???

I am walking around with deep pockets. And I don't know if it matters. 

What they asked

Off the top of my head, I’ve had 40 paying jobs in my life and about 200 interviews to get them.

My latest job search was this past January in Sonoma County. Before that was a search 12 years ago.  Things have changed.

Job searching today is pretty much like internet dating on eHarmony or Match.com. Companies use algorithms and filtering software to find the resumes with the greatest number of hits that match the job posting. You want your resume to have the highest score of hits to be one of the lucky few that make it into the hiring manager’s inbox. The challenge is to fish out and repeat as many words or phrases from their job posting as you can and use them in your resume while still sounding like yourself.

Once I figured out an efficient process to do that, I started to land interviews. Like a first date, sometimes the unexpected happens.

The most memorable interviews of my work life so far have been these:

Now is the time for all good men to come to the aid of their country

When I was a new college grad and applying for my first administrative jobs, I was asked for a handwriting sample. Could I please write a short paragraph on this piece of paper?

My first thoughts were:

Punishment, write 100 times ‘I will not….’

Criminal investigation.

Sound smart!

Sentences like ‘The quick sly fox jumped over the lazy dog” and “Now is the time for all good men to come to the aid of their country’ were already part of every job application as they were measuring my typing speed.

Except that this happened in Israel and English is not the native language which made this more confusing for me. Graphology is a standard part of every single job application in Israel, even today, but I didn’t know this at my first interview there. 

So, do you play golf?

I had recently met our new 18 year old receptionist, just graduated from high school. As I introduced myself and welcomed her, the CEO and every senior executive stopped by to ask her, “See you Saturday morning? 6am tee time”. She grew up playing golf and joined the highest inner circle of the company during her first week. 

A short while later I was interviewing for the role of Investor Relations Manager at a Silicon Valley start-up.  As the interview was wrapping up, the CFO asked me, “So, do you play golf?”  

If this question comes at the end of an interview, it’s code for ‘you got the job’. 

If asked early in the interview, it’s the most important question of the entire discussion. If you want the job, you must answer Yes. Then go straight to a driving range and start to practice.

The Staring Contest

My interviewer was the CEO of Mercury Interactive, the hottest company in Silicon Valley in 2001. The CEO had resisted having an executive assistant but his staff convinced him that it was time. He ushered me into his office and I sat across from him at a small conference table. My resume was in front of him.

He folded his arms, leaned back and stared at me, without speaking. He leaned forward and began to thumb through my resume flipping the pages back and forth. He sighed loudly, leaned back and continued to stare. He looked me up and down. He squinted. Then he cycled through this process again and again.

I remained completely calm watching his intimidation act, looked him in the eye and maintained my warm-welcome-approachable look.  After a good 5 minutes, he finally asked, “Why are you here?” We talked for an hour.

I didn’t get the job. Mercury missed their numbers and had a hiring freeze. Then the CEO was accused of financial shenanigans and the company went under.

60 Questions

I got a call from American Ag Credit to set up a half hour phone interview with an HR Generalist. At the appointed time, I left my temp job to take the call and sitting in my car in the pouring rain, the HR Generalist told me that she’d be asking me 60 questions that have no right or wrong answers.

My personality test had many questions about my life beyond office hours:  

What do you think about or do when you’re driving alone in your car?

Are you a morning person or a night owl? 

I flunked my personality test. The matchmaker concluded that my potential boss and I were not compatible.

Once a nerve-wracking experience, I now love interviews. Each interview feels like going on stage to do improv like Whose Line Is It Anyway? The more off-the-wall, the better!  When I get an unprepared or inexperienced interviewer, it’s almost disappointing. Then I flip it and subtly steer the conversation in a better direction and deliver my lines to hopefully make the interview relevant and memorable.  One of us has to do the unexpected!

House Porn and Boondoggle

Jeepers!  Creepers!  When did I become such a peeper?!

Since we moved up north, I have kept my eye on the housing market.  Some day we want to be within walking distance of shops and restaurants and I want a nice garden. 

I downloaded the Trulia app and I often look at houses for sale. I could say this is just market research.  But really, I think this is what people call "house porn".  

I love looking at the pictures. I can't resist seeing what people have inside their homes and yards.  From the ones who have paid to have it staged to the ones who hung 18 quirky chandeliers, left their dirty clothes on every chair, and have a package of Wonder Bread on the kitchen counter. Pinch and zoom and you can see every detail of their lives.  It's deliciously disgusting....voyeuristic.  

I was never like this before and it didn't start this way. But it's a slippery slope. 

At first I only looked at houses that we could actually buy. Our price range, decent condition. I would click on the map feature to see where it is as I try to get acquainted with neighborhoods. Genuine market research. 

But then I started to look at everything.  Even on Mondays. 

What do you get for $12million??? What is that horrid looking shack in the middle of the Russian River vineyards? What were they doing out there? What is a 300 sq ft 1 bedroom 1 bath doing on 4 acres??  It's too small to be a farmhouse, was it for the caretaker or a family of migrant farmworkers? Wow - Look at that ultra modern all solar all salvaged materials surrounded by an apple orchard!  Could I live in a place called Occidental? Sounds like industrial New Jersey, yet it's the ultimate hippy-turned-rich bohemian community. Are we bohemian enough, would we fit in?

Descriptions are equally tantalizing. 'Cozy'  'Charming'  'Vintage'. 'Turnkey' 'Art studio'. Every writer has a different definition.  

Cozy = small. 

Charming = a bit beaten up but you might think that adds character.  

Vintage = old.  

Turnkey = you don't need to fix anything (yeah, right!)  

Art studio = it has 4 walls and a roof and you can stand in it, but there is no room for a chair, a table, a bed or any furniture. It was probably the old exterior fuse box and now it's been added to the square footage with temptation of Airbnb income. Yeah...I could see people would pay to sleep in a hammock....ok, a short person.....hey, we could earn enough to cover the taxes!

Look!  a koi pond!  That sounds nice. Oh wait...I'd have keep them alive.  

Look at the sculpture garden...do they come with the house?  

My goodness....they've used all those conch shells so creatively. 

While I was trolling the internet for houses, I suddenly fell in love with one. 

The property I fell in love with was actually 3 little dwellings surrounding an amazing garden. The 1945 bungalow was 400 sq ft. 1 BR  1BA.  It was never remodeled or upgraded, although the owner over-decorated everything inside and out extensively. The chandeliers did not come with the house. The description said "dollhouse". Think of those really fun shabby chic antique stores. Every tree had things hanging from it. A bathtub used as a planter in one corner...lights strung up everywhere. 

The second space was a converted garage - done very well and turned into a lovely zen room with some Japanese doors and other touches to give it character. Greg named it the Mikado Room. 

The third structure was a little pre-fab house styled like a barn, with a red door and a front porch all covered with wisteria.  

There was also a storage shed - 6' x 24' with no ventilation. It had been installed 20 years ago to grow pot. The walls still had the hooks for all the grow lights. The gas/electric meter had been tampered with to not register the full electric usage of the property. So we could have had extra income from both Airbnb and weed and a $10 electric bill! 

To make a 3 week long story short:  The seller never held an open house. She was selling it "as is". We were the only ones who made an offer. We offered $25K less than her asking price. She accepted. We went into escrow...paid for all the inspections...which revealed a very neglected place that needed a lot of work.  We already knew it needed work, but the reports showed a lot more. Our wonderful agent scrambled to get a lot of quotes to estimate repair work.   Based on that, we lowered our offer by another $20K.  Trust me - that was generous.  There were a ton of things we were not asking for and willing to take on ourselves. 

The seller rejected our insulting offer. So the deal was off.  We are feeling neutral.  It would have been a lot of work and taking on some risks of unknowns. This boondoggle cost a lot but we learned a lot in a very short time. 

You would think that after we got the news of losing the house, I would stop and pause for a moment. But that very night, I found myself pressing my thumb on my Trulia app and aimlessly swiping, pinching and zooming in bed, in the dark, after Greg fell asleep. 

Then I googled "house porn support group". 

There isn't one.  

Maybe I'll start one.

After we buy a house. 

Blog Schmog

If you followed me over here, welcome and thank you!  

Maybe you know why you are here, but I’m not sure that I have that all figured out. 

I like reasons. I like goals. I like lists.  

I am writing because they asked. They know who they are. 

I am writing for future generations. I’d like to believe that one of my descendants will wonder if that funny birthmark ran in the family, if their great-great-great-grandmother Marian ate pumpernickel bread from Zabars, or what their ancestors did when they lived in suburbs on planet earth.

I am writing to fund my retirement. Advertisers will flock to my site, click merrily and flood my PayPal account with PPC royalties (that’s Pay Per Click. see, I’ve done my homework).  I’m going to bundle 25 posts into a book and self-publish and get 5-star reviews on Amazon. Then come the NPR segments and the New Yorker pieces. Then I’ll negotiate a movie deal. Have I impressed you with my solid business plan?  Don’t worry, I still contribute to my 401K and IRA; I’m not totally nuts.

I am writing to apologize for not liking you on FaceBook. I like you a whole lot!  I’m not on FaceBook because I can’t lie. What if I told you I couldn’t come to your first ukulele solo at open mic night because I was attending a work thing. And then I forgot and posted my falafel ’n waffle sandwich from the new vegan-kosher-halal-comfort-food food truck 2 blocks away while you were strumming?

I am writing because I am too long-winded for Twitter. Trump could start WWIII with one tweet. I could not tell you what I had for lunch in 140 characters. 

I am writing because I take lousy pictures even with a smartphone and can’t figure out the simplicity of Instagram.

I am writing to nail down material for my stand-up comedy schtick that I will invite you to in 10 years when I get over my stage fright and you won’t make it because you have a work thing. 

I am writing because I’ve been inspired by the great female slice-of-life writers before me. Erma. Nora. Gilda. Tina. Lena.* They all started somewhere. They all have names that end in ‘a”.  If that’s a pre-requisite, then I messed up because I had one and got rid of it!  *Erma Bombeck, Nora Ephron, Gilda Radner, Tina Fey, Lena Dunham

I am writing for myself. As Ira Glass said, “You’ll hit gold more often if you simply try out a lot of things.”

I am going to try out a lot of things.