The General Situation

Scorpio Rising

Rattlesnakes, tarantulas, wind scorpions, rats.... Just when you think you've seen it all, this happens.

Our housekeeper discovered it under the bathmat in our master bathroom (and killed it). Scorpions aren't generally a threat to humans, but I'm still glad I missed wasn't here. I was interested, however, to learn this from a local pest-control company's website): "Scorpions typically will eat other insects to stay nourished but if food is scarce they have the ability to slow down their metabolism to as little as one-third the typical rate so that they can stay alive for longer. Even with their metabolism lowered they can still sting when needed. Researchers have frozen scorpions overnight to test their survival skills. When those frozen scorpions are put in the sun the next day they thaw out and they simply walk away like nothing happened."

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Don't tell anyone, but Edward Snowden is in the house.

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I'm not sure I can explain why, but Diet Dr. Dynamite makes me laugh every time I look at it.

Something Old, Something New

One of my main goals while hosting houseguests is to come up with an activity that none of us have done before. A joint adventure disrupts the dynamic: instead of Adam and me yapping away pedantically, we all get the feeling of exploration.

During the recent visit from our friends Barry and John, we decided to try Cold Spring Tavern, an old stagecoach stop about 30 minutes away. The food wasn't more than fine, but the setting was fantastic.

On the way home, we walk around Santa Barbara for a bit. Another first for me: Coastal, one of the two new pot dispensaries shops to have opened in the past few weeks. To enter, you have to show ID (which they scan) and pass through a metal detector; the latter is undoubtedly because these businesses primarily deal in cash, because banks won't touch them until federal laws change. While Coastal was stylish and well-run, the place gave me a headache, and I don't know how anyone can work there. Next time I might pick up a few of the pre-rolled joints, as little houseguest favors. (I understand why these businesses want to appear upscale, but wouldn't it be great if someone named one Pothead or Stoner or something?)

New for Adam, meanwhile, was 1000 Steps Beach. I had gone down the stairs before, but I didn't get far on the sand. This time, we walked for a long while—and on the way back, a pod of dolphins swam parallel to us, just offshore, for 15 minutes.

We also went for a drink and dinner at the new-ish Rosewood Miramar resort. The bar was near perfect, and I regret not taking every previous guest there. I'm not sure about the shuffleboard court, though—it seems like a hazard for staff and patrons alike.

Last and possibly least, we played Cards Against Humanity, which Adam and I have owned for many years but never even opened. What happens during a Cards Against Humanity game stays there, so that's all I'll say about that.

Of course, there were also old favorites: Bettina restaurant, the farmer's market, and a hike on the trails above the house. Look closely at this photo and you'll see two people who don't think it's considerate to stay with the slower members of the group.

And even during old favorites, something new can happen....

Back to School

The daughter of a former work colleague of Adam's is attending the Cate School in nearby Carpinteria. We've met her a few times over the years, so naturally we offered to take her out to dinner sometime. A month into the school year, we got the text: She'd love to show us the campus. We had to go for lunch, not dinner, because the curfew is 6 p.m., and the meal was fine; the girl is truly lovely. But the campus is extraordinary! It had a rock-climbing wall, a gym, a recording studio, a break room where you can make toast, and so much more. It made me want to go back to high school (there and only there). I left convinced that every Cate student should have to spend a month in a public high school, so they know exactly what they were spared.

A few photos.... The third one is dorm rooms; the fourth is of the former chapel, now a non-denominational spiritual space.

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The last time Adam and I went to a Halloween party, we fretted over our costumes, ultimately taking the cheap way out by going as garden gnomes. Awkwardly, everyone thought of Travelocity, and I was working with Orbitz; no one thought it was amusing or cute. I vowed—not unlike Scarlett O'Hara arisen in the carrot field—that I would never go to a Halloween party again without throwing serious money at the costume conundrum.

Well, here we are. The charity that Adam is helping out has a Halloween benefit coming up, and by all accounts it's a wild party—a local rich guy hosts it, just for shits and giggles. The theme is Saints & Sinners, which I think we could safely ignore. The question is, what shall we go as? The problem is, Adam only wants to dress up as a duo of some kind, while I'd like to be Prince, obviously. The other problem is that he doesn't mind a pun costume, like a man in a bra stuffed with spice jars—a spice rack!—while I think the thrill of Halloween is in dressing up as someone else; being someone else, someone more whatever, for a few hours. I briefly considered Bruce and Caitlyn Jenner, but the charity is about LGBT+ issues, so that would be in dangerous taste. Also, drag is hard. 

We spent hours online, slowly going insane. I really didn't want to buy some Made in China schlock destined for landfill, but what else could we do? There's probably somewhere in L.A. or New York we could rent a costume; the last thing I need to deal with, however, is someone's cosplay stains. 

We ended up ordering cheap costumes online, and I have every intention of getting mine altered so it fits perfectly. No, I'm not telling what they are just yet. There's still time to come up with something better. Suggestions are welcome.

P.S. This is called asking for trouble.

 

Back to Square One

After a few days of agonizing—changing our minds from hour to hour, and not always in synch—we opted to cancel escrow on the house. The brokers gave us the "dream house" talk—that it might not exist, and we might have to take the closest we can find and make it as perfect as we can—but I don't think we're unrealistic. We just weren't excited about the property. It's one thing to feel anxiety about a big purchase, but shouldn't there also be enthusiasm? Particularly when you have to endure a year of construction and the associated costs?

So we're back where we started, but the clock might be ticking: Our rental will hit the market in a month, and if someone buys it, we get 90 days' notice. Let's hope something catches our fancy soon.

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I had never heard a dry-farmed melon, so I asked the farmer about it. "They're amazing!" said a guy who butted in to buy one. "I agree!" chimed in a woman holding two right in front of her breasts. (I managed to only laugh internally.)

The farmer explained that they plant the seeds in soil that's been worked to hold a lot of water, and then they don't water the plants. Consequently, the melons are sweeter. We thought they might also be less juicy, but that was far from the case.

Another highlight from the farmers' market: yuzus! Despite having had the fruit in many Japanese dishes and cocktails—the flavor is like a less cloying Meyer lemon—I had never seen one. I asked the farmer if these "yuzu limes" were a cross between yuzu and limes, but he said that they're pure yuzu: The sign was just to help folks understand that yuzus are part of the lime family. My enthusiasm confused him, but also tickled him, and he pulled out a reference book to show me something about the fruit. (That was his goal, anyway; he didn't have the right book.) Now Adam and I just have to figure out what to do with them.

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I do love a good warning sign.

Steamed!

We're in escrow on a house, and we're totally on the fence about it. On one hand, it's nice enough; on the other, it needs significant new construction to reach its full potential, and the estimates came in higher than anticipated. And that might be OK if we loved it more—if the dishwasher was near the sink, if there was cross-ventilation in the master bedroom, if there wasn't an oven in the pantry.... To complicate matters, another house that we like has become available again. It doesn't require work, but it's more expensive, with higher property taxes and likely a much higher insurance premium. So we stew on it. We have to decide on the first house by early next week, and the second house in a day or two.

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Here's the bathroom in a house we're not considering. As a visiting friend said, that tub looks like something you'd cook an egg in.

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Speaking of which, I skimmed J. Kenji López-Alt's "How to Boil the Perfect Egg" in the New York Times, hoping I wouldn't have to memorize a new method. But he said that 87% of the time (in his results), steaming eggs rather than boiling them resulted in clean, easy peeling. And that was indeed the case when I steamed five eggs today. P.S. You can skip the article and go straight to the instructions.

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Last spring, I signed up for the Criterion Channel, because I liked the defunct streaming service, Filmstruck, it grew out of. We always forget to watch it, however, with the exception of Hedwig and the Angry Inch, which had a limited run on the site (with terrific bonus material at the end). The other day, Adam notified me that Criterion had charged our credit card $200. Annoyed at the auto-renewal, I canceled our subscription.

The confirmation email said our service would end in May, at the one-year mark, with no mention of the new $200 charge. I fired off an email demanding a refund, and when that was ignored, a tweet. The tweet elicited a new email address, so I tried that one, too. Eventually, a representative explained that the company can't prorate the first year—and she didn't even acknowledge the new $200 charge! I started typing up a fiery response, and then, in a clear sign of personal growth, I paused to look at the invoice email that Adam had forwarded. It was from Criterion Environmental, the company that did the radon test on the house we're considering.

Oregon Transplant

My friend Tracy had a conference in Portland, Oregon, so I joined her there for a brief visit afterward. The city has a "Keep Portland Weird" movement, and I don't think it's at any risk, judging from the witch strolling near of the hotel. She then theatrically tried to cup a moth with her hands.

Or what I assume is a promotional photo shoot for a band.

Less amusingly, the city has a severe homelessness problem. It struck me as worse than San Francisco, although perhaps Adam and I simply missed much of it there. In Portland, there was someone homeless on just about every block. At one intersection, when I could tell Tracy wanted a break from holding her breath, I looked down every street, only to see at least one homeless person, and often more. I don't know what the answer is.

Anyway, the visit was ideal for me, in that we skipped all but one traditional attraction, instead walking around a lot, eating and drinking well, and shopping. The attraction was the Portland Saturday Market, where art/craft vendors sell their wares. Most of it was not to my taste, but the browsing was amusing. I kind of regret not buying the boy and his pet pickle.

We stayed at the Duniway, the Hilton where Tracy's conference was. It was fine. We briefly considered—and subsequently nixed—the Ace, because Tracy and I stayed at the first one in Seattle soon after it opened, and had one of the worst hotel experiences ever. The little gift shop was worthwhile, though; I picked up a T-shirt that says "JAZZ IS FREEDOM!" across the chest. There was also one that said "CITIZEN," but that cut too close to the bone. The shops we spent the most time at were Powell's Books, where I filled out my Elmore Leonard collection, and the most excellent Boys Fort. I guess it's supposed to be stuff guys would like, but I found it more general-interest cool. I almost bought one of the Archie's Press maps, deciding instead to follow him on Instagram and hold out for a book of his maps or, even better, wallpaper.

And the eating was very good. Donuts at Blue Star (the old fashioned buttermilk donut was my favorite, but this one photographed better)....

Drinks at Tope atop the Hoxton hotel and at the Teardrop Bar & Lounge.

Meals at two Joshua McFadden restaurants, Tusk and Ava Gene's, because you know I love his cookbook, Six Seasons, as well as at Agnes Bistro (short rib boeuf Bourgignon!). But the highlight was 1927 Smores Company, a small storefront dedicated to the campfire treat. The art direction was impeccable; the smores hit the spot.

And before we knew it, we were back at the airport. I froth up a little whenever a media outlet writes about how an airport's restaurants are suddenly going to be good because a famous chef has licensed his name to Host Marriott or whichever company is actually handling the operations. But PDX seems to really making a push for quality. To wit, there's a big, centrally located Stumptown coffee counter and an outpost of Kenny & Zuke's Jewish deli, and the prices are all the same as you'd pay in the city proper. I was most delighted by the screening room showing free short films curated by the Hollywood Theatre in Northeast Portland. What a great idea! If only the Port Authority would find room for a space for the Film Forum....

P.S. I don't know why I find this so funny.

Cool You Can Carry

Overheard in the locker room today (September 17): "I need to start taking vitamin D. I have terrible seasonal affective disorder."

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Adam was helping his mom with something this afternoon, so I had to go alone to the farmer's market. The sun was blazing, and I was having a difficult time negotiating the crowds, selecting and paying for produce, and carrying my purchases—including crushable items like tomatoes and strawberries. All of which is to say I was relieved to get back to my car, where I found a parking ticket.

I am what's known as a "rules person," in that I respect rules at almost all costs, so this was upsetting. And baffling, because the block allowed for 75 minutes of parking, and I was there for less than an hour. My defense:

• I parked at 3:40 p.m. I walked the one block to the market, tried to buy avocados at 3:45 p.m., and was rebuffed because the market bell hadn't run. I killed the 15 minutes by strolling a bit.

• Could I have been in a loading zone? No. After I parallel-parked—flawlessly—I opened the passenger door to make sure I was near the curb. That's only relevant because I also noticed that the curb wasn't painted green or yellow, signifying a much smaller parking limit.

• I finished loading up my car at 4:28 p.m. Unfortunately, it only occurred to me to photograph the ticket alongside my clock while I was driving on the 101 freeway. 

I tried to contest it as soon as I got home, of course, but my citation wasn't in the system yet. How do you prove you weren't somewhere?

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You know you're somewhere rural when....

Yosemite Slam

We're just back from a week up north: Yosemite National Park, San Francisco, and Livermore for my nephew's wedding. The wedding was perfect, and it was a delight to see my nephew so happy. San Francisco is still not my favorite city, but I enjoyed the food. (I can recommend Cala, Rintaro, and Cotogna restaurants.) 

As for Yosemite, I know I went there as a child, because I remember the T-shirts that said "Go climb a rock," which I thought were brilliant. (Still do, and I wish the gift shops sold them.) But I didn't recall much else about it. So entering the valley was a gorgeous shock.

The valley is astounding, with sheer cliffs everywhere you look. It's also a bit park-like, rather than nature-like: There are a ton of people, and many paths are paved. It wasn't unpleasant, but it wasn't what I think of as hiking. That's not to say the scenery was anything other than spectacular. On our first of two days, we hiked up to the top of Vernal Falls....

And then we hiked to get the view of the valley I posted above, followed by a short walk to see Bridal Veil Falls. When the wind picks up, the water gets blown to the right.

We stayed at the famous Ahwahnee Lodge. I can't say I was disappointed, because expectations were low: From my experience at the Furnace Creek Inn (which now has a new name) at Death Valley, I knew that Aramark, the concessionaire that runs the National Parks property, is simply not up to the task. The building is stunning, the location impeccable; everything else is Motel 6, but at much higher prices. I'm not proud to admit I've become the kind of person who answers the surveys that hotels send after the stay, and this one got an earful. The food and beverage manager even called to follow up, but what else was there to say? The food is awful and extremely overpriced, and the service is generally awkward at best. Plus, the bar area stank so bad I had to hold my breath every time I got three steps in.

Our room was one of the 1920s cottages behind the lodge. The exterior was cute, but for two days I had to hear about the pea under the mattress poor quality of the sheets.

On our second day, on the advice of an engaging young woman working in the bar (where the cheaper breakfast is available), we went outside the valley for a hike to and above May Lake. There were a handful of other hikers, which was actually helpful, because the trail wasn't particularly marked. The views were insane, although the high altitude made for slow going.

Two last thoughts: 1) I need to rethink that shirt. And 2) The website Yosemite Hikes is really, really good—so good that I sent a fan letter. (Unrequited, alas.) If you're going to the park, you should absolutely use it.

Sticky Situations

The other night, Adam and I were at Bettina, the restaurant here that we love. (We're having the owners over for dinner tomorrow, an exciting social leap for us.) There were a dozen people at the table next to ours; I think they were Italians, but Italians after a day at the beach—a little fried and sloppy. And there were at least three very young children, one of whom which was rolling his toy car back and forth on the banquette, inches from Adam's leg. Adam was sitting like Queen Elizabeth; kids in restaurants do not bring out his fun, tolerant side. I looked over at the mother, who was busy breastfeeding an infant, hoping I could make productive eye contact, but she seemed to be giving a dirty look to Adam, as if he was somehow at fault. (The father was MIA.) Before we knew it, the kid was playing under our table.

"They'll be gone soon," whispered our server.

Sure enough, they got up to leave in a matter of minutes. And then the mother came over. "We understand," said Adam, convinced that she must be about to apologize for her inability to control her child, and he waved her and the matter off with his hand. The woman started to speak—I think she was searching for the right words in English—and Adam kept going: "Really, it's not a big deal. We're fine." But what she really wanted was permission to retrieve a toy from under our table.

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I've become friendly with a guy I occasionally see at the café I frequent after swimming. But we're not so close that I haven't told him to stop asking if Adam and I have bought a house yet. As my family members know, I'd rather wait till I have news to discuss the matter, because what is there to say at this point? We looked at a nice house that was more expensive than we'd like, and a charming old house that needs more work than we want to do, and a small house on a suburban street—any of them could work. And maybe one day we'll decide to move forward on one of them. Maybe not.

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Today, my café friend told me that he's been reading my Santa Barbara real estate blog, which was helpful: If I think a local is reading it, I find myself wanting to write more. Tomorrow, I email area brokers about it, which I guess is really the official start of this project....

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If you like Renée Zellweger, and maybe even if you don't, I recommend Jonathan Van Meter's profile of her in New York magazine. The combination of a smart celebrity and a good writer whom she trusts can lead to a very interesting article. I do wish it had mentioned Down With Love, an appealing riff on the Doris Day/Rock Hudson movies.

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Adam recently discovered Renegade Wines, a store here that I told him about years ago. The other day, I spotted this note there—it reminded me of when we were in Australia, and a couple from Sydney asked us if we wanted to join them for a sticky after dinner.

Contact Sport

My friend Amy posted one of the best photos ever on Instagram yesterday:

I thought it was so funny—still do!—that I made it the little photo that shows up whenever she texts (or theoretically) calls me. I sent her a screenshot to show her, and she told me that this is the photo she has with my contact:

I couldn't believe it.

She couldn't remember why she had done it, but I did. Years ago, I received a spam email with a subject line about how Anjelica Huston enjoys, or maybe insists on, a large penis. I thought it was so funny—still do!—that I sent it to Amy. None of this makes it better that she associates the photo with me, of course.

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We saw a hawk feasting on a chipmunk the other day. It's proof that not all of the nature around here is unnerving.

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I have a large, ugly birthday coming up, so my mom is sending me a series of birthday cards—which would be nice, if they avoided certain phrases.

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Future generations will wonder why on earth we were made to write a capital Q like that.