Yes, we finally bought a house. It doesn't check every box on our wishlist—for one thing, it's a much different style than we ever saw ourselves in—but the setting is lovely and the rooms and windows are big. So the stress and anxiety about whether to follow through on the house has been replaced by stress and anxiety about all the work we have ahead of us. The house needs new floors (wood instead of glossy black tile), new bathrooms (with no glossy black tile), and softer, less geometric landscaping. We don't expect to be in it for at least six months—and we have to hope that no one buys the house we're renting before then. If so, we'll find an interim rental.
P.S. While the house generally needs warming up, we plan on switching out the extra-spicy Chihuly School chili-pepper pendant light. If you know anyone who might want to buy it, get in touch....
P.P.S. Adam mentions backing out every few hours, so this is all a bit touch and go.
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I highly recommend Knives Out, the new murder mystery—as much for the humorous dialogue as for the twisty plot. I'll be interested to see whether right-wing types embrace the film, given its bent.
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And don't bother trying to communicate with me for the next 72 hours, as I'll be deep into the reissue of Prince's 1999. I managed to listen to a few tracks in the car; the 8:47-minute version of "Possessed" is a keeper.
I'm pretty good at not thinking about my age, so turning 50 this week was a shock. Not because I didn't know it was coming, but because I had to talk about being 50 all day long (along with the requisite discussions of colonoscopies). It started with my doctor, whom I had an 8:30 a.m. appointment with about a muscle strain in my lower back, which seems like an apt way to kick off this decade. Then I was off to the drugstore for anti-inflammatories and a heating pad. Fifty is the new seventy!
On the plus side, I got to go to two new restaurants—one truly new, the other new to me—and that's a rare treat in this relatively small town. Dinner was at the Rosewood Miramar, with a drink first at the resort's Manor Bar. Smoke, followed by fire. (The second photo is of a crème brûlée flambée, a.k.a. my new drag name.)
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Regarding the house that we're close to buying: I was correct when I wrote that we had passed through the initial panic attack, and while I was prepared for the second wave, it has been much more vicious than I anticipated. Last night, Adam was so overwhelmed with agita that he could barely speak or eat (or drive, but that's all I'll say about that). This morning, our cars met on the street as I was heading home and he was driving to Ojai. We rolled down our windows, and I said I thought we should just pull out of the deal. He said he had just come to the conclusion that we should move forward. But that was at least six hours ago, so who knows where we stand now.
We're in escrow on a house (again). That's all I'm going to say about it, except to note that we seems to have made it through the panic-attack phase. Inspections are next week, and if all goes well, we close at the end of the month. The house needs work, though, so we wouldn't be moving in anytime soon.
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Finally, good-movie season is here! I'm resolved to seeing Parasite, even though it sounds rather tense, and I look forward to Ford v. Ferrari, Driver v. Johansson (a.k.a. Marriage Story), Little Women, Knives Out, and The Two Popes—perhaps we'll even see one or two in a movie theater. We did make it to see Pedro Almodóvar's Pain and Glory, which I didn't think held together quite as well as critics seem to believe, but enjoyed anyway.
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I've been mesmerized by this bush, at the start of our street. We moved into this house around January 1, so we wouldn't have seen the berries before.
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After reading an article about how the wide-angle option on my iPhone is worth playing with, I've been giving it a go. I'm not a fan of fish-eye distortion—it's how you make a small room look larger—but it suited the hairpin turn below our house.
For the past few years, we've sent out holiday cards because I like receiving them, especially when there are photos of the senders (and not just their kids), and/or a note. I prefer to put my own stamp on this kind of thing, so we hired an illustrator each time, and the results were really fun. She's know for drawing pugs, so it was a good match.
After last year, however, I vowed not to send anymore out. For one thing, they're a fair amount of work; second, recipients don't ever acknowledge the card; and third, we receive fewer and fewer cards each year—last year we got like six. Still, it's a rare chance to remind people that we're alive, particularly now that we've moved to California, so when I got a catalog from one of those holiday card printing companies, well.... Adam vetoed it.
Ever since the snake, we've been vigilant about not leaving doors open. At first, that didn't include the balcony off the master bathroom, which Adam liked to have open, even though I was concerned about rodents coming in. (There is plenty of evidence that they enjoy the balcony.) Instead of rats or mice, however, we got a scorpion.
After that, we've been hypervigilant about the doors. But once the house started being shown, we were vulnerable again. The brokers like to open every door in advance of the potential buyer's arrival, to emphasize Santa Barbara's famous "indoor/outdoor lifestyle."
At least it wasn't a snake (which would've come in handy...). I don't blame the mouse for venturing inside—the nights have grown chilly—but you'd think it would know better than to walk around in front of us. It was there for so long I had time to get my phone, take a photo, and post it on Instagram. We spent all of dinner with one eye on the kitchen; we're not afraid of mice, but the sudden movement, in places you don't expect it, is shocking.
We caught the mouse that night. And reinforcements arrived. (Do watch the video. It's amazing.)
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At the farmer's market, I decided to buy eggs from the woman who sells chickens. She was helping a customer, so I waited. When their transaction eventually ended, the customer didn't move; instead, they talked about other things. I was growing antsy, but I made myself count slowly to 60. Even though the chicken vendor saw me waiting, she did nothing to move the other woman along. I turned and left—and not in an outward huff, because this is a small town.
I told Adam, who was waiting for me, about it. He asked if she was selling chickens—the farm has been quarantined for a while—and I said I didn't know. He decided to find out. The other customer was still there. When the chicken lady saw Adam, she interrupted the customer, telling her that she needed to help Adam "because he had just been waiting so patiently."
The house we've been renting went on the market this week (for $10.9 million, so, no, we will not be buying it). The brokers took photos a couple of weeks ago, and I was tickled to see that my tumbleweed made the cut. I found it on the driveway as we were moving in, and I thought it was important to have some bit of decor that was ours—otherwise, the house is too generic. Also, I happen to love tumbleweeds. When Adam and I were at JFK airport recently, we were sitting by the gate when a small tumbleweed blew in from the jetway and across the terminal floor. Then another came, and another, and so on. It was very mysterious—this was New York City!—until we boarded the plane and saw more tumbleweeds jammed into the luggage rack that they use to gate-check bags. The plane must have been coming from somewhere much more arid, and when the gate door was opened, they got sucked inside the airport.
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When I left Travel + Leisure magazine a million years ago, the lovely copy editor in the cubicle next to mine gave me a terrific gift: a mock synopsis of a sitcom based on my life, or at least the work part (and/or whatever he heard me yapping about on the phone). He meant it fondly, I'm positive. I'll need to look for it next time I'm in New York City.... Anyway, every now and then I meet someone so quirky that I think I really am in a sitcom. (Not "Frasier," thank you very much.) Take the guy who cuts my hair, Pete. I think he's always stoned—actually, that's probably true of most people around here. I think he's superstoned, or possibly just very, very mellow. Adam went to him first and recommended him, and when I went, I had to hear over and over how hysterical Adam is. "Adam is so funny!" Pete would say. "He cracks me up!"
When I told Pete about my parking ticket, he shared strategies of his that had worked in the past, including putting a bag over the "no parking" sign then taking a photo of it as proof that he shouldn't have been ticketed, and showing up in person at the police department and asking them to just let it go.
At my last visit, probably apropos of lunchtime, Pete told me how he had been watching online videos of ways prisoners hack their food into more ambitious dishes. Inspired, he went to the liquor store and bought the ingredients for a prison "burrito": instant ramen, Doritos ("but some people prefer Cheetos"), and a Slim Jim. Through some alchemy, hot water makes the ramen congeal into a sort of tortilla, which you essentially steam in the Doritos bag—or at least that's what I understood of the process. He mentioned that his girlfriend's birthday is coming up, and I suggested that he make her a prison cake.
"With Twinkies!" he said. "I could write, 'Happy birthday to my prisoner' on it."
"Or 'to my ball and chain,'" I said.
"Yes!" he said. "My ball and chain!" (I recommended a backup cake, just in case.)
He lost favor when I told him I'd be turning 50 in a few weeks and he didn't object; I expect everyone to think that such a thing is impossible. But then just when I'm sure he's not paying attention, which is not great in a hairdresser, I remember that I only had to tell him once how much I hate being shown the back of my head, and he never bothers to hand me the mirror anymore.
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I'm cracking myself up on Instagram. Not sure the Four Seasons thinks it's funny, though.
The Halloween party was—well, not fun so much as amusing. We got off to a bumpy start when Adam, trying to enter the car without tearing his jumpsuit (which tended to ride up), got a cramp in a stomach muscle. He stretched out across the two front seats—I was already in one of them—for a few minutes, while I sweated profusely because the jumpsuits are basically plastic and our garage is perpetually 92 degrees.
Adam: I'm surprised you didn't laugh.
Me: It wasn't funny.
Adam: It wasn't funny in the moment, but now it is.
Me: Your pain is never funny.
The things you learn after being in a relationship for 15 years.... Anyway, several people recognized our costumes! And one woman even insisted on taking our photo! The crowd skewed young, and the music was very loud, so we hung out on the periphery (i.e., outside the tent) and admired other guests' efforts. The Saints & Sinners theme inspired a lot of devil horns and angel wings, but some folks got more creative. (My favorite was the guy dressed as Pee-wee Herman.) Mostly, we spoke with people Adam knew from the host organization. I did, however, try to spark up a conversation with a possibly non-binary guest who had approached our cocktail table.
Me: Where did you get that weapon? It's really impressive.
Guest: Amazon.
Me: What did you search for?
Guest: Demon hatchet.
And then we stood there for a few minutes until they left.
P.S. LEDs were also quite popular.
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There have only been a few small fires in the greater Santa Barbara area, but one further south sent smoke up this way—we couldn't smell it, but it made for spectacular sunsets. Our cameras couldn't capture the effect; the sun was as red as a stoplight.
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I can't eat spicy food anymore—it feels as if my tongue is literally burning—but I still like the flavor of chili peppers. So I was delighted to see that bean company extraordinaire Rancho Gordo sells a "mild sauce for hot people" called La Paloma. It's delicious and exactly what I've been craving.
Last night, we noodled around on Amazon Prime, looking for a movie to watch. I suggested To Catch a Thief. Adam countered with A Simple Plan. Stalemate.
"What about Ordinary People?"
I had never seen the film, being too young when it came out (1980) to be interested in the story of a suicidal young man coping with the death of his brother. And as I grew older, I also grew weary of people telling me I looked like Timothy Hutton. It happened a lot in my early 20s. Eventually, I came across a clip from the film, and I could see what people saw—not an exact resemblance, to be sure, but a similarity in coloring and youthfulness.
That faded over time, for better and for worse, and it's been many years since anyone has mentioned a resemblance—which suits me fine, because I wouldn't argue that Hutton has grown more attractive. (A footnote: Older people would first bring up Timothy Hutton, and then invariably follow it with, "Actually, you look more like his father, Jim Hutton." He's the one in the suit in this clip from 1960's The Honeymoon Machine.)
As with so many movies we watch at home, I pulled the ripcord halfway through. Ordinary People was so wooden and dated, a TV movie of the week centered on the non-issue of whether therapy might be good for a mentally troubled person and blaming the ice queen of a mother. Plus, Hutton's character was supposed to be a swimmer, and he was terrible at it! He raised his head straight up out of the water to breathe! While Adam kept watching, I cleaned up in the kitchen and prepared for bed. His perseverance was rewarded.
"It's her!" he yelled. "I know it is! I'd recognize that smile anywhere! She's so beautiful!" I wasn't sure, so I checked. He was right: The role of Jeannine is played by Elizabeth McGovern, whom Adam adores from "Downton Abbey."
That's the pattern of almost everything we watch: I get bored and bail, and Adam offers running commentary. The announcements were particularly good during "Elite," a soapy Spanish show about a murder among fancy high-school students:
"Allison Parker is a slut!"
"The tennis player and Omar are making out! And much more!"
"Allison Parker has HIV!"
"Rio is in a three-way! With Polo and that mean girl!"
"OH MY GOD ALLISON PARKER IS PREGNANT!"
It was far more entertaining than the show itself, especially because Allison Parker and Rio weren't even the characters's names; they were characters the actors played in "Money Heist," which we were watching simultaneously.
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Speaking of "Money Heist," for the Halloween party this weekend, we're dressing up as thieves from the show. It sort of works with the Saints & Sinners theme, because they might be good and they might be bad. And if no one knows what we're supposed to be, that's fine, too: The costumes are spooky enough on their own, and it'll give us something to talk about.
After New York City, Adam and I went to Nags Head, on the Outer Banks of North Carolina, to see his dad and stepmother. David and Cathie's house is a short walk to the beach, which is gorgeous.
Our big outing was to the Wright Brothers National Memorial in nearby Kill Devil Hills. It was my idea, even though I'm not usually one for memorials; this one just needed to be seen. Inside the midcentury building, which looks like it belongs at an airport, is an exhibit that tells the story of the Wrights' achievement. It's nice and concise, although I could do without the prompts for schoolchildren. ("What's your passion?" "Make a drawing of something you've achieved.") The highlight of that exhibit is definitely the replica of the brothers' aircraft, which was larger than I expected.
Outside are markers showing the lengths of the first four flights: Three are only around 120 feet; the fourth was much longer, 852 feet. (That expanse of lawn, meanwhile, is dangerous, full of sand spurs and prickly pears.) There's also a hilltop memorial that's less impressive than the photo below might lead you to believe, because it tops out just beyond the photo's border.
David had told us that the National Monument includes an airstrip on the other side of the trees, and sure enough, a plane took off while we were there. That airstrip seems like a concession opportunity for the National Park Service: Why not let pilots fly sightseeing flights from there? As neat as it is to stand right where history happened, nothing makes the Wrights' efforts real like seeing planes—or being in one—take off and land right next door.
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Then we drove to Durham for the joint birthday party of friends Tracty and Evan. On the way, we saw something we'd never seen before: cotton fields.
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I loved Andrew Miller's novel Now We Shall Be Entirely Free so much that for two days I was guaranteed to mention it to anyone I came across, including several guests at the birthday party. I was drawn to it because a New York Times reviewer compared Miller's writing to Hilary Mantel's, which I can see if I squint. But it's its own thing, most marvelously. As I read, I kept seeing the novel as a film. Here's hoping someone makes it.
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I have a thing against wheelie bags, and of course I prefer not to check a bag, so I have to pack extremely efficiently if I'm going to carry a week's worth of crap over my shoulder. I'm not afraid to cram stuff—in this case, a Ziploc bag of fregola sarda (like Israeli couscous, but better because it's toasted)—into shoes that would otherwise sit empty. When the TSA stopped my bag for extra screening, I told the agent that I always seem to get in trouble for using my shoes as storage, and that I guess they make it hard to see what's inside. He pointed out the real problem was that Richard Reid used his shoe to hide a bomb. Doh!
Just about done with a few days in New York City, and I came ill-prepared. I thought I'd enjoy just walking around whenever I wasn't meeting up with friends, but that was generally unsatisfying—nowhere more so than in our neighborhood of Tribeca. There's nothing new here for me—I've wrung it dry—and, to a lesser degree, that goes for the city, too. I know what's around every corner, which is boring.
So while everyone else thinks Hudson Yards, the new corporate "neighborhood" being built above the Hudson Rail Yards is sterile, soulless, and depressing, I found it sort of interesting. I wouldn't want to live there, or work there, or even go back there, but for an hour, it offered novelty in a city whose wrinkles are being ironed out.
I took the A train to 14th Street, then walked up the High Line till 30th Street. The architecture that has gone up—and continues to go up—around the High Line is a mixed bag, and I'm a firm believer that the weirder a building is, the more it wants to be set off against something that's not weird. That's not remotely the case at the High Line, an architect's alley of showcase design, each trying to one-up the other. The building that most caught my eye was Heatherwick Studio's 515 W. 18th St.
At W. 30th Street, I went into Mercado Little Spain, the food hall from José Andrés and the Adrià brothers. Some of the food looked good, but unless you opt for sit-down dining, you have to fight for a seat. Does anyone like that?
Next stop: La Boîte, a spice shop in Hell's Kitchen that I had read about in the Wall Street Journal. It was great, and I picked up a few gifts, but I didn't take any photos—the place is as much an office as a shop, and it didn't feel right. I haven't spent much time on the west side of Hell's Kitchen, so the walk back down Eleventh Avenue was refreshing in its way. Two highlights: a street address cleverly mimicking gold foil stickers (makes sense that a graphic design firm is the tenant), and a glimpse of how the shiny new buildings of Hudson Yards are on a platform over the train tracks.
Then I met up with Adam at Vessel, the massive interactive sculpture at the heart of Hudson Yards. Like the condo I admired along the High Line, it's by Heatherwick Studio, which is also designing the funky Pier 55 on the Hudson River. (Many years ago I made him track down a drawbridge in London, by Heatherwick, that rolls up instead of raising in the usual way.) Anyway, back to Vessel. At first, I thought it should be called Corporate Ladder, given the office-park setting, but then it would have to narrow at the top instead of widen. There are various striking moments as you ascend and descend, and we enjoyed seeing the elevator slowly make its way. The walls on the perimeter are really low, however, and suicides would seem to be inevitable. (P.S. The bronze color is awfully 80s....)
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The New York Times ran an amusing article on pug lovers in Germany, with a quote that I should get needlepointed on a pillow: "A life without pugs is possible, but meaningless." All that reading about pugs must have conjured up something, because I saw four today, ending a long pugspotting drought. The last one is just sagging, not pooping.