The General Situation

Additional Pizza Slices Not Included

Customer: How are you doing?

Trader Joe's manager: I'm grabbing the day by the neck and kissing it.

Me: Gross!

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Today, I took a big walk through a part of Santa Barbara that's new to me, and as I've mentioned before, I find the city so rewarding to explore—including neighborhoods that aren't among the most noteworthy. I'll spare you the captions, except that the creek was right in the middle of a business district and the MacKenzie Park Lawn Bowls Club was huge.

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Before the walk, Adam and I had lunch at Café Ana, a restaurant we've grown fond of. It's one of those places where, after you order at the counter, you're given a number for the runner to find you. However, one often sees people at tables with no number and no food—in other words, treating it like a Starbucks. I was noting this very sitch when, out of the corner of my eye, I saw a guy eating from a glass bowl that he held in his hands. I know the menu well, so I was confused: What do they serve in such a bowl? Nothing, it turns out. One of the owners approached the guy and told him that outside food isn't allowed and he'd bring over a menu. After the owner walked away, the guy said, in high dudgeon, "I knew it was tacky but I never thought I'd get called out about it!"

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Me: Well, I think it's a very nice thing they're doing.

Mom: Ugh, when did you become a Christian?

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Reason #3 in this New York Times book review by Daniel Menaker starts out OK and then takes a turn for the bananas. Also, we write for money.

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Now we're set. Thanks, Jim and Laura!

Tiny But Mighty

One of the many joys of this area—and Southern California in general—is that there aren't many insects, or at least not the bothersome kind. As a result, I may have yelped when, a couple of weeks ago, I opened our mailbox to find a bug scampering around. It hurried into a hole in back, and we both moved on with our lives. On my subsequent visits to the mailbox, we repeated the scenario (with diminished yelping); tapping the door first decreased the odds of a face-to-face meeting. Today, however, it became clear that the bug has grown too large to hide in its hole: When I opened the door, having given the warning tap, it was freaking out, running here and there around the interior and, eventually, the exterior. After taking the photo, I closed the door and the bug fell to the ground. Here's hoping it moves to one of our neighbors' mailboxes.

Anyway, that's what passes for excitement nowadays.

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I previously recommended the French TV show "Call My Agent," and while it's still well-made and entertaining, the plotting in season three has stretched credibility so far that I spend much of the show yelling, "Oh, come on!" (I also yell "Pas de tout!" every time a character says the phrase, which is at least four times an episode.) We're really just holding on at this point because the inestimable Kristin Scott Thomas was mentioned as a client of the talent agency's, and I'm convinced that means she'll be appearing soon. P.S. No I'm not googling it.

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I'd watch this movie.

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Adam: This young male model I follow on Instagram is wearing a Duke sweatshirt, and I thought it was you. [Snickers.]

Me: You should think about every word you just said, including the laugh.

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I got a surprise when I was searching for music.

Lurkers Beware!

Someone in Santa Barbara organized a "vegan challenge" this month, in which various restaurants—including one of our favorites, Tyger Tyger—promote vegan items on their menus. This is the final weekend, so when Tyger Tyger announced that it had three new vegan dishes, we figured we should go support it (and make up for the many times we've ordered the brisket). "This vegan pad Thai is really boring," said Adam. "I mean, where's the fish sauce?"

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Possibly the best use ever of a deconsecrated church: the Church of Skatan skate shop—defunct, alas. I would've loved a Church of Skatan T-shirt. Or a "LURKERS BEWARE!" shirt, for that matter.

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This is up there with Wamsutta's fitted-sheet tags: Spicely sells tiny packages of spices, because we all know spices lose their flavor well before you use much of the jar. (Plus, no wasteful jar.) Bonus points for the name, which evokes Spacely Space Sprockets from "The Jetsons."

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The weather has been dismal lately—gray and so soggy. But it does turn the cobwebs in our pergola sort of dazzling.

"They're Out There"

Amy: I had a dream last night and you starred as yourself, but as my witty bartender friend at a fancy midtown bar. Your dealer (you had a dealer!) gave me two edibles: one was super tame and one was supposed to be divided for a group. In a "hilarious comedy of errors," I took the wrong the one.

Me: Your subconscious doesn’t think much of me. I love how you blamed it all on my dealer.

Amy: Wasn't my dealer.

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We went to the San Ysidro Ranch for dinner last night. It's still one of the loveliest hotels I've ever seen. The Stonehouse restaurant is too fancy; instead we go to the Plow & Angel pub, where you can sit on a gorgeous terrace, weather and space permitting. Adam remarked that there were no cocktail menus on the tables, and I reminded him that I took care of that particular situation with an email to the GM in 2015:

You have a wonderful property—it's truly exquisite. My husband and I dine at the Plow & Angel whenever we're in town. (We have a house nearby, although now that we've listed it, we may be more likely to return as hotel guests.) But every single time we're seated, we marvel at the laminated cocktail menus on every table. ("Margarita Madness"?) Is what you gain in sales worth the loss of dignity? Please reconsider them: They are a tiny thing that makes a big, tacky impression.

The next time we went, they were gone.

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Overheard at the pool where I swim: "I tell ya, they’re out there. I have one of the largest collections of UFO books."

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Feeling antsy, and trying to get more walking in, I went down to the mailbox this afternoon. (Our street's mailboxes are all grouped by the main gate, about ten minutes away.) Along the way, I passed a housekeeper—she was wearing an apron—dragging a big, wheeled garbage bin from the street up to the house. She was having a rough time of it, because the owners had recently had their driveway re-graveled; as you can see below, they didn't stint on the gravel. I'm sure they never thought about how much harder they made her job, and I felt powerfully her inability to tell them.

P.S. A week or two ago, Adam and I drove by a house where the housekeeper was outside the gate, polishing the "protected by" alarm sign. You just knew that the owner made her do it.

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As I mentioned, we've officially joined the Newcomers group for transplants to the Santa Barbara area. Adam immediately signed us up for three events: a wine-and-cheese tasting that we were waitlisted for (and didn't get in); a dinner at someone's house, and I think we're supposed to help with the cooking; and a hike with the Young Professionals. I pointed out that, despite my youthful joie de vivre, we aren't what the Young Professionals—or anyone, really—would consider young. ("I know, but maybe they can actually hike," he said.) Then the leader of the group emailed to welcome us, explaining how to be part of the WhatsApp group chat, among other things. I thought we were heading toward a Younger situation, but then Adam fessed up. 

"Young Professionals is really for anyone at all (no matter what age)," replied the leader, "but we focus on people that are still working."

Does that include me? I feel like it does; I'm just on a break. But the other day, in the locker room, an older gentleman was blocking the swimsuit-drying machine. When he noticed me waiting, he said, "I'll get out of the way. You probably have to go to work." I just kind of shrugged.

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Butterflies are magical. So is hiking above the fog line.

"We Have No Lights"

We've had a lot of houseguests lately—five sets over 17 days—and I'd like to take a moment to thank the person at Wamsutta who came up with the idea of putting little tags that say "side" or "top or bottom" on each edge of king-size fitted sheets. I feel gratitude, among other emotions, every time I make a bed.

I like to think we're good hosts, but we're not especially adept at activities. However much we love living in this area, we don't know that much about visiting it. If your interests dovetail with ours—farmer's market, hiking, looking at real estate—then great; if not, you might want to do some independent research. I believe there's an art museum.

When my parents and sister were here, I did manage an outing that was new to all of us, which definitely beats me leading them around somewhere I've already been. It was the Gallup & Stribling orchid farm in Carpinteria, and it was spectacular. Much of Carp, as locals call the town, has been taken over my marijuana farms, which, frankly, stink. So here's hoping that G&S sticks around for a long time.

P.S. How great is it that when my parents couldn't figure out how to work the light switch, they called Adam? (Soon after arriving, my mom requested that nothing she said over the weekend end up here. But then Adam emailed me that voicemail with the subject heading "For the blog," so I guess they decided it was OK.)

P.P.S. We finally joined Newcomers and signed up for a few events. Stay tuned.

That Joke Isn't Funny Anymore

We just had a friend, P., and his two kids, stay with us for a night. Being around kids is always an adventure, since they're less predictable than adults. (Most adults, anyway.) The younger of the two, a sixth-grader, surprised us even more when, apropos of nothing, he told a joke at the dinner table. The gist was that two guys were playing a word-association game, and one would consistently respond, "Faggot." 

Adam and I were stunned into silence. The boy seems younger than his years, and I was positive he wasn't trying to provoke us. Indeed, after it became clear that he couldn't remember how the joke was supposed to go—there was no discernible punchline—P. asked him if he knew what "faggot" means. Nope. Just that it was an insult.

Later, I got a bit angry that such a teachable moment went untaught. Why didn't P. explain that the word is mean, inflammatory, and best avoided? But I didn't feel like it was my place to intervene.

The next morning, P. told us that he has recently gotten the impression that the boy might be gay. And with that, P.'s inaction made much more sense: I suspect that he was realizing he has to explain not just what the word "faggot" means, but also, by extension, the challenges that all gay people face—a heavy burden to place on narrow shoulders.

P.S. Adam often takes bad photos of me, but this one might be the worst.

French Fries for Breakfast

Last night, I dreamed that Adam and I were at a resort somewhere in Santa Barbara, when a fire broke out in the distance. Naturally, we were worried about our house, but we couldn't go investigate because the valet parking staff was nowhere to be found. You know you're a Southern Californian when....

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Me: [Blah blah blah about certain other people's horseshitty behavior.]

Mom: I’m proud of you for not losing control and smacking sense into them. Because, you know, patience and tolerance are not your main virtues.

Me: And where do you think I get that from?

Mom: Me!

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My birthday isn't till November, but you can always order it now and hold onto it.

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Like any sensible person, I despise the current president of the United States. Ever since he was elected, I've wondered how we can (figuratively!) hit him where it hurts. The man cares only about his own name and standing, so I propose that from now on, everyone opposed to his administration refer to the toilet and/or bathroom as the Trump. "Excuse me, can you direct me to the Trump?" "Man, I shouldn't have eaten that meatball sub. I need to use the Trump." "That was the nastiest public Trump I've seen in a long time." If enough of us do it, the brand name, such as it is, will be nothing more than a joke.

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While at a McDonald's the other day—it was a hunger emergency, and we were in San Luis Obispo—I was delighted by this monitor showing whose order was ready and whose was still getting prepared. Progress! But then I realized I had ordered at 10:29 a.m. instead of waiting one minute, when fries became available. I've said it before: Why doesn't McDonald's offer fries at breakfast?

Ankle Biters

Pardon the delay between posts. I've been.... Well, busy isn't the right word. Otherwise occupied? We had some houseguests, and then we went up to Paso Robles for a night. And of course we're always looking at houses. We used to see three or four or five at a time, but now, because we're based here, we see them as they come up—which has become a grind (and I say that as someone who generally loves looking at real estate and thinks our brokers are fun to be with). At least we get moments like this now and then.

For the first few days after the rattlesnake incident, snakes were all we could talk about, and by "we" I mean Adam. To be fair, he was the one who discovered it, inches from his bare foot, shaking its tail as a prelude to an attack.

Me: What should we have for dinner? I have the makings of a decent salad in the fridge.

Adam: I don't know. I guess we could have pasta.

Me: Do we have anything in the freezer?

Adam: I wonder what eats rattlesnakes.

Or this:

Me: My car made that funny grinding noise again. I think it may be the automatic warning system.

Adam: We should wear boots when we hike, because snakes tend to go for the ankle.

Today, we returned from looking at yet another house—some midcentury charm, but in an iffy location and overpriced more than usual—to find a package outside our door. "I ordered snake guards," said Adam, and I had visions of gaiters. Turns out he bought window screens so we can leave the door open without fear of anyone slithering in.

P.S. The drive up and back to Paso Robles was very pretty, and we took a fantastic hike. You can see some of the superbloom in the top of the second photo below; alas, the wind stopped us from getting all the way up there.

P.P.S. While on a boardwalk through dunes outside Pismo Beach, we came across this sign. I didn't even know such a thing existed. And, anyway, wouldn't a legless lizard be the same thing as a snake? "Nope," explains How Stuff Works. "They're two entirely different animals from separate evolutionary lines. Legless lizards evolved from the legged lizards with which most of us are familiar; legless snakes evolved from four-legged snakes that most of us have never seen." Let's hope these four-legged snakes can't jump....

What Is This Thing Called Glamour?

When I worked at Town & Country, people who left often got commemorative covers mocked up for them. Here was mine, from 1996.

Despite what appears to be a goatee, I think it proves that I used to be quite fun. Note the "20-Karat Gold Pants"; the "Looking Fabulous in Skintight Manmade Fabrics" (which must have been about a memorable pair of PVC pants); the reference to my clique; and of course the boa, artfully worn with a plaid flannel shirt. Very Marc Jacobs. I'm not sure why Babe Paley got dragged into this, although she was tremendous. As for "The Avant Gardener," it was a title that my friend/colleague Cheryl and I always hoped to use. And "Who's Sari Now?" was one we did slip into the magazine.

And then there was the one that the folks at Budget Travel made for me 12 years later.... I have to say, they nailed it.

We ran this cover (with a different face) because I was tired of how women—or maybe a straight couple—were always on the cover of travel magazines. Some readers loved it; others hated it. Hey, whatever makes them pay attention.... As for the cover lines (clockwise from the top left):

1. The magazine's official name was Arthur Frommer's Budget Travel, even long after he was pushed out. Not only did they make the magazine mine, they intentionally misspelled my name, in honor of people tending to get it wrong.

2. I assigned myself a feature about a long winter weekend in Europe, and then I went to the wrong airport. Luckily, the flight was delayed. Still, you have to remember, I was the editor of a travel magazine.

3. I didn't care for unnecessary brackets or parentheses. Still don't!

4. The "idonttravelcheap.com" URL in the lower right corner points out that in some ways I was an awkward fit for the topic.

5. The nipple-biting stingray was discussed here.

6. Regarding the white lines on the left side: I don't think Shawnda and I insulted many locals; I never actually got the trumpet player outside my office window deported; and I'm pretty sure we never determined whether the Pret girl was pregnant. Last but not least, I blogged tipsy once, about Las Vegas (and I was right about the city, if ill-advised to air my thoughts).

P.S. "Mexican Macho Bananas" sounds like a cover line for a different kind of magazine.

Snake's Alive!

I was just finishing a post-swim coffee when Adam called me at the café: "I think there's a snake in the kitchen. And it might be a rattlesnake." He had been standing by the coffee maker when he heard what he described as a hiss coming from under the cabinets. 

When I got home, Adam climbed up onto the island, inching toward the snake on his belly, so he could take a photo with his phone. You could make out eyes, but not much more—certainly not enough to determine whether it was a rattler. (And we had been Googling the relevant attributes.) I had the bright idea of using our real camera, including the flash.

I called Santa Barbara Animal Control, which said we're in the county's jurisdiction. Santa Barbara County Animal Control didn't open for another 45 minutes, so I left a message and Adam tried a pest-control company. They said to call Andy, the Wildlife Trapper. "I'll drop everything and be there in 20 minutes," he said. In the meantime, we were told to stand guard in case the snake decided to move somewhere else.

"That's a western rattlesnake," he said when he saw the photo. "I see five or six a year. They're extremely dangerous. If it bit you, you'd have about six hours to get treatment, but that's really painful and expensive. It costs like $100,000." We nodded along, even though it sounded like a fair amount, all in all. He explained that he was going to have to kill the snake, which he would hopefully do by shooting it in the head with a .22 caliber pellet rifle. "You have to be really sure it's dead," he said. "We eat them—"

"Oh, sure," Adam said. "It’s like eel at a Japanese restaurant!"

"—and once, after I killed one, I cut off the head and skinned it and put the meat in my bag and I could still feel it wiggling around in there." 

As he lined up his shot, the snake rattled its tail. (Adam can now say he knows what that sounds like.) Andy fired the gun. "Got it! There's blood everywhere." After Andy turned to tell us something, however, the snake disappeared somewhere inside the cabinetry.

"I'm 99.9% sure it's dead, but we don't want to leave a dead animal here," said Andy. "The smell will be terrible. I’ve done so many dead-animal removals and I can tell by the smell whether it's a possum or a rat. For some reason snakes and rabbits are the worst." I think Adam and I might've been willing to put up with the rotting corpse if we could just get confirmation that it was, in fact, a corpse.

Andy drilled a hole into the cabinet wall for a better look. There was plenty of blood, but no clear trail—and no way it could've come in this way. "I think this rattlesnake came in through an open door," said Andy, vindication for those of us who weren't happy about several doors being left open the evening before. Andy kept inspecting the cabinetry, looking for pockets where the snake could be hiding, and carving holes. "I don’t want to stick my hand in, for obvious reasons."

After two hours of being here—and quite a bit of light carpentry—Andy found the snake. He couldn't see all of it, but he could see the rattle. Judging from the six rings, the snake was six years old. Andy grabbed what he called his bat tongs, most recently used for a bat extraction, to pull the snake out.

"SHIT! HE'S STILL ALIVE! FUCKER!" Andy reared back. "Pardon my language. Man, that was close." As he had grabbed at the snake, it had somehow coiled around and come toward him. "Oh my lord," said Andy, clearly pumped full of fear and adrenalin. "That was close. I need my rifle." Adam handed him a hoe-like tool, to pin the snake down, and the rifle. Andy shot the snake again. And again. “Blew its brains out there, for sure." Ten seconds later, he seemed to rethink his position. "And because this sucker's been such a pain in the ass, he gets one more.” Bam!

The snake was around a foot-and-a-half long. After giving us the photo op, Andy took the snake out to behead it. He came back a little jittery. I asked if he was still reeling from the adrenalin. "It tried to get me again!" he said. "I carefully dumped it out of the garbage bag and onto the ground, and it lunged around to attack one last time."

I hate killing animals, but this was clearly an extenuating circumstance. Many, many thanks to Andy!

P.S. Post-snake, Adam and I went to lunch at a restaurant where you're given a buzzer after ordering, to notify you when the food is ready. We got our drinks from the machine, along with napkins and condiments, and as we were heading through the crowded outdoor area, Adam turned to me and said, "You have the vibrator, right?"