The General Situation

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.

Geronimo!

Well, this is not something you want to find outside your front door. Apparently, the owner of the house we're renting neglected to pay the water bill.

Everyone who comes here wonders who the owner is, and we have precious few answers. Around seven years ago, he built this house and another one as investments; the other one sold quickly, but this one didn't. So he rented it for a while, until the big fire destroyed the landscaping around the house and everything soft (i.e., fabric) inside had to be replaced. Which is why we were subsequently able to rent it for a relative deal.

The man himself, however, remains a mystery. He once worked for Goldman Sachs, but no one knows where he lives—not us, not the brokers who have represented the house for sale (and who are helping us look for a house), and not the broker who represents the house for rent. (In fact, she has never even spoken to him on the phone.) He has a Japanese name, but while some of his emails can read awkwardly, the brokers who have spoken to him say that he's most definitely fluent. I like to picture him in a sky-high penthouse, stroking a hairless cat.

Anyway, he apologized for the water sitch; the credit card on file had expired. And Adam got to go down to the Montecito Water District—once his nemesis, but that's a story for another day—to pay the bill in person, as directed, before we got shut off.

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Adam has been pestering me to do an Instagram ad for Siteline, and it would indeed be nice if someone would read the site. To say the process has been an exercise in frustration is a massive understatement. 

First, I was told that I either had to link my Siteline Instagram page to an existing Facebook page or to create a new Facebook page—but there was no link to do the former. Doing the latter created a duplicate page, which I tried to merge with the real page, but Facebook said I was forbidden to do such a thing.

Then, after I chose the parameters for ad, it was rejected because Facebook (which owns Instagram) requires extra scrutiny for ads relating to "social issues, elections, or politics." The ad was about "the grooviest house in greater Santa Barbara," but of course there was no way for me to explain their mistake to them. Instead, I was directed to "confirm my ID," so they could be comfortable that I wasn't a foreign agent. This entailed turning on the dreaded two-factor authentication; uploading a copy—front and back—of my driver's license; and submitting a non-P.O.-box mailing address so the company can snail-mail me a postcard with a code that I'll have to enter.

This rant isn't just to whine about Facebook, a company I despise. It's to show that while Facebook may, in many ways, be as evil as the media likes to portray it, it's also fantastically inept.

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This photo stopped me cold when I was looking at listings. You rarely see diving boards anymore, presumably because they make insurance companies nervous. What's the fun of being a kid if you can't do an upside-down cannonball every now and then? Related: "Why do we scream 'Geronimo' when leaping from things?"

Snake, Rattle, and Roll

Exciting times on the hiking trail yesterday! Adam and I were minutes from the house when we came upon a very large snake—much larger than the one that was in our kitchen. It turned its head toward us and rattled its tail. Message received! We waited as it slithered into the bushes, and then we waited a few minutes more. They shake their rattles to let others know they're there; it's a warning not to disturb them, and not a warning that they plan to attack. We slowly walked forward, taking enough so the snake would know we were approaching but not so much that we wouldn't be able to hear its rattle again. P.S. I took a video, but I was too far away (and I shot it in portrait mode).

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Just as exciting, but in a different way: I had the best chocolate chip cookie of my life—it was both crispy and chewy—at Bossie's Kitchen. (You have to take a bite before you know whether it's photo-worthy.)

Minding My Beeswax

My website is live: It's called Siteline, and the URL is sitelinesb.com. Please bear in mind that it's still very much a work in progress (which explains all the spaces marked "advertisement." And don't bother signing up for the email newsletter, because I can't get the developer to confirm that emails are even being stored at this point.

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A recent houseguest gave me a bit of stink eye when I covered a bowl of leftovers in plastic wrap. What else was I supposed to do? Use Bee's Wrap, it turns out. From the about page on the website:  "By infusing organic cotton with beeswax, organic jojoba oil, and tree resin, [founder Sarah Kaeck] created a washable, reusable, and compostable alternative to plastic wrap." You use the heat in your hands to press them into shape. A three-pack in various sizes is $18, but they're said to last a year. And they work!

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I forgot to mention that when our neighbor came over the other day, she said that we're just entering tarantula season.

Back to Square One

We had a brief negotiation over a house but it didn't work out; the owner wants more than we think the property is worth. While this development is dispiriting, we were always a bit ambivalent about the house—there was some tweeness to the style and questionable air flow, and we would have had to do significant construction. The search continues! Below: a house that we went back to for a second visit. It's like something out of Clue.

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Last night we hosted a Newcomers dinner party: six fellow members came over for an organized potluck. (As hosts, we got to decide the theme. We went with "farmer's market," because we're big fans of it, which you may not have realized.) I don't know if this is a Santa Barbara thing, a Newcomers thing, or what, but they all arrived early. And they stayed for four and a quarter hours! So I guess everyone had fun.

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And today, we had our pistol of a next-door neighbor over, although "next-door" is relative. After we showed her our house, she showed us hers, including the substantial garden that we can sort of see from our terrace. Among the topics discussed was the fire two years ago that affected both of our properties. Later, she sent a time-lapse video taken by a neighbor's security camera and the photo below.

Melon Man

I've written before about the "soft connections" we've made around here—not friends, nor even acquaintances, just people who recognize us. Our latest conquest is the guy selling melons at the farmer's market. Melon season overlapped with multiple houseguest visits, so we've been buying a lot of melons. And rather than simply grab one and pay, I've been engaging the seller with questions: How ripe is this melon, what does this one taste like, etc. I trust his choices more than my own guesses, even though I suspect his father (who grows the melons but skips the markets) is the real expert. Anyway, he now knows us as a pair, and I think he might even recognize us individually.

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For research purposes, I went to the open house for an 1880s Queen Anne house in the Upper East neighborhood. It got carved into apartments decades ago, and ridden hard. The ghostly glimpses of lives past were moving.

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The other morning, I woke up to an email from the new editor of Tribeca Citizen chiding me for unsubscribing from the site's emails. But I hadn't! But she got a notification that I had! And I didn't receive that day's email.... Then, a couple of hours before dinner, I realized that there had been no text confirmation for the reservation—and when I looked into it, I saw that I hadn't received an email after making the reservation, either. At the restaurant, the owners said that I had made two reservations for that night, including one for 6:15 p.m. (which is early even for me). But I hadn't! At least I don't think I had. And why didn't I get an email for either reservation? I believe that there are good explanations for these situations, although I doubt I'll ever learn them. In the meantime, I'm left feeling like I'm having a weird reaction to Ambien, and I don't even take the stuff. (Please let me know if I send you any weird midnight emails.)

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This guy was standing in the middle of a parking lot—i.e., between me and lunch—and he wouldn't look up, even after I yelled out the window several times. I had to resort to honking, which people rarely do in Santa Barbara. He budged just enough to let me pass, without ever turning away from his phone.

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Last spider-related photos for a while, I promise: a stunning web visible from our master bathroom and the family that lives near the light switch in the garage.

Good Housepeeking

When we started searching for a house to buy—was it last fall?—the hunt was fun. Who doesn't like to look at houses? Over time, however, it has become a drag. Adam and I are wildly ready to put down roots here, but we don't want to settle. So we keep looking.

Today, we saw five houses. Wednesdays are when properties new to market (and occasionally just because) are available for a "broker's open." Civilians are generally welcome, too, and anyway, most of the brokers know us at this point. "You guys are still looking?" asked one at the first house we visited. At least he remembered us.

The good news is that we might be ready to move forward, but that's all you'll get from me unless it works out. (Don't call/text/@ me, because I won't break.) The other good news is that all five properties were ones I could see myself writing about with enthusiasm, which got me excited again about my real-estate website. The launch should happen any day now.

Here are a few photos from four of the houses. The first one was straight out of a Wes Anderson movie. I'm not convinced we're interesting enough to live there.

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An upside to spider season: The webs are stunning, especially when bedazzled with dew.

Stepping Out

This might be the smallest lizard I've ever seen. Adam's mom, who lives in Ojai, said she's been seeing them lately, too. Perhaps they're the result of a mating season?

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If you can get your hands on good celery—the wan Foxy stuff at the supermarket will not do—and decent dates, I highly recommend the celery, date, and almond salad from Joshua McFadden's Six Seasons cookbook. Anyone who doubts celery's star potential will find it revelatory.

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When our friends Pete and Naria were here, I made Pete—who loves a gizmo much more than I do—explain how to work the Instant Pot I received for Christmas. (Time flies.) The reason I wanted one was to cook dried beans, which takes hours on the stove, and even if I have the time, I get antsy. The instruction manual offers time ranges for various beans, which made me nervous: the difference between seven and nine minutes of pressure cooking is huge. So I didn't use my beloved Rancho Gordo beans for the inaugural run. Instead, I threw in some borlotti beans that Adam had given me for my birthday (as part of a large assortment of dried legumes; think about that for a bit). The beans were old, though, and many split when I soaked them. So it wasn't a surprise that they ended up overcooked. On my next attempt, I'll take Pete's advice and skip the soak, and I guess I'll cook them for the minimum recommended time, although I'm not sure what you do with the beans if you open the pot and they're not done....

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I haven't been walking enough lately, mainly because the weather has been glorious—which is swell except that I'm wary of spending time in the sun, and I really hate applying sunblock. Today, I got over it and went for a long walk from Stearns Wharf up through the Mesa neighborhood. Along the beachfront stretches, I enjoyed seeing people hosting parties at the park grills, but I was relieved to climb up the Mesa, because I'd rather look at houses than cars. (Santa Barbara's waterfront has an awful lot of parking lots, many of which you have to go out of your way to avoid.) The photo below was taken around 2:30 p.m. on a Saturday in August—and look how few people are on the beach!

I understand that beaches need parking, but I'd much rather walk down a long staircase to the sand, if at all possible. I came across two such staircases—one in Shoreline Park, and the other at the end of a short residential cul-de-sac. The latter is called One Thousand Steps, but it's more like Two Hundred Steps. At the bottom is a long stretch of beach with even fewer people on it.

I was meeting Adam at an open house, so I headed uphill, into a residential area. I needed a photo of an interesting mailbox for my real estate website (more on that soon). Imagine my delight when I came across this one.

And this one!

Rats!

The rat guy came. He looked around the perimeter of the house, checked to make sure the entry points he had blocked last time are still in good shape, and concluded that we have a lot of rats.

Me: What's that stain in the corner?

Rat guy: Some of the rats are females.

Me: Oh.

It's not a surprise that there are rats in this area, because when after we bought our previous house, we were informed that "everyone" hires the pest-control company to put out bait boxes. Everyone, apparently, except the owner of the house we're currently renting. The rat guy said bait boxes would definitely help, but a roofer first needs to seal up the nook above the front door; the preponderance of rat poop and the mad scratching we recently heard suggest the a rat occasionally hangs out there, and the last thing you want is for a poisoned rat to crawl inside your wall and die.

Rat guy: Do you have bats?

Me: Not yet.

The rat guy said rodents will likely remain a problem, even after the bait boxes get deployed, because (a) our house abuts the national forest, and (b) rats are drawn to the smell of their own excrement. Last time I cleaned up rat poop, I swept much of it into nearby garden beds, which I now know was not the very best idea I've ever had. Today, after reading about a man who caught leptospirosis from "exposure to rodents and their waste," I put on a face mask and embarked on another cleaning mission. Zero tolerance! I even swept under the two-ton outdoor sofas. My goal was a clean slate, so that I'll be able to tell exactly how bad the problem is from now on. And I'm not cleaning again until the bait boxes arrive. The owner of the house delays the roof repair at his own peril: One place the rats love to poop is next to the front door, which we never use but a prospective buyer most certainly would.

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We've been watching "Money Heist" on Netflix, a show about the robbery of a mint in Madrid. (Is there a worse title than "Money Heist"? The show's original title was "La Casa de Papel," or House of Paper, although I assume the idiom translates as "house of cards," with the additional pun of "paper" as slang for money.) Anyway, it's alternately engaging and ridiculous. If it were 10 episodes, I'd recommend it wholeheartedly. But it's 30 episodes—and counting—we realized last night after finishing number seven. Thirty! No wonder the show feels so stretched. One memorable example was when the narrative was paused for a long montage of the two female protagonists engaging in drunken horseplay in their underwear. But that's life in the streaming era: It's in everyone's interest, except the viewer's, for shows to go on and on and on.

Music is the same way. This is why every album now has an expanded version with umpteen more cuts on it. Before my cleaning spree, inspired by Lana Del Rey's seductive cover of "Doin' Time," I put on Sublime's self-titled album on Spotify. I accidentally chose the "Deluxe Edition," so I was treated to five consecutive versions of "Doin' Time." (I didn't want to contaminate my phone with rat cooties, so I just let it play.) 

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Bring on the Locusts

The spiders—and spider-like creatures—were just the beginning. I subsequently discovered mouse droppings all around the exterior of our house. Adam wasn't all that concerned, figuring that the outside is their turf more than ours. I felt differently, but then I cleaned the poop up, and then two days later, cleaned it up again, all the while fearing that I'd be cleaning it up every two days for the rest of our time here and convinced that I'd soon be the subject of a New York Times Magazine "Diagnosis" column about the dangers of rodent feces. (Reading that column is like Russian roulette: one in six ends unhappily.)

Then, while I closed the pool cover, a rat unrolled along with it. We were both shocked: I screamed, "Adam!", while the rat looked left and right, trying to determine what the hell was happening. Adam thought it was a large mouse. You can imagine how vindicated I felt when, the next day, he unrolled the cover and the rat—Adam's doubts were gone—ran right at him. Adam screamed, "Erik!", and the rat ran up the outdoor stairs, only to find me staring down at it. The three of us froze, like we were starring in a revival of Betrayal. Eventually, the rat jumped into some bushes.

Our friends Pete and Naria were due the next day. "Let's not mention the rat," said Adam. That plan worked brilliantly until, five minutes after they arrived, a rat—I do hope it's the same one—skittered right in front of Naria. She handled it bravely, more or less, although she would've been more polite to accept our explanation that Montecito bunnies quirkily resemble rats.

One night, Adam opened the balcony door in the master bath and there was a loud flapping noise. Sure that he was letting in a bat, I yelled at him to shut the door. The largest dragonfly I have ever seen—it was the size of a bird—stared at us through the window for a while. At another window, 50 moths flapped their wings madly, trying to get in. I swear, it felt like nature was reclaiming the property, and fast.

Then the ants came. I knew we were in trouble when I saw three in the kitchen one afternoon. Sure enough, the next morning they were marching en masse for the balsamic vinegar, which we keep on the counter because this crazy huge house has no pantry. Ziploc bags discouraged them until they found the honey. I'm always worried that houseguests think we live dirtily, and this didn't help.

A few months ago, a guy from the local pest control company came and sprayed the perimeter of the house; he said they do it every three months. I called the company to find out when the next visit would be, only to learn that the owner of the house canceled the service. We put out ant traps, which seemed to help, and arranged for another spraying. As for the mouse/rat situation, the company is sending over a rodent expert. (The house's owner, heretofore unresponsive, has jumped to action on this matter; the last thing he wants is for a potential buyer to see an army of ants in the kitchen or a rat hanging out by the pool.) The rodent guy can't come soon enough, because yesterday there was an hour of furious scrabbling inside the foyer wall....