"Thanksgiving Creepy" is more like it.
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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.
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Maybe names really are destiny.