The General Situation

The Search Goes On

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At the end of last month, one of our real-estate brokers was chatting with another broker, who mentioned that a client of his regretted not buying the house that Adam and I eventually bought. As I may have written here, as much as we liked aspects of the house, we realized—only after buying it—that we dreaded the prospect of a big renovation project, which we felt the house needed. And our broker knew that.

"Make them an offer," she said.

Well, the guy did, and we got to a point where we're basically whole. And now we've closed contingencies, meaning that if the buyer pulls out before we close in a couple of weeks, he forfeits a substantial deposit. And if/when we close, Adam and I will be back where started—looking for a house.

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In the run-up to my fiftieth birthday, whenever I mentioned that the momentous occasion was approaching, I would politely pause so that the listener could insist that such a thing was simply not possible. (It never happened.) I grew resigned to perhaps looking my age; there was some comfort in knowing I don't always act it. And then I went for my colonoscopy. When I was wheeled into the room where it happens—talk about a different musical!—the doctor said, "You're 50? I can't believe it. I would've said 35 or maybe 40." It wasn't when or where I expected it, but I'll take it.

P.S. It helped make up for my initial call to the gastroenterology office, when I was asked, "Are you over 80?"

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Patrick Berry is the best crossword constructor out there, and I get extra joy from the Rows Garden puzzles he devises for the Wall Street Journal every other week. Consequently, I was delighted to see that he has ten free ones on his website. They're definitely worth a go if you like this kind of thing.

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How on earth did this one slip by the censors?

Among the notes reminding me what to write about here is the word "lemons." I have no idea why, so you'll just have to fill in the rest yourself.

Field of Light

It was time for us to get away—from Santa Barbara, from the new house—so we went to Paso Robles for a night. The town is about two hours north, and it feels different enough without having to really travel. Also, we wanted to see Bruce Munro's art installation, "Field of Light." As you can see, it makes for spectacular photos.

I might have liked it more before the sun went down and the lights came on. There's something about colored light that's just tacky.

And I suspect I might have even preferred the valley—unquestionably pretty as it is—even more without the installation at all, especially with the sun setting in the background. I'm hardly immune to Instagram bait like this, but it isn't very nourishing; I have a more spiritual experience every time I hear the frogs in the canyon outside our house.

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My Masters swim group often overlaps with a team of teenagers, including in the locker room. Generally, they're annoying because they never stop yapping—math class, that day's workout, tedious stuff. The other day, however, they talked about the share price of Tesla, how it had gone up that morning and one had already made over $400. Has the world changed or have I changed...?

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We're not going to renew our New Yorker subscription when it ends next month. I've come to dislike the magazine for many reasons that I won't go into here. One thing I will miss about it, however, is something blogger Charles Lavoie noticed years ago. Almost every cartoon could be captioned, "Christ, what an asshole." 

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A friend sent this screenshot of her phone. You know your website is getting traction when someone else's mom reads it.