The General Situation

A Bird's-Eye View

As I mentioned last time, the pools are open, which is fantastic, but we're not allowed to change in the locker rooms or by the pool, using a towel to perform what's called a deck change. That didn't stop one old woman, who was under the impression that if she turned her back to us, we couldn't see her.

Somehow, I have found it possible—but awkward to the extreme—to change out of my suit and into shorts while sitting in the driver's seat of my car. Naturally, I try to wait till no one is nearby. The other day, however, I was midway through the act—i.e., the worst possible moment—when a couple pushing a stroller approached. They must've come from inside a building. I dragged my towel over my lap right as they reached the window. It was not a good look, but it beat the alternative. I did wish I hadn't been wearing my Joe Biden shirt.

Later on, and I don't even know if I was thinking about all this, I couldn't recall the word exhibitionist. Opposite of voyeur, starts with ex.... In hindsight, I should not have asked Adam. That afternoon, while we were looking at a house, the broker explained that the windows in the master bath can be made opaque with the flip of a switch. "Erik wouldn't use that," he said. "He's an exhibitionist."

I objected, strenuously, probably making it seem even likelier to be true. And Adam explained that he was thinking about my attempts to change out of my swimsuit. But I suspect the damage was done. 

P.S. These birds must like to watch, because they built a nest in our shower window.

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I've really struggled with Gary Shteyngart's novel Lake Success, despite loving his Super Sad True Love Story. The characters are unlikable and unbelievable, a sour combination. But this line, about a Greyhound bus trip, was gold:

The PA system screeched to life. "Tuscaloosa," the driver sighed, as if he had had his heart broken there.

21st Century Fox

The pool opened! We're not allowed to use the locker rooms, and deck changes—where you get in/out of your suit while wearing a towel around your waist—are forbidden. So I have to do it in the parking lot, where the stakes are even higher. What is everyone so afraid of? Is it to protect the children? Do people not realize what kids see every day on the Internet?

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And we got haircuts!

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I still have a bunch of doctors I need to see. I might try out a new dentist....

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With the hot weather come the snakes, but around our house, we've only seen harmless ones. We still get excited, of course. The one below, from yesterday, was stretched across our driveway, leaving us just enough room to squeeze by. (Snakes don't seem to fear cars.) We were edging by it, and I was leaning out the passenger window to make sure we wouldn't hit it, when the gate started closing on us. So we both started shrieking and trying to push the gate away. I wish there was video.

Seeing the snake photo on Instagram, our friend Jane expressed concern that we're living somewhere too wild, and that we should be careful. I laughed it off—Montecito is a lot of things, but it's not wild—and then last night, we were watching a movie when this fox stopped by. We considered ourselves lucky it didn't hop over the snake guard in a nearby door.

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The movie was Portrait of a Lady on Fire, which I quite liked. Two other recent films I'd recommend, but not to everyone: Give Me Liberty, if you're generally a fan of art films, and Bodied, if you can handle battle rap.

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The jacaranda trees are blooming all over town.

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We're still looking for a house, but we can't decide whether it makes sense to buy (inflation could be around the corner, making real estate a relatively stable investment) or wait (the real estate market could crash, allowing us to get something better). There's been a bit more interest in the house we're renting; last week, the personal assistant and security guy for a "high-profile celebrity from L.A." came to scout the property for their employer, who liked what she saw online. (We knew the security guy would nix it because the house is accessible from a hiking trail.) Our broker wouldn't tell us who the star was, of course, only that she was legitimately famous and a "single-name celebrity." After some Googling, I'm pretty sure we figured it out.

Schmear and Now

The most important news: Good bagels in Santa Barbara! A guy is making them as a side hustle, so you have to reserve in advance before they sell out, and they're not cheap ($3-4). But who's complaining?

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During a social Zoom call a couple of weeks ago, someone said Adam and I should really be day drinking "since you don't have anything else to do." Perhaps I should write about my business more often! And Siteline is a business now, if not a profitable one yet. I've even broken some fairly big news.

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One of Siteline's competitors has a Dog of the Week feature about a dog up for adoption. In a first, today's was a pug, Pepper, and no, we're not submitting an application. (If someone buys the house that we're renting, we'll need to find a new furnished rental, which will be much harder if we have a dog.) The best part of the blurb was this: "Pepper would make a great addition to a home that understands the care of pugs." In other words, someone who knows what the hell he's getting into.

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It's the nature of the presidential primaries that your favorite candidate, should such a thing exist, is not likely to be the ultimate winner. So get over it. You're not marrying the winner, and since when did you expect politicians to be likable? (Blame Obama.) All of which is to say that I'm tired of reading complaints that Joe Biden isn't exciting, when the prospect of anyone beating the flatulent fraudster, the malignant monster, is absolutely riveting. I think we all need to get a bit more publicly excited about Biden, and that's why I bought a Biden shirt. (What old person thought "JoeBiden.com" had to be on there?) The first time I wore it, while biking, I ran into—not literally, alas—a parade of protestors demanding that they be allowed to go back to work. I puffed out my chest to provoke a reaction, but nada.

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An email exchange with my mother-in-law and my husband.

Barbara: Here's a sign for Erik.
Adam: I don't understand! Why's this for Erik?
Barbara: He’s the strange sign collector.
Me: I prefer “collector of strange signs.”
Adam: He likes the avocado theft sign but not sure there are any other examples?
Barbara: Yes—several other signs he’s posted. So that means he’s a sign nut.
Adam: Sign nut has a nice ring to it.

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Everything should have an "Extra Toasty" option.

Rock Bottom

Damn Cheez-Its. I suspected I was gaining pandemic weight, and then, after jogging one day, I did my physical therapy exercises with my shirt off. In front of a mirror. Boy, that's a mistake I won't make twice. It was like Disneyland's Haunted Mansion, except instead of a ghoulish reflection I saw a pale, puffy, jiggly one. 

Me: I think I'm gaining weight.
Adam: We both are.
Me: Wrong answer! You're supposed to say, "No, you're not."

Then this happened. Luckily, no one witnessed it.

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Still, as we say around here, a bitch gotta eat. Today, we got takeout from Mony's, which has excellent burritos. My Marylander husband proved he has no idea how to eat one.

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"Jeopardy!" put out word that it's seeking contestants in the Santa Barbara area. My mother-in-law, bless her heart, thought of me.

Barbara: You should apply!
Me: I actually tried out back when I was in college. It was humbling.
Barbara: You're a lot smarter now.
Me: Perhaps. But I remember less.

I may or may not be wiser, but when it comes to "Jeopardy!"-style trivia, I'm definitely not smarter. Back then, armed with all that stuff I overheard in high school, I had an almost uncanny ability to guess right even when I had no idea what the answer was. (You really didn't want to play Trivial Pursuit against me, because I was also a gloater. Still am, probably.) But at the "Jeopardy!" tryout, I didn't have the answers—so much was out of my wheelhouse. I can't blame nerves, because it wasn't like we were onstage holding clickers. It was a written test, like any other.

Anyhow, I just took the online test, out of curiosity. I killed it, especially after I saw the fine print saying that you don't have to frame the answer in the form of a question (which I realized about one-third of the way through the 50 questions). But now I'm all hopped up on stress, and even if I get the call for an audition—I'm sure they have no shortage of middle-aged white guys—I don't know that I'd pursue it. 

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At least I still have crosswords. Yes, that's the right answer. Still gloaty.

First Photo Challenge

Me: You know that "first photo challenge" that couples are doing on Instagram?
Adam: I have a good one for that!
Me: Which photo?
Adam: Oh, wait, it has Jeremy in it. No, it has Barry in it.

Anyway, here's one with me from 2005. Anything earlier is in a shoebox in New York.

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Daytime / Killing time between coffee and wine.

That's a poem—or a couplet from an unfinished country song—I wrote years ago, and it has never felt more apt. Making one day feel different from another is a challenge; the other morning, my first thought upon waking was, Why bother?

I have realized that I need to do something active every day, ideally first thing in the morning after coffee. As with swimming, it puts me in a good mood for hours. So I've been running, not just on the trails but on the streets, and nothing makes me miss swimming more. But there are enjoyable moments, usually involving the native fauna. I feel like Cinderella, what with all the quail, squirrels, chipmunks, lizards, and snails hanging around. I suppose I'm more of an anti-Cinderella, since the animals run away from me, but you get the point. (Yes, I said snails—I love snails—and no, they don't technically run.)

If the weather is acceptable, I'll ride my bike. Adam recently passed me in a car, and he told me later that he was surprised to see me smiling broadly. That's what I do when I ride a bike on a pretty day, on a flat surface, with no wind. The only problem is that I eat a fair amount of bugs.

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I thought this song was great, but you probably have to be gay to agree. I'd recommend starting 45 seconds in.

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Zooming with my parents....

What a Difference a Day Makes

Yesterday...
Me: Too bad you hiked and I biked at the same time. We should’ve staggered our activities so that we each got some alone time at the house.
Adam: I’m always happy to be with you.

Today...
Adam: I’m going on a walk.
Me: I was thinking of going on one, too. Should we go together?
Adam: No.

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I highly recommend a long drive and, if possible, a hike. We went up to Buellton, in the Santa Ynez Valley, where we ate sandwiches from Industrial Eats in a park with an amazing wisteria-covered picnic area. And then we took a beautiful hike at Figueroa Mountain. But the best part about the whole outing was just being somewhere else—somewhere besides this house—for six hours. Finally, one day was significantly different from all the others.

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In an effort to be positive, here are ten things that have brought me joy lately.

1. I miss so much about swimming—the camaraderie of my Master's group, the meditative nature, and most of all, the post-workout glow that lasted for hours. Walking and hiking are great, but they're just not as aerobic; biking can be, especially coming back to this house way up the hill, but the morning weather rarely cooperates. (It's cold coasting downhill.) So I've started running the trail loop we often hike from our house; what normally takes us an hour, I do in 35 minutes. And I feel fantastic for hours afterward.

2. Another benefit of trail running: I can eat Cheez-Its with less guilt. Cheez-Its are the best.

3. The Mirror and the Light, the third and final novel in Hilary Mantel's series about Thomas Cromwell. The plot gets saggy, but the writing is always fresh and evocative. At one point she described an afternoon as being so damp it was as if it had been wiped with a snail.

4. My pet lizards. Stubby has moved on, but the ones on the master bath balcony are still around. (Recently, however, I did have the uncomfortable realization that I'm the one trapped in a terrarium.) I'm not above talking to any lizard, especially these days.

Adam: What are you doing down there?
Me: There's a lizard on the lawn, which I've never seen before. So I'm talking to it.
Adam: I could use your help with something, but it can wait till you're done.

5. Pretzel M&Ms and almond M&Ms. I'm usually a classicist when it comes to M&M's—plain or peanut—but the store was out of those. The smart move would be to mix up a batch of pretzel and almond varieties....

6. Adam's uncle Thom recommended the taped version of the National Theatre's production of One Man, Two Guvnors starring James Corden (and free on YouTube), and while the hamminess can grate at times, I still laughed out loud. It's a nice break from dark, twisty TV shows.

7.  These songs.

8. Like everyone else, I've given up on wearing real clothes unless I leave the house. Unhappy with my loungewear, I bought a pair of sweatpants from Vuori, and they're great—so lightweight they're barely there. What I thought was navy is actually royal blue mixed with black, but no one sees the pants, and the 20% discount for new customers made the $84 list price a little more palatable.

9. We've had Zoom cocktails with a few friends and family, which is fun. With East Coast people, we do it earlier than we might normally have a drink, so we need something weak. Enter the Americano, a negroni with seltzer instead of gin. (In other words, 1.5 ounces each of Campari, sweet vermouth, and seltzer.) I've had Americanos before and never loved them—with no gin to fight back, the Campari overwhelms—but our beloved Bettina turned us on to Bruto Americano, a more nuanced alternative to Campari. And we can buy Bruto directly from the restaurant—another way to help them in these difficult times.

10. The only pug I follow on Instagram is Walter. Every time his toothy face pops up, it gives me delight. And, rare in Pugville, his owners never dress him up.

Treading Water

It's amazing how quickly you can go from one rut groove to another. The world seemed totally upended a year ago, and now everything is simultaneously strange and normal in a new way. We get up, and maybe we exercise (walking, hiking, or biking, but no swimming); we talk about what to have at our next meal, we cook it, and we clean up; sometimes we nap; sometimes we read. The other day, I considered clipping my toenails, then wondered if I should save it for when I really need something to do. Or should I clip them right away, so that I'll need to do it again that much sooner? 

I understand why people would be upset about Trump easing restrictions. On the other hand, we could encourage him to have a rally.

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Several friends have suggested we get a dog now, but our lease forbids pets—inside, anyway. We already have several outside. There's Stubby, a lizard who hangs out by the garbage cans outside our garage. He's been around for a week.

And then there are the lizards that sunbathe on our master bathroom balcony. First, there were two, and then a third one showed up. It's smaller, so we figured it's a family. But now there are five total. Sometimes their behavior is very pug-like.

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Uranus has been gassy.

Alone Together

Well, these are shitty days. The boredom and loneliness are annoying, but the dread—the fear—that something far worse is coming is often hard to bear. Rather that get glum about it, Adam and I keep reminding ourselves what a run of luck we've had: in particular, selling that damn house in the nick of time and being sequestered in a pretty wonderful place. Knock on wood.

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During dinner the other night, Adam was talking about current events, a.k.a. the many ways in which the world is royally fucked. So I sighed.

"This really weighs heavily on you, doesn't it?"

"Sometimes," I said. "But that sigh was because I just realized that we'll be sitting across from each other like this, and talking about this, for the next eight weeks, and that's if we're lucky."

To his credit, he neither yelled, cried, nor locked himself in the bathroom.

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Early on, I made a list of chores for whenever I got bored. First on the list was vacuuming the sofa, but that sounds strenuous and depressing, so I did everything else instead. I rearranged the bookshelves (in a room we only ever pass through), and discovered that they needed to be dusted, so I did that. I vacuumed the pool table, which I only ever use to fold laundry. I weeded the backyard. And I've laundered everything that can be laundered; if something falls on the floor, I'm off to the laundry room. I think the sofa is next.

And I'm getting an inordinate amount of satisfaction from using up stuff we've had a round for a while—liquid soap in a guest room, a small amount of obscure pasta, etc. I suspect doing so makes me feel like I have a better sense of what I actually have in the house. And, as with the chores, it grants a sense of order in a world tilting toward chaos. Anyway, I recommend it.

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Adam: Is the hat another birthday gift for me?

Me: [Pause.] Yes.

Adam: Thank you!

Me: It's nothing. You gave it to me for my birthday.

Sold!

Me: It's supposed to rain here for the next few days.

Mom: I don't think we're getting rain. Wait, my phone has a cloud with a lightning bolt coming out of it. What does that mean?!

Me: You're not really asking me that.

Mom: Does it mean a thunderstorm?

Me: Not at all. It means electromagnetic radiation will be very strong, so you should only go outside if you're wearing a tinfoil hat.

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And the house is sold! The situation was touch-and-go at the end, or what was supposed to be the end: on the day before we were scheduled to close, the buyer showed up at the escrow office with three checks totaling the purchase price. Two were from his own accounts; the third—the big one—was a check payable to him, which he planned to sign over. And it was an out-of-state check, even though the escrow officer repeatedly warned him she wouldn't be able to accept such a thing. He did manage our expectations well after that, first telling us that he'd need seven business days to straighten the matter out—this was while the economy appeared to be in free fall—and then somehow getting the money wired the next day. Still, for 24 hours, we were convinced we were going to have to move in.

No, we're not looking for a new house just yet. One good thing about the pandemic is that no one—touch wood—is likely to buy the house we're renting anytime soon.

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Humanity is doomed.

Bay City Strollers

Adam and I went to San Francisco for a long weekend—to get away, and to kill time while waiting for the sale of the house to close. (Thursday is the big day.) Unlike most people, I don't have a special fondness for San Francisco, but I like walking around it just fine, so that's mainly what we did. None of the art museums had interesting shows, but we had never been to the Legion of Honor, way out in Lincoln Park.

That's actually an athletic feat, as I'm clinging to the column, like a koala. Anyway, we stayed at the Battery, a private club with 15 or so hotel rooms. If you ignore the tech bros in the public areas—easy enough—it's pretty great. Then again, I may have been swayed by the free bag of Pirate's Booty in the minibar. I don't even like Pirate's Booty! That's just how powerful the goodwill is from an in-room snack clearly labeled as free.

The hotel gets a demerit, however, for window treatments that allow light to seep through—bad in any environment, but especially in a city, where light comes in at all hours. A trick I remembered from by Budget Travel days helped a bit....

One day, we went over to Berkeley, because Adam had never visited the town or the campus. And we both saw something we had never seen before: people playing quidditch, the game from the Harry Potter books. Attempting to play, I should say; flying seems to be an essential part. The young men and women standing and running with broomsticks wedged between their thighs, often clasping the front of the stick with one hand, was quite a visual.

I made Adam go out for a drink before dinner each night, because it's something we don't do in Santa Barbara, where someone always has to drive. At Stookey's Club Moderne, I was delighted by the little nut dish—always a good sign—when the bartender asked if we wanted any peanuts or cheeses. At least I thought she said cheeses, which sounded like supermarket cubes, and we had a big dinner ahead of us. But then I realized she must've said Cheez-Its. Cheez-Its!

And those are the highlights—that and not getting COVID-19 (if, in fact, we didn't). 

P.S. I did come upon a good warning sign.