This whole real estate thing

"Thank you, Bradley. Don't forget to feed the hounds."

Week 2 of this whole real estate thing has wrapped up and (what do you know?) I am completely over it. For some reason watching other people shop for properties on television seemed so exciting, but then I actually starting doing it and it's not exciting at all. Seriously. Especially when I'm on a tight budget and have to “make do” with what I have (something I don't really like doing). It's kind of like watching that Japanese obstacle course show where helmet-wearing contestants have to navigate crazy obstacles to win some prize at the end. In theory it would seem so fun running across giant rotating foam rollers...until you smack into one and fall below into shallow sludge. This is basically what real estate has been like for me -- all glitter and sunshine and giant foam rollers on the outside, and injury, sludge and public embarrassment on the inside.

So far we've made an offer on one place only to find out after getting approved for a loan that the loan could not be used on that specific unit. Thank you Mr. Real Estate Agent, for doing your job correctly and informing us of these things beforehand. (Mr. Real Estate Agent is another story entirely. One that involves inappropriate flirting (from his end, not mine), black Range Rovers, semi-fraudulent dealings and Bocce ball. Oh, real estate agents.) 

Meanwhile, we've made another offer on a place that's a "short sale with a lender-approved price." Though I did not want to get involved in short sales at all, I really liked the place and decided to offer since it was a "lender-approved price" and all. (Air quotes: mandatory.) My bad. In the words of Antoine Dodson, "You are dumb. You are really, really dumb," Crystal. I am clearly stupid for trusting two people who told me this whole "lender-approved price" thing, because it turns out they were either a.) lying, or b.) completely misinformed. (I have a gut feeling it is option A.) The property is not listed at a lender-approved price, but instead is an honest-to-God, all-American, made-in-the-USA short sale. UGH. 

I am now more irritated than I get when humidity terrorizes my hair because we have to wait for the bank's word on all this, and let's face: They're a bank. They have no motivation to give me a short sale property as they'd make more money on the thing if they just foreclosed. LUCKILY, Mr. Real Estate Agent did something right and put a 20-day clause in our offer contract, so the bank has until September 15th to get back with us. I have no faith in short sales, so I'm assuming this is going to be a no-go. 

J and I are already organizing back-up places we plan to make offers on in case this short sale doesn't go through, and so far we have three, ranked in order. I'd be fine living in any of them since this property is not intended to be a dream home or any sort of forever home at all. We just want a place we can live in for around 3 years and keep to rent out to tenants after we move on to a bigger, more permanent place. Essentially we see this first property as being a long-term investment that will fit in nicely to our overall retirement portfolio.

Anyhoo, I laugh at how naïve I was a mere month ago, when I thought this process was going to be easy. It's anything but – mostly thanks to the layers and layers of bureaucracy between me and my potential home(s). It seems like everyone, from the agent to the listing agent to the bank to the mortgage broker, is all on a different page, which means everyone feeds us a different story. A day or so of this I can deal with, but unending weeks of being fed misinformation is just annoying. In an I-need-a-drink sort of way, times 10. No wonder there was a mortgage crisis in this country. If I wasn't already highly skeptical of the process, I'd eat up all the lines I'm fed and “trust” that everyone in the business knows what they're doing and will guide me accordingly.

It's times like these that I wish I had a butler named Bradley who could do all this work for me. I'd tell him what I'd want, and he'd go out and find it, only bothering me with small details that involve signatures or check-writing. Then eventually he'd hand me a key and that would be that. Bradley would of course be rewarded with a 1.7% bonus and modest housing quarters behind the infinity pool or in the old horse stable and we would all be happy.

What not to do to earn my business

The other day an acquaintance (let's call her "Helene") from my high school graduating class emailed me through Facebook. 

I use the word acquaintance loosely. Back then Helene, like her friends, rarely acknowledged my presence whenever our paths crossed in hallway or classroom. Helene, though average-looking, was one of those popular girls who hung out with the "mean" crowd and did things like somehow garner enough of a vote to get nominated for homecoming queen and ride on the homecoming football float, all with a Vaseline-lined smile and a painstakingly practiced wave that made most of us want throw tomatoes at her. But that was 11 years ago and people change, or so popular theory states. 

"Hi Crystal!" the subject line read. I saw it in my inbox, along with her name. My first reaction was 1.) Why does this name sound familiar, and 2.) Ohh yes. Helene from high school. This is random.

After extending the obligatory formalities such as "How are you" and "Hope you've been well," she mentioned she had talked to my friend Laurel recently (the one I grabbed lunch with a few months ago) and "She said you live in ----- -------- now. How do you like it?" Insert various generic questions about why I moved here. "I lived there for five years cause I went to college at ----- -----, but now I live in --- -------- with my husband and our new baby girl..."

Okay, why all the chit-chat and background info? I did not know her 11 years ago, and to be completely honest I didn't care to get to know her now. And then the next line made it obnoxiously clear why she was reaching out to me:

"I work for J. Rockcliff Realtors as a real estate agent, so if you or anyone you know are looking to buy a house, please keep me in mind."

My audible reaction was a loud groan, followed with "You've got to be kidding me." Not only do J and I already have a realtor we are working with, but the fact that someone who just happened to walk the same halls as I did 11+ years ago thinks that's reason enough to give me a sales pitch and secure my business really irritates me. Probably because it's so blatant and contrived and desperate. It'd be one thing if it was an old friend of mine who I'd lost contact with, but for an essentially complete stranger who acts like they aren't a stranger to try and make commission off me feels tacky and in bad taste. Like a flagrant exploitation of the past.

Helene was not my past, though the people I occasionally wonder about were. Those who were good friends of mine, who I lost to either time or disagreement, rarely seek me out. Those were the people that knew me. They knew what I looked like at 9am on a Sunday after staying up all night watching the first three Texas Chainsaw Massacre films consecutively. They knew what boy broke my heart freshman year simply because he preferred blondes. They knew what my favorite type of pizza was at our preferred pizzeria by the beach, and that at 17 one of my favorite past times was cruising around listening to Third Eye Blind in my Miata. Helene was never one of these people. To her I'm just another face in her yearbook, some person she might recognize in "real life" now if our paths crossed again.

A very small number of old friends have reached out to me. I am just as guilty as not reaching out to them. Perhaps it's because those that matter and are lost in time would rather be content with the memories of who we were. Back when our biggest problems weren't mortgages and calorie counting and breast cancer, but rather which movie we'd see that weekend, or whether that cute guy from fifth period would be at a nearby house party. Our futures were ripe with possibility, and this excited us. But the lightness that comes with youth vanishes with age. Maybe its easier to cope with the passage of time by allowing your past to be exactly that -- the past.

And those, like Helene, who didn't know you before, back when you were a walking personification of invincibility, vulnerability, bravery, cowardice and contradiction? 

Well, they'll be there to sell you a house.

Weddings and Chads

Including this weekend I have two more weekends here till I leave for Buenos Aires. Yesterday I had a great day shopping with J (I scored a cute pair of leopard flats at Banana for practically nothing), and last night we went to a huge engagement party at a relative's mansion in the hills. I've never seen said relative's new mansion but my first reaction when we passed the estate gates and parked in the driveway was "Jeeeeeeee-sus...." 

It felt like we we had arrived at Lisa Vanderpump's home in Real Housewives of Beverly Hills. The front doors, made of wrought iron and glass, were at least 10 feet tall, and the giant marble foyer opened into an even more gigantic living room, with marble columns, marble floors and two-story picture windows all along the back wall, showcasing a stunning view of the valley below. The back "patio" (if you could even call it that since it was larger than my entire apartment and parking space combined) was lined with a stately stone balustrade, and had an infinity pool that overlooked a 180-degree view of the valley and mountains in the distance. 

The other day J had asked me what I would be content with when we're older. Last night I found my answer. "This," I said, motioning to the house and view. He agreed that we need to figure out some way to make it happen...that doesn't involve any unethical or illegal activities (much to my dismay). ;)

Anywits, the party was fun, I ate too much as always, etc. etc. And though today is Sunday, I get no J time since he's gone to the wedding of some person he knew way back when. I argued that it was a waste of time driving two hours each way to attend the wedding of a practical stranger, but he argued that he's not like me and doesn't consider people he hasn't talked to in ages as "strangers" if they grew up together. (Which I think it utterly stupid, but hey, in the words of Tamra Barney "You can't argue with stupid.") I'm obviously not at the wedding with him today because -- wait for it -- his delightful head case of a mother will be there! After what happened last year, J and I haven't spoken to her since that charming exchange. I have no desire to ever speak to her or see her again, and J seems to not mind life without her, but it was inevitable that some wedding or funeral would bring us face to face again, and so I said forget it. 

Yesterday over soup at Boudin, J said there's going to come a time when we're going to have to speak to her again, but I disagree. There's no requirement in the marriage code that says I need to pretend everything is all rainbows and unicorns after you not only insult me, but take it a step further and insult my family. I will get all Teresa Giudice if it comes to that. I'm sure it'll be awkward today with J and his mother at this blessed event, but thankfully I'm not there to witness it. 

In other news, summer is officially here, which means the Tool Academy has reconvened at their local watering hole (aka our apartment complex swimming pool). Since my living room windows (which are often open) face the pool, I often hear the staccato of Coors Light cans popping open along with the lovely conversations that the meat heads have down below. Two days ago, a particularly delightful fellow we'll name "Chad" was venting his women woes to his bros over sunscreen and a pack of Natty Ice. Apparently one of Chad's many problems is that he's "doing" a chick he doesn't like. According to his generous descriptions, Chad's chick is not hot enough for him and he really doesn't like her, but he doesn't know what to do since "she comes to all his basketball games" and "has nice tits." An hour later a fellow sunbather named "Morgan" (who had the voice of a phone sex operator) introduced herself to Chad and his buddies in the pool area. From the conversation they had, I had a feeling Chad was going to have no problem moving on from "nice tits" girl.

A good example of a proper crowd wave

Waiting for stage set-up.

Little late to the game with this post, but the U2 concert last week was spectacular. The venue, which holds 69,000 people, was sold out -- though I heard on the news later that many weren't able to make it on time because of terrible traffic jams near the coliseum and little to no parking after the concert started. Oh wellsies, we got there on time! Lenny Kravitz opened, and it was a blast from the '90s watching him perform. Partially died when he played "It Ain't Over 'Til It's Over" (my anthem in college) and "American Woman". After Lenny's act was over, there was a 45-minute lag before U2 started. And you know that means....crowd waves. Big ones. Here was the view from our tier:

At one point during intermission, all three tiers had giant crowd waves circling the coliseum. It was in-cred-eeeb-lay. Precisely why I dig concerts so much -- the audience's energy is always so infectious and exhilarating (okay, maybe not always. There was that time I saw Gordon Lightfoot, well two times, when the audience was very mild-mannered and remained seated throughout, politely clapping after every song. But even that was tons of fun. It was Gordon Lightfoot, for God's sake.)

ANYHOO, then U2 came out and of course they were divine, though I'm still of the mind that Bono needs to 86 his weird, see-through shades. For some reason they remind me of something a pervert would wear. 

With so many people packed in and screaming, I wondered if that's what it must have felt like going to a Beatles concert back in the day. Not that I'm comparing U2 to the Beatles (sorry, they're untouchable), but in terms of legends U2 comes close.

Bono and The Edge

She blogs, finally

My buddy Neil in his salad days (1971).

I think this is the longest I've gone not blogging -- and that includes those three weeks in South America two years ago. I have become a bad blogger (insert self-deprecation here). As a friend of mine would say, "My badsies." How did this happen? I really have no excuse since it takes, what, maybe an hour to write a decent post? And it's not like I'm traveling through a third world country on the hunt for inconvenient pockets of spotty wi-fi; RATHER, I am sitting in a tony suburb having the occasional glass of Veuve in the afternoon (there's always a right time for champagne) and...writing.

What have I been up to lately? Listening to a lot of Neil Young and doing a lot of writing. Yesterday I freelanced all day, not because I had to but because I wanted to (that house down payment is ohsoclose). By the end I was nearly cross-eyed from staring at my computer screen all day, but I was satisfied. So I put on some Neil Young and danced to unwind. Right now I feel like I should be freelancing as much as possible since these summer months are crucial for us to save the last of our down payment. Our apartment lease is up in July, after all, and we don't want to have to rent month-to-month for longer than a few months. Hopefully we'll have at least put a bid on a place by the fall. Real estate is definitely my porn, so it's very exciting scoping out Redfin every day, obsessively taking notes from HGTV's My First Place and balancing our budget to make this happen.

When I'm not freelancing, I'm editing the manuscript (can I just say writing it was a lot more fun than editing it? I've already gone through all the ink in my first red pen and the pages look like they were used to clean up a murder scene -- they are bleeding red). When I'm not writing and editing, I've been reading Mario Vargas Llosa's Aunt Julia and the Scriptwriter (hilarious book -- read it), and working on my fitness. I do power yoga on Mondays, pilates on Tuesdays and Thursdays, and two hours of tango on Thursday night, which is a workout in 3-inch heels. Last week my tango instructor invited me to his salsa class, so I'll be adding that to the mix as well.

The children are doing well. Gidget (aka Cacahuete) has adapted to her surroundings swimmingly, as Lola did when I first adopted her. The other day it dawned on me that I've created a makeshift animal sanctuary of sorts, where homeless pups (and a cat) are spoiled rotten, given warm, fuzzy beds and blankets, and are hugged and petted incessantly. This has done wonders not only for their well-being, but also for my stress level. Ten bucks says a highpoint of Lola's life was when I picked her up yesterday and we danced to Neil Young's "Harvest Moon" while Gidget danced around at my feet.

Neil aside, the only complaint I have is that J's been MIA the past few days with a mad rush of billable hours. But then I step back and survey the situation, and honestly I can't complain. It might not always be like this, since nothing is permanent, but every morning I wake up so thankful that this is my life. I love what I am doing; J loves what he is doing. We are happy together and excited about our plans for the future. I can't help but be appreciative. Every single day.

The big news

We have a new addition to our family!!:

Gidget

 

This past weekend J and I went to the pet store to pick up a new collar for Lola. The county animal shelter was holding an adoption fair near the front of the store, and this adorable chihuahua was sitting quietly in her pen with about five barking dogs. Of course, I had to walk by the pen two or three times and fawn over her and the other pups. Then J held her and, well, it was all over from there.

She is 6 years old, 3.5 pounds (tiny!!) and was found as a stray by the pound. She's very calm and shy, and seems to have been abused and over-bred. (How could anyone abuse such a little peanut? Beyond me.) She does have semi-severe hip issues that will most likely require surgery in a few years, but we didn't care. She had three days to get adopted or be euthanized, and the latter was definitely not an option. I'm a sucker when it comes to an animal that needs a home. 

I wanted to name her Cacahuete (Spanish for "peanut") but we decided to go with something a little shorter: Gidget.

You know it's almost summer when...

...you start figuring out your summer concert schedule. I used to be an avid concert-goer (think upwards of 10 concerts per summer), but these days I'm supposed to be saving for adult things like a home (I swear, watching paint dry is faster and less tedious than saving for a down payment. Siiiiigh). 

On a side note, we've had a change of summer travel plans. We're renting a pied-à-terre for a month in Buenos Aires this summer, which I am happy about since August is official tango month in Argentina, and well, Buenos Aires is one of my favorite cities on the map, but that means -- after buying my plane ticket last week -- that summer concerts are somewhat low on the priority totem pole. BUT, it turns out a friend has three tickets for U2's 360 tour that he can't use since he'll be in Manhattan all month recording with his record label. He offered to sell them to us over dinner on Friday night, and how could I say no? I would never let three perfectly good U2 tickets go to waste.

J. Me. My sister. U2 on June 7th. Inner Chihuahua doing back flips. (And because these tickets were not cheap, they BETTER play one of my favorite U2 songs of all time that I first became obsessed with as a wee 6th grader who loved her Mtv):

I'm sure they'll play my second favorite U2 song, With or Without You (so cliche, I know). 

Oh yes, and I've got some big news I'm planning to blog about on Wednesday. May is turning out to be an excellent month. :)

The aftermath

Well, semi-aftermath since this Venga Bus birthday party celebration is just getting started. But yesterday was my "real" birthday, and I got plenty of amazing surprises. A delivery of super cute flowers sent by a friend, a fun shopping spree, my parents surprising me by showing up in town with a big flower bouquet of their own and a good friend treating me out to late-night drinks were some of the highlights.

But the coolest part of the whole day was after dinner when J and I returned to the car, and there on my seat was a Tiffany's box wrapped with the signature white ribbon. (Inner-chihuahua --> psychotic) That flash of Tiffany blue and white is enough to make any girl giddy, and sadly I am no exception. As I was opening it with the goofiest of wide smiles, J told me not to get too excited because it wasn't jewelry or anything. Well when he said that I knew exactly what it was, and I was right: The Tiffany's porcelain box I've wanted for the past two years!!:

So cute that he actually remembered I wanted it since I've only publicly mentioned the thing twice. And I LOVE it. It's currently sitting on my french country bath stand filled with my rings. Good man.

A celebration to last throughout the years

The next two weeks are going to be some of the busiest I've had in the last six months, but for good reason. It's my birthday next week!! (continue with copious amounts of exclamation marks here). And being that my two favorite holidays of the year are Valentine's Day and my birthday, The Day of My Birth must be celebrated accordingly, much like Jesus'. Meaning it is a weeks-long affair, just like my wedding was. (If you can't already tell, I love a good celebration.)

So I'll be gone this weekend visiting friends and family as we pre-celebrate and indulge in ice cream cake and fondue (calories don't count during your birthday month, obvi), then my actual birthday is on Tuesday (April 19th), followed by the highlight of festivities -- J is taking me to Carmel to celebrate! 

I grew up about an hour from Carmel and since childhood it's been one of my favorite places to visit in-state.

We've decided to lux it up for a long weekend at a cute B&B on Ocean Ave. (the main street downtown). I can't wait to check out our digs since from what I've seen online the place looks ultra adorable, with a stone fireplace, a yellow and white British cottage-style motif, and a wine and cheese social every evening. And is it wrong that I'm kind of excited to be staying a block away from a Tiffany & Co.? Perhaps the weekend will be my chance to practice the art of persuasion. ;)

Anyway I'm really looking forward to trying some of the many restaurants I've read rave reviews about (including Casanova's, dubbed Carmel's Most Romantic Restaurant, and La Bicyclette) and doing lots of shopping and wine tasting. All with my best friend and partner in crime. I cannot wait. 

The following Monday my good friend from New York is flying in with her new baby to spend a couple days here in the city with her husband (who's on business). I can't wait to meet the baby and catch up with my friend since talking on the phone while 3,000 miles apart just doesn't cut it. Her visit constitutes a special b-day present in itself. Later that week my friends are heading over here to throw me a little birthday shindig/Cinco de Mayo party (margaritas, anyone?), and that should wrap up my month.

Oh, and I should point out that in none of this have I even mentioned the royal wedding, which is going to be a celebration in itself at our household, replete with British flag cupcakes and English cucumber sandwiches. (J still hasn't gotten the memo about why we must celebrate this event. But that's okay. I just continually reply "God save the queen.")

Wondercon in pictures

Sadly there were no Ryan Reynolds sightings at Wondercon on Saturday (he was there, I heard, on Friday), and even though I was a bit out of my element I still had a wonderful time rubbing elbows with people much more knowledgeable about comic/pop art than me AND I even got to meet the infamous Elvira, which was...well, surreal, since I remember loving her back in the '80s when I was a kid. Another high? Standing two feet away from the Lou Ferrigno. Amazing!!

Lou Ferrigno: The original hulk.

Richard Kiel, who you may know from such movies as Happy Gilmore, The Spy Who Loved Me and Moonraker. Kiel is HUGE and tops out at 7'2''.

Elvira: The original creator of The Poof.

And this is...not me...posing with Elvira.

The throne from Game of Thrones, which is premiering on HBO soon. I haven't read the books but I've heard many good things -- my brother is absolutely obsessed with the series.

We got to watch Jon Favreau (awesome!!) and Roberto Orci talk about their movie coming out called Cowboys and Aliens, and were also shown a nine-minute sneak peak from the flick.

Favreau seemed very cool and humble, nothing like you'd expect from Hollywood.

After the Cowboys and Aliens panel we walked around the convention center and I found a booth selling the funniest merchandise all based on humorous puns. I had to buy the postcard above since it makes me laugh every time I look at it. To check out all their merchandise visit www.conducthappiness.com.

Learning to let go ... tango-style

Last night J and I braved the heavy rain to attend our first tango class together. I was uber excited as I've always been fascinated by tango and it's been ages since I took a formal dance class, so I got suited up:

Red lips? Check.

Tango shoes? Check.

...and waited for J to get home from work so we could get this party started.

Now, when I hear “tango” I think sexy glides across the dance floor, legs wrapping themselves around partners with frenetic control and the occasional circular dip. Naturally I was expecting to leave class being able to do this.

Which was not the case (and rightfully so). Our instructor was an Argentine named Marcelo (of course this was name) with a thick Spanish accent who's been dancing traditional tango in Buenos Aires, Spain and France for most of his life in competitions and festivals. Marcelo spent the first hour or so teaching our class of six The Walk, which is the backbone of everything in Argentine tango. It looks easy enough and is definitely simple to do on your own. 

But, when paired with J, it was initially disastrous for something that looks so simple to do as a pair. We kept fumbling and staring down at our feet and the whole time J kept whispering "You need to let me lead, you need to let me lead," which started making me really frustrated since it wasn't all my fault. Part of the problem was he wasn't taking the lead. 

As we glided, stinted, across the floor, that scene from My So-Called Life suddenly popped into my head where Patty and Graham take that ballroom dancing class to help save their marriage but they find out that, as in life, they don't work well as partners on the dance floor either. Not that J and I have any marital discord or that we're taking this class to save anything (I just want to learn to tango!) but it was frustrating, nonetheless.

I read online last night that "Tango is a conversation between leader (masculine energy) and follower (feminine energy). To dance well requires connecting with your partner." Tango done perfectly is just that. The woman looks swept up in the man's movements -- she follows and he leads her around the floor. It's a very sensual yet controlled dance that is 100% masculine with the male steering the course. 

I'll admit that my biggest problem last night was learning to let go. I'm used to taking charge and that translated poorly into my movements on the dance floor. I need to surrender and let J guide me. This is what I plan to work on most. At the same time J needs to build up more confidence in his dance moves (to be fair this was our first class), stop blaming me for not following, and just take the unspoken lead.

A few times Marcelo cut in and danced with me to show J and I exactly how it's done and I could already feel that with a maestro it was much easier to follow since his moves just....well, made me. 

"Berry good," Marcelo finally said near the end of class when he gave me back to J. 

Apparently J and I were already getting better at this. 

After we got home we tried practicing in our tiny apartment but there's almost no space to do any dancing in here and I ended up smacking my ankle bone hard against my coffee table. No fun. What we really need is a pied-a-terre in Buenos Aires with a large living room that J and I can dance tango in to our hearts' content. In the meantime we'll continue using the narrow hallway in our apartment to shuffle down in unison.

Athens to Rome or bust

Fabulous news, lambs: I'm doing Europe this summer!!!

I'm going with my fam, which is great since that means my sister (aka one of my BFFs) and I can hang out shopping together every day in "giant floppy sun hats" as she says. I concur. She and my mom are going to Turkey for three weeks in June, then taking a train to Athens, Greece where my dad and I will meet up with them. From there we'll explore Greece and some of the Greek islands. We're still planning an approximate route from Athens to Patras, which is where we'll cast off for Corfu, but I do know that Corfu will be our last Greek locale before taking a ferry over to Italy. 

Once we dock at the port city of Brindisi in Italy, we plan to rent a car and drive up to the Abruzzo region, which includes some of Italy's best medieval castles and villages. (The area is also where Clooney's The American was filmed.) Towns I want to see there include Castel del Monte, Sulmona, Castelvecchio, Pescara and Teramo.

From Abruzzo we'll head back down the boot and cut over to the opposite coast. Again, not sure how far south we'll go -- we might try doing Sicily, but we're not sure yet. I do know we're planning to head up the Amalfi coast where we'll rent an apartment or villa in either Naples or Sorrento for a week and use it as a base for day trips to places like Positano and Pompeii. At the end of our trip we'll fly out of Rome after spending a couple days there too (funny enough I am the only one who wants to see Rome again, everyone else is sick of it. How anyone could ever get sick of Rome eludes me.)

Anyway, mapped out our trip is going to look something like this (not counting the still-unplanned path from Athens to Patras):

One thing I love about traveling with my family is that they're a very off-the-cuff bunch, especially my mom. Making sure we know exactly where we're going to spend each night is not their style, which means advance hotel reservations aren't in their vocab. We usually pick a starting and ending location, buy our plane tickets, then plan a rough idea of where we might be every couple days. Aside from our rented apartment on the Amalfi coat and whatever hotel we book in Athens when we land, I have no idea where we'll be staying along the way and I love the spontaneity of that. I need a good adventure.

Anyway, is it weird that I've already started packing? I guess its symbolic of my near-pornographic eagerness to get this party started. The last time I went on a major trip was when I went to Rio and Buenos Aires in the summer of 09. As on that trip, J won't be coming on this one either since he has to work, but he's very happy for me (I think some of that may have to do with the fact that he can play golf the entire month of July without me getting on his case about it).

The best thing of all about this trip, over all the indigenous olive oil and pasta and wine I'll be consuming? I don't have to ask for any time off to do it. I'll be gone for three weeks and no one can tell me I can't have those days off or I can't leave for that long or any other bureacratic bs. Winning!

The art of introductions

"This is my adopted daughter, Margot."

That same day The Nana gave me her perfume bottles and pearls, she took me to a cute little French bistro for lunch. While we ate at a table near the back of the restaurant, a young trophy wife of a blond waltzed by.

"Hi Jeanne!!!" she squealed, waving at Nana and grinning through perfectly white teeth. (Something tells me this woman greets everyone in this manner and that her teeth have always been this sparkly white. Jealous)

Nana looked up from her coq au vin and squinted for a second as though she'd just seen Jesus in a piece of toast.

"Hello" Nana waved back, smiling pleasantly. The blond continued to make her way to a table at the far corner of the restaurant, where another trophy wife of equal maintenance and pedigree sat waiting for her.

"Who was that?" I asked quietly.

"I don't know; I couldn't see her," Nana replied, reaching for her glasses. Apparently Nana's eyesight is a bit worse than I thought. She can see, but only really with her glasses on. Which made me wonder: Why had she been eating across from me this whole time without them on? Was she trying to block me out? Pressing on.

She picked up her specs and peered through them across the room at the blond. "Ohh, that's my neighbor Janice," she said. "She's the youngest one on our street." 

An afternoon on Nana's street is like stepping into a Golden Girls episode. Everyone on the road is above 70, tending to their gardens and relentlessly checking their mailboxes every hour because it's a good excuse to get out of the house and take a walk, after all. When they aren't outside they're perched near their living room windows watching their neighbor's every actions before they pick up their phones and call each other to gossip that "Marilyn's lawyer son just pulled up to her house for a visit," or that "Sue must be hitting the bottle again since she's outside in her bathrobe with a trowel."

I love them. All of them. But now the million-dollar homes on that street have begun to change hands, with their older more feeble tenants shipped off to nursing homes or their children's houses where care is more readily available, and a new generation of families are moving in starting with "Janice", who looked no more than 35 and fabulous, like a well-polished diamond. 

Later, after our meal, Nana grabbed my arm and said she wanted to stop by Janice's table to say hi and introduce me. (One of the great things about grandparents is they show off their grandchildren -- no matter how old -- as if they were show poodles. Doesn't matter how much or how little you've accomplished, just being a grandchild seems to give grandparents ample pride.) We sidled over to their table and the seated pair beamed at us like a couple characters in that "Black Hole Sun" music video. 

"Hi dear," Nana said to Janice. "I'm so sorry back there, when you said hi I couldn't see who it was. I wasn't wearing my glasses."

"Don't worry about it Jeanne," Janice said. 

"I just wanted to introduce my granddaughter, Crystal..."

"Hi!" I said, shaking her hand. 

"...Crystal's between jobs right now." Nana added.

 Um, okay. Awkward. Normally you follow up a name introduction with some other pithy factoid, like "She lives just down the freeway from us," or "She's 28," or "She's my oldest grandchild." Not: "This is Crystal, and oh by the way she's between jobs right now."

I felt like that scene from The Royal Tenenbaums when Royal introduces Margo to his party guests as: "This is my adopted daughter, Margot." 

Like Royal's introduction, Nana's was just a smidge unnecessary. Especially coming from a woman who has never worked a day in her life (the family inheritance that was passed down to her at a young age was, well, huge). But then I figured Janice might be some corporate power player, where occupations and careers are of dire importance to how she sizes up strangers. 

After we left the restaurant I needed to know. 

"What does Janice do for a living?"

"Nothing," Nana replied. "Her husband makes a lot of money as an engineer, so she does whatever she wants. Lunches, spas..."

"Ah, that would explain why she looks so well taken care of," I said.

"Oh yes, she's very well taken care of."

I wanted to ask, then, why Nana felt it necessary to update this Janice woman on my current job status ... but then thought against it. The only person who's probably worried about it is Nana herself since she constantly brings it up. And that's fine, I know she wants the best for all her grandchildren. I just wish she'd understand that she's got nothing to worry about. 

I am fine.

Gather 'round children, it's vintage time with Auntie C

So last week The Nana and I went to this Parisian flea market. It wasn't really a "flea market" per se, nor was it Parisian in that it was set in Paris, but it was basically a couple small warehouse rooms crammed full of antique French things like ceramic poodles, dainty pillbox hats, little Eiffel towers, jewelry boxes, lace everything, rings, bracelets, framed art, the list goes on and on. Imagine a Francophile having an orgasm and it would look like the innards of this warehouse. 

A group of ladies runs this "Parisian flea market" and they only open it to the public once a month after they've scoured the land for new trinkets and baubles and restocked their warehouse. As you can imagine it's a Big Deal with the antique crowd when this place opens its doors. (And of course, needing to be in on every Big Deal, I was there.)

I bought a few things, most notably this (prepare to be jealous):

And was ready to drop serious bread on a tiny empty glass perfume bottle, when Nana stopped me saying she had "a bunch" at home she could give me. "I didn't know you were into those kind of things," she said. "You can have mine." 

Um, okay. Since when do I not seem like I'd be "into those kind of things?" I die over vintage anything, even hideous carved wood wall art circa the Witco movement. She of all people knows this. Anyway, I was stoked about these alleged perfume bottles she owned, but also took her offer with a grain of salt. After all a few months ago I mentioned that I loooved vintage fur, especially mink stoles, and lo and behold, turned out The Nana owned a mink stole that she'd kept wrapped in the back of her closet for the last 60 years. 

She took it out and let me try it on and then said "no one could have it" (meaning my younger cousin had first dibs on it).

Concerning the perfume bottles Nana actually came through with her promise. She picked me up for lunch on Friday afternoon and handed me a little bag with these four perfume bottles:

These two specifically are my great grandmother's (her mother's) perfume bottles that were bought in the early 1940s and never opened:

The brand is Sortilege by La Galion and my great grandmother gave them to Nana as a going away present when Nana moved out to California with her husband and children in 1962. Since 1962 they have sat in the same house, in the same room, on the same bureau, until now. It's amazing to think that in the last 70 years or so of two womens' lives, these perfume bottles have been a constant. And now they enter my life and hopefully, when we have kids and they're grown, I'll pass them down and they'll be a constant in one of my daughter's lives.

But the best thing of all? After she handed me the perfumes, she pulled a little bag from her purse and said that she also wanted me to have her pearls from high school. Real pre-WWII pearls set on a swatch of satin with a little tag underneath that says Made in Japan. I just about died. They're exquisite and I can't wait to wear them:

Highs and lows, Jan. 30th edition

High(s):

Hmm...what was my high this week? Better question: How do I choose just one? Notable highs that come to mind are

• Buying those seafoam green Kate Spade heels, the color of which I found out is actually called "Varducci green" as in the Varducci green that vintage Vespas from the '60s came in. How do I know this? Because of my second high....

• I found my dream Vespa! It's about an hour away from where I live, and I have no idea if it's still even available, but the color is perfetto and though after our cross-country move I have yet to get my in-state driver's license, much less my M2 moped one, these pics are a good starting off point to measure all future finds against. You know, like when you grew up with a picture of JFK Jr. on your wall because he was your perfect man and you wanted one just like him, then one day you found one just like him and ended up marrying him and it was all because you never lost sight of what you wanted? These Vespa pictures are kind of like that. Eyes on the prize.

• J and I just spent this afternoon having brunch with a lawyer who I met through a lunch meet-and-greet at work. Said lawyer is a very likable, very social guy who -- if you can believe it -- may talk even more than I do. (That has yet to be calculated and confirmed.) He invited us over to his house, which turned out to be more of a Mediterranean-style villa than a house, up in the hills overlooking the bay. From that high up, the views of the city in the distance and the ocean farther out ahead were spectacular, and for three hours we had fun talking over bagels and lox and the amazing views. Most of the conversation revolved around travel (said lawyer and his wife have been everywhere) so it was refreshing to see that a high-powered partner at a global firm still has ample time every year to go abroad with his wife and live for weeks in villas in the South of France or the Amalfi coast. First-world problems.

• Yesterday J and I were out shopping and I went a little cray cray at Sephora. J talked me into buying all high-quality makeup to replace my cheap stuff with, so I did and, though it was expensive -- more than I've ever spent on makeup in one sitting -- I don't feel bad about it at all. In fact, it made me very happy putting on all my new cosmetics this morning. Which is what money is for, right?

• Tonight Drew is coming over so he and J can begin preparing a case against one of Drew's bandmates -- the one who essentially stole most of what Drew's band earned because he felt he was entitled to all copyrights. In essence this is J's first "client," though he's not taking money from Drew and might not be able to represent him once he starts his official firm job tomorrow. But J's still taking it very seriously and hopes to pitch his first client to the firm once he gets a bit more settled in to the new job. Regardless, right now it's very cute watching J drink coffee out of his law school mug as he pours over Drew's record label contract, making notes and addendums and other lawyer-y things on his legal pad, with our cat and dog sitting near him. The start of a beautiful career. 

Low:

Only two more weeks at work! Ten days -- begin the countdown. I'm considering this both a high and a low (tee hee).

It finally happened!

 D -- fig it, his real name is J and that's what he shall be called -- GOT THE JOB!!!!!!!!!!!!

Extraordinarily enough, the offer terms at this law firm are as good and even better than the terms of the job offer that he turned down in Newport Beach. You know...the one he's been kicking himself over the past few months for rejecting. And the best thing of all? We get to stay put right where we are. No moving down the state, or across the country again. Everything, as many have said and I was unable to see, has actually worked out. It continues to baffle me how things seem to have a way of doing that.

Who are we, really?

(Note: Stupid Me! I published this last Wednesday and realized, tonight, that I had set it for 1/5/2010 and not 2011. Thankfully I'm not running the New York Stock Exchange or working as flight control at some major airport, 'cause then my little mistakes would not be so endearing. My minor mix-up aside, here's what should have published days -- and not a year -- ago...)

Last week I met up with an old friend from high school who I hadn't seen for 8 years. This meeting was huge on two fronts: 

1.) I never kept in touch with anyone after high school. No specific reason why (i.e., had a Real Housewife-esque blowout a la Camille and Kyle), I just didn't. I suppose the overarching reason was I didn't feel like I had a lot in common with most of my high school friends. We got along fine (some of us more than others) but except for about three good friends, the rest I found tedious, annoying and on the fast track to nowhere (you know, the kind you could easily picture playing beer pong well into their 30s, quite possibly early 40s). Not that I choose my friends based on shared ambitions, but I come from a small (yet cute) beach town where unemployed surfers are the norm. 

2.) I never look people up to reconnect and rekindle friendships. Okay, reading that last sentence makes me feel like Miss Havisham, but it never occurs to me to do so. I think, subconciously, that my life needs to move forward. Not backward with past acquaintances. Which is strange since I admit that I'm often fully stuck in the pass -- the last few days, in fact, my old best friend from a decade ago has crossed my mind so frequently that I even had a dream about her two nights ago, something about us being on a road trip with Che Guevara and my grandma to find a decent cup of coffee. 

Anyway, the point is I had a terrible track record of staying in touch with all the new people I met after high school and through college. We'd have our fun times and then I'd move, or they'd move, and you both knew it would never be the same and this was back in the days before Facebook and Twitter and smart phones, so if you didn't make a concerted effort to pick up the phone and stay in touch then that was that. And even now, with social media as ubiquitous as a new Kardashian reality show, I have no problem staying off Facebook et. al. for days, weeks even, because I don't really care what all my old high school "friends" are up to. If I did I'd be calling them up.

But Laurel was different. 

I met Laurel at the end of my sophomore year, when she was a new transfer at our high school and I noticed her one day sitting alone near the campus perimeter, eating lunch. She was different than anyone I'd ever met. She had a fully shaved head because her hair "annoyed her", smoked cigarettes at 16 and had no real curfew. Back then the only girls I knew who shaved their heads were either Hare Krishnas I saw at the airport or women on Lifetime movies undergoing cancer treatment, neither of which Laurel was. That first day I saw her eating alone I invited her to come hang out with my group.

Laurel quickly assimilated in with my friends. We learned she was from a high school across town, one that was much more liberal and known for its hippie population. During the next two years Laurel grew her hair out, tweezed her brows and became a diehard Backstreet Boys fan. About a year into us knowing her she started sleeping around with different guys on campus, finding herself in compromising situations late at night in the backseat of her Corolla with random guys in ill-lit parking lots behind churches. The nastier of our friends began throwing around the "slut" word behind her back (which I think was stupid since it was kind of hypocritical). I mean, it's high school and she was just experimenting. That's the way I looked at it, at least. "Whore-el" became her new nickname and so it went on till we graduated and went our different ways. 

The last time I spoke with her she was transferring two years into college to a different university nearer to her boyfriend, who she would eventually marry and divorce another two years later, after he walked in one night, admitted to her that he'd been cheating with another woman, he was in love with that woman, and that he wanted her to move in with them asap. Needless to say, the next morning she closed out their joint savings account of $20,000, and never saw him in person again.


I knew I was going to be in town visiting my dad for the holidays, and Laurel had left messages here and there on my Facebook page, so I set up a time to meet. She just had her first baby, and I was genuinely interested in reconnecting with her, meeting her baby and catching up. After all, we were very close back in the day, even though aside from our passion for classic rock and shared love of making people feel awkward and uncomfortable, we didn't outrightly have much in common.

We met up for breakfast on one of my last days in town and it was as if she had come full circle. Funny how life does that. Once again her hair was short (not shaved, but definitely shorter than what I remember so many years ago), she wore no makeup and she plodded in wearing hemp sandals and a matching hemp diaper bag. It seemed like time had turned Laurel back into who she'd always been. Her baby was beyond adorable (in case you're wondering: holding it made me want one infinitely more) and of course it wore a cute little pink cloth diaper because "they're better for the environment," she said. Incidentally the baby's name, in true hippie fashion, was almost named Willow. 


Conversation flowed easily, but the entire time Laurel seemed uncomfortable. As though we'd never really known one another that well. This was a girl who used to spend the night all the time at my parents' house, who I'd sneak out my bedroom window with to go to parties and who'd spend hours at the local diner talking about boys and dreams and life. But you never would have known from our meeting over breakfast last week. Not that it was bad, but I guess I was expecting it to be better. She was much more guarded and distant and formal. 


I can't help but think it's because she felt I'd never really known the real her. That "her" in high school, when she went through her myriad phases, was only a shadow of her real self. Sure, I might have reached a deeper shadow than most back then, but it wasn't really her. Perhaps I didn't know her at all...only what she wanted me -- and everyone -- to know in her quest for acceptance. Which makes me question: who are we, really? Do we pretend to be something else in different stages of life? Because we yearn for acceptance and belonging that much? What bizarre lengths do we go to to project who we want to be to friends and family ?

It was comforting to see that Laurel had reverted to her old self. She fully embraced no makeup and cloth diapers and living a hippie life in the mountains, and she was happy. Beaming, even. And though it might have proven to both of us that our prior connection might not ever have been deep, it proved that we at least had stayed true to our personalities.