Cat Love: Unrequited

“You adopted a kitten?” asked the woman behind the cash register.

“He’s five years old so technically he’s not a kitten anymore—”

“You adopted an adult male cat?” she gasped peering at me over her reading glasses. 

“Yes and my husband thinks I’m stupid for—”

“Bless you, woman!”

I was at the local bookstore buying a gift for my friend when, before I knew it, I was knee deep in a cat discussion with the bookseller.  She had rescued four cats of her own and insisted they—like all rescues—were happy just to have been adopted into a good home. 

“It makes rescue cats want to be cuddled.” 

“Not mine,” I said.

“Give him what they love and he’ll love you,” she said nodding vigorously, which seemed to contradict her theory of cats being happy just to have been rescued. 

But, then, what did I know?  I wasn’t a born cat lover like her.  She jotted down the names of the cat litter, food and toys she swore by and pressed the slip of paper into my palm.  Since adopting Jackson was still such a new thing, I was thankful to get advice from any enthusiastic, successful cat owner.  I thanked her warmly and on my way home, took a detour. 

Pet stores have a distinct smell I can only equate with “zoo”.  Scanning the shelves I noticed all the brands the bookseller had recommended contained the words “royal”, “majesty” and “your highness”.  Even the cat food labels were purple—the color of Old World, moneyed royalty.  In fact there was a direct correlation between the more purple on the label, the more green I had to spend to buy it.  But if the bookseller was right, this chi-chi food might be the way to Jackson’s heart and help him cuddle up to Mr. Wonderful and me.  I scooped up all the suggested cat items and charged them to my credit card.

At home I spooned the can of moist food into his bowl.  I refilled his domed litter box with clumping, lavender scents.  I lay the catnip-filled toy on the kitchen floor beside the scratch lounger.  Then I made a pot of tea and waited.  

Sometime after nine PM Jackson slunk out from behind our bedroom door and into the kitchen.  He skirted the table where I sat with Mr. Wonderful, then sniffed his food and ate a few bites.  Then avoiding us, he slunk back to our bedroom.

Following him I found he’d resumed his spot sitting in the small corner behind the door.  I whispered to him, I stroked his fur.  I treated him like the royal prince the food company told me he was.  In response he looked at me with a blank stare. 

Then I realized this cat was different.  His love wasn't for sale. 

Wine Group 2

It's wine time!  This month's outing was about not feeling stupid while wine tasting.  It's called "Lost Wine Tasting" and you can find it here:

http://centralcoastfoodie.com/2012/04/lost-wine-tasting

Enjoy and Cheers!

Fig and Apricot Trees

How does your garden grow?  Here's how the fig and apricot trees are growing in my garden. 

http://www.kcet.org/socal/food/the-nosh/the-home-orchardist-the-black-jack-fig.html

Enjoy!

Hummingbirds Part 2

Working at my computer I noticed an email from my nosy neighbor Harold.  As if it wasn’t enough having the retired next door neighbor commenting on my life face-to-face, now he’s emailing me, too? 

I clicked on the email and noticed an attachment.  Unbelievable: Harold is 86 years old and he’s attaching files to his emails.  My 60 year-old mother-in-law could learn something from him.

I double clicked on the attachment and saw an image that didn’t need much explaining.

“Ready to fly”, he wrote.

"Beautiful," I wrote.  "They sure grow up fast.  Congratulations, Harold."

Then I clicked, "send".  Some things you just can't express face-to-face.

Wine Group 1

It's that time of the month--my All Girl Wine Group meeting!  This time it was about tasting wine without looking at the label, otherwise know as "Wine Tasting Blind".  

centralcoastfoodie.com Wine Tasting Blind

Enjoy and Cheers!

 

Cats and Hummingbirds

“Keep your cat away from my yard,” our neighbor, Harold, bellowed at me from his driveway.  For an 86 year-old he had a booming voice. 

“Sure,” I said flipping though the mail.  “Wait a minute--”  I paused.  Jackson was an indoor cat who came to our house in a carrier and was so scared he’d spent the first two weeks hiding under the bed.  “How did you know we got a cat?”

“I run the Neighborhood Watch,” Harold said puffing out his chest.  “I know everything.”

I thought this information about neighbors looking out for neighbors was supposed to make me feel safer but instead I just felt… exposed, violated and in the market for even thicker curtains.

“Harold, you keep an eye on… whatever you look at and I’ll keep an eye on Jackson.”

“In that case,” he said straightening his baseball cap.  “Follow me.  Use the side gate.”  I’d never been through Harold’s side gate not to mention his backyard, which is where he led me.  In the yard grew soft blades of grass, ropes of ivy and along the west wall, a row of cypress trees.

“What do you think of those guys?” he said pointing to an exposed branch, which held a miniature nest with two baby hummingbirds snuggled inside.  The nest was the size of my woman’s fist and the birds just bigger than my thumbs.  With their striped brown and white plumage they would have been perfectly camouflaged if their nest had not been so exposed.

“Wow,” I whispered.

  

One bird opened his beak, no doubt hungry.  They were both so tiny and precious.  I understood Harold’s concern.  One swipe from a cat and they would be history.  However, if we left them alone maybe they’d grow up and in three weeks be buzzing through our garden pollinating flowers.  

On second thought, maybe it wasn't a bad thing having a nosy neighbor and a scared cat.  Together they would give nature’s newest kids on the block a fighting chance.

Cat Hell

“Make him stop,” Mr. Wonderful said yanking the duvet over his head.  “Please.”

It was 2:30 AM and our new cat, Jackson, had jumped on the bed, thwacked his tail against Mr. Wonderful’s forehead and was kneading my pillow with his paws.  Forget serial killers and clowns, nothing’s scarier than opening your eyes to sharp, hooked claws two inches from your peepers.  And, nothing’s more annoying.

I dumped Jackson to the floor but he leapt up for three repeat performances before the alarm clock sounded. 

We’d only had him two weeks and already this five year-old male had taught me a lot about his species.  1) Cats sleep all day.  2) Cats sleep all evening.  3) Cats keep you up all night. 

In other words, cats are jerks.

Since Jackson was still adjusting to us and our home, we’d followed the advice of the Kitten Rescue volunteers and kept him in one room closed off from the rest of the house so as not to overwhelm him.  Unfortunately with my cousin’s kid, Matt, still bunking in the guest room, the only space available for the cat was our bedroom.  Jackson and our chronic lack of sleep were driving Mr. Wonderful and I toward a career in serial killing--each other.

Just when I’d decided to save my marriage and sleep on the sofa, my sister arrived. 

She surveyed the situation and announced, “Your cat has a problem.”

“Yeah, he’s not a dog,” Mr. Wonderful said with a yawn.
I valued my sister’s diagnosis because she knew cats—she owned eight felines, six of which lived outdoors controlling her farm’s mice population.  She continued, “The problem is Jackson makes his own schedule.”

“Because that’s how cats are.  They’re independent,” I said.

“Then why did you get a cat?”

“My question exactly,” Mr. Wonderful said boring his eyes into me over the rim of his third espresso.

“Jackson’s doing everything on his time,” my sister said.  “If you want him to be part of your family, you have to get him on your schedule.  When you eat, he should eat.  When you’re awake, he should be awake.  For at least some of the time.”

“I can’t do that.  I can’t even get him out from under the bed.”

“Follow me,” she said.

First we collected every picture frame I hadn’t hung and stacked them like Legos, one on top of the other.  We slid them under the bed, filling every square inch of space, which forced an unhappy Jackson out into the open.  Then we swung open the bedroom door to freedom.  Instead of going out to explore the rest of the house, the cat slunk to the opposite side of the room and crouched beside his litter box. 

“We need to force him to leave this room,” she said.  I lugged his litter box and food and water bowls to the kitchen.  Still all day, he remained in our bedroom.  That night when we slipped into bed Jackson disappeared into the living room and didn’t bother our sleep for eight hours.  Eight heavenly hours!   

The next morning my sister, Mr. Wonderful and I sat at the table eating crepes when our laughter was punctured by the sound of chewing kibbles.  On the floor next to our table, we saw Jackson hunched over his newly placed food bowl.  He was out of the bedroom. He was eating while we were eating.  He was with us.

My sister, Mr. Wonderful and I exchanged smiles.  For the first time since moving in I felt like our house was full of family.

Meet Jackson

Name:                          Jackson Cat

Age:                             5 years old

Favorite location:         Hiding under the bed

Favorite activity:          Hiding under the bed

Most annoying habit:   Hiding under the bed

Jack Bauer's Cat

“I don’t want to freak Jackson out,” Carrie said setting the cat carrier in the middle of our bedroom floor.  I closed the door to the rest of the house to shrink this new space for him.  Carrie swung open the carrier and out slunk a long, full-grown white cat with a black saddle patch.  He crouched so low to the ground his legs looked like stubs.  His eyes, wide yellow orbs, darted about taking in the room, Carrie, Mr. Wonderful and me. 

“Hi Jackson,” I said gently petting his shedding coat.  “Welcome to your new home.”  He twitched with fear under my hand then stretched his nose to the bed and sniffed it. 

 

“He likes beds,” Carrie said.  “The past five months, since Peggy’s… passing, he’s spent hiding under the bed.  I think it’s depression.”  I understood how the cat felt.  We all missed Peggy. 

“We’ll cure him of that,” I said looking at Carrie.  “Our bed is only four inches off the ground he won’t fit under it.” 

“Think again,” Mr. Wonderful said as we watched Jackson flatten to the floor and wiggle under the bed.  And there he stayed while we gave Carrie a tour of the house, shared a bottle of wine, discussed home ownership, debated the slate of new TV shows, chatted about her volunteer work with cat rescue, sung the praises of clumping cat litter, filled the domed litter box, loaded her car and she drove off. 

That evening Mr. Wonderful and I tried coaxing Jackson out from under the bed.  “Come out, kitty-cat,” I said shaking some kibble in my hand.  Sandwiched between the bed springs and floor he remained frozen in that uncomfortable position while looking around with fear.

“We should rename him,” Mr. Wonderful announced.   “I don’t like ‘Jackson’.”

“He lost everything he’s ever known," I said, "and now you want him to lose his name, too?  No way.  Besides Jackson is part of his origin story.”  Mr. Wonderful kinked an eyebrow at me. 

I explained how I’d met Peggy, the cat lover, while we were both working on “24”, the TV show starring Kiefer Sutherland.  As one of our Emmy-winning Casting Directors, Peggy was responsible for finding the next bad guy for Jack to chase or the new female love interest for Jack to pine for but not kiss.  Although “24” was a Fox production we didn’t shoot on the studio lot but in Chatsworth, a remote part of the San Fernando Valley not far from where, in the golden days of Hollywood, Lucille Ball and Desi Arnaz had a sprawling weekend ranch looking out over the Valley’s lush acres of citrus groves.  These days Chatsworth was known as the center of the porn filming industry and, for a couple years in the aughts, as the home to “24”.

The “24” studio consisted of a former pencil factory that our Production Designer transformed into Jack Bauer’s Los Angeles, the CTU and innumerable safehouses.  The show’s construction crew had cut a two-story high doorway into the wall complete with a barn-sized sliding door to facilitate building and tearing down sets.  Often during the 9-16 hour workday, this huge door was left open.  Entering through it one morning Peggy heard a soft mewing.  Crouched among the set decorations she found a lone black and white kitten so tiny she could hold him in the palm of her hand.  Clearly hungry she set out a bowl of milk hoping to tide him over until his mother returned.  When after two weeks the mother cat still hadn’t appeared, Peggy brought the kitten home for the weekend and the rest was history.  She said it took the kitten about 20 minutes to adapt to her cozy condo in West Hollywood where she spoiled him along with two other cats. 

Not wanting to forget she’d found him on Jack Bauer’s set, she named him Jack’s son. 

“So we can’t change his name,” I said.  “Jackson is all he knows, right Jackson?”

Still crouching under the bed, the cat turned his head toward me, his yellow eyes locked on mine.  Nope, he hadn’t forgotten his name.

Getting a Pet

Pets and new houses go together like fleas and flea dipping.  After years of living in apartments with “no pet” policies, part of the appeal of owning a house in Los Angeles was that finally we could have a dog.  I looked forward to the day when Mr. Wonderful and I could join the hordes of Angelinos walking their pooches in the park, on the beach and down the aisles of Petco.

In this world there are dog people and there are cat people.  My husband and I belong to the dogs.  I grew up with a friendly German Shepherd and when Mr. Wonderful was a boy he had a lovable mutt who was his constant companion.  Both were sweet, tail-wagging pets who filled our childhoods with countless hours of fetch and happiness.  After we moved into our fixer upper house I revealed my canine wish.
    
“You don’t need a pet to come home to,” Mr. Wonderful said plastering a wall. “You have a house needing work to come home to.”  And there was the truth: A) He didn’t want a dog; B) because we needed to focus on the house; C) A house that required 10 years of fixing, give or take a decade.

The next day my colleague, Carrie, cornered me at an after work event.
“Your house needs a pet.  And I have the cat for you,” she said poking the lime wedge in her Diet Coke with a straw.  I don’t like cats.  They’re egotistical, suffer from superiority complexes and are frustratingly independent.  I’ve known prisoners in San Quentin nicer than cats.  I shook my head, “No can do.”
“I work for the local Cat Rescue,” she said flashing a business card with her email address and a smiling cat logo.  I don’t know where she found a smiling cat logo because cats don’t smile.  Their facial expressions range from sleeping to pouting to more sleeping.  She continued, “I have a cat in need of a family.”
“My husband and I are dog people,” I said pressing my back against the wall and sliding away.  She pursued.
“He’s five years-old and neutered.”
 I don’t care.  Cats are selfish animals!  I wanted to shout.  Instead I slid along the wall until I hit the corner of the room.  Trapped.  Carrie’s face got so close to mine I smelled the lime on her breath.
“Adopt him,” she said.
“My husband dislikes cats.  A lot—”
“Peggy found him when he was just a kitten.  She raised him and he lived with her until…” 

Carrie and I exchanged a look.  Despite her pushiness even she couldn’t bear to say it.  Our dear friend and devoted cat fancier, Peggy, had passed away five months earlier due to a short, painful bout with cancer.  Two of her cats were immediately adopted by her family, which left this one cat to place. 
    
“Don’t adopt him for me,” Carrie said with big brown eyes.  “Do it… for Peggy”.

We hugged.  We cried.  I agreed to a Sunday drop off, which gave me exactly 36 hours to break the news to Mr. Wonderful: We were now cat owners.

Lavender

A car full of lavender.

New Year's Superstition

“Look what I found,” Mr. Wonderful said dropping a small plastic statue in my lap as I knelt in a mound of earth.  We’d spent two days digging out the prickly, ragged, 50 year-old holly bushes from the front yard and now on a sunny day in late December, we were replanting the bed in a dozen lavender bushes. 

The statue, just three inches tall, depicted a man in robes holding a jug in his right hand and a tool in his left.  “It’s St. Joseph,” I said.  “Jesus’ step-father.”

Growing up Catholic in the Midwest the gardens of my mother, grandmother and their friends all contained saint statues.  St. Francis for the animals, the Blessed Virgin Mary for suffering mothers with teenage daughters and Jesus for everything, especially suffering mothers with teenage daughters.  The only saint statue not visible in a Catholic woman’s garden was St. Joseph because he was buried in it.

A carpenter by trade, St. Joseph was said to protect homes (not just the wooden ones) and their inhabitants.  If a resident sank a St. Joe statue outside the house he’d provide them protection and luck as long as they lived in it.

This tiny statue had been in the garden when we bought the house, moved into it and for the past few months had lived in it.  And up ‘til now we’d been safe and happy.  The statue wasn’t hurting anything and—just maybe—was protecting us. 

“Bury him again,” I said handing St. Joseph to Mr. Wonderful.

“You’re superstitious,” Mr. Wonderful said raising an eyebrow.

“Am not,” I said, Catholic guilt washing over me. 

“Gardens are for plants,” he said decisively and tossed the saint into a bucket of rocks.

Then it started.  The next day I couldn’t find my keys (the only set!) to the laundry room.  Then my beloved Steel Casey desk chair broke.  On New Year’s Day, the harbinger of what’s to come for the next 12 months, I walked out the front door and stepped into a pile of cat vomit.  Not my pet’s vomit but the sickly pink and yellow chunks of a feral cat I didn’t know. 

“Where is he?” I asked, my voice cracking with fear.  “Where’s St. Joseph?” 

“I thought you weren’t superstitious—”

“I’m not.  I’m just tired of my life falling apart!”

Rushing out to the garage I dumped out the green garbage bin and at the bottom found his white plastic form.

Beside a blooming lavender plant in the front yard I dug a hole and placed St. Joseph in it, carefully covering his pristine whiteness with fresh dark soil.  I even watered the spot so he could put down roots.

That evening dressing for a sushi dinner with friends, I slipped on a black blazer and in the left pocket my hand curled around the cold metal of the laundry room keys.  The next day, I schlepped my broken writing chair to Rose Upholstery in Hollywood, where they reaffixed the chair to its base and recovered it in a beautiful light cream vinyl making it look better than it had before the break.  Then arriving home from work I noticed dozens of feral cat footprints among our newly planted lavenders.  But no poop or vomit. 

Now St. Joseph’s roots to our house and my roots to the house were intertwined.  Thankfully, our home and garden were once again under his protection.  I breathed a sigh of relief.

  

If you don’t believe me, I dare you to try living without him yourself. 

Garden Goods in December

It’s December and incredibly (!) our tiny vegetable garden is still producing cherry tomatoes and zucchini!  Ahhh, the value of choosing a sunny spot for a garden plot.

Here’s the bounty I collected on Christmas Day.

Here are the veggies the day after, whipped up into a delicious chicken and veggie dinner.  Nothing tastes better that a homegrown tomato.  Even in December.

Merry Christmas!

Christmastime means sugar cookies, stockings and sitting by a crackling fire!

This fireplace contains a Heatilator (the four vents), which is a vent system designed to redirect more heat from the fireplace back into the room.  Having sat in front of it several times this month, I attest the Heatilator works.  

Fireplaces

Our House has two fireplaces; a traditional brick one in the living room with a low hearth where you can sit and soak up the fire’s heat.

And in the kitchen a raised contraption that looks more like an Italian restaurant’s pizza oven than a fireplace. 

In the heat of August having a fireplace, not to mention two, seemed over the top for our mild Southern California climate.  But now in the grip of December’s chilly desert evenings, I’m glad we have both of them. 

Note to Self: before the return of August’s triple digit temperatures, I want to make a pizza in the “pizza oven”.

Thanksgiving 2011

This year we hosted Thanksgiving at our house by default: we were the only ones with an oven big enough to cook the free-range, organic bird.  No matter how they came to us, we were happy to feed 12 hungry friends, aged 3 to 70, gathered around two long tables pushed together. 

For the first time Mr. Wonderful lobbied to stuff the turkey.  After some initial squeamishness, he did a stellar job.  

With hourly juice basting sessions, our new gas oven cooked it to perfection.

I was pleased and proud how moist and tender this free range Prince of Poultry turned out.  I think my gluten-free stuffing recipe helped prevent the turkey from drying out.   

Once the turkey, sweet potatoes, creamed spinach and fingerling potatoes had been placed on the table our guests decided we should host again next year.  Which is the best compliment of all.

Happy Thanksgiving everyone!

Living Room—BEFORE, AFTER and AFTER WITH SOFA:

BEFORE: 

Here’s the Living Room with its walls painted Maxi-Pad pink (!) on the day we bought The House.

AFTER: 

Here's the Living Room after we’d painted this accent wall yellow and decorated with our old basic black sofa from the apartment, complete with old throw pillows.

AFTER WITH THE NEW SOFA: 

Here's the yellow and cream Living Room with our new sofa!  This brick orange leather sofa gives the room a Mid-Century Modern meets Palm Springs vibe without sacrificing comfort.  

After two years of visiting furniture stores and sitting in literally hundreds of sofas, this one from www.roomandboard.com had the look, comfort, length and support we wanted.  The clincher: we both can take a nap on it at the same time.  Love! 

Front Door—HAIKUS and BEFORE and AFTER:

A front door is a statement—a haiku poem, if you will—about a house and the residents inside.  Here are two haikus—a BEFORE and an AFTER— I wrote on our front door.  

BEFORE: The flimsy Front Door of The House the day we bought it.

Oh thin, plywood door

Hollow as a cold coffin

Full of white-washed bones

DURING: Mr. Wonderful installing the new door himself!  Uh-huh.

AFTER: The new Front Door--solid mahogany wood. 

Hard wood, solid sound

Welcome friends, vintage style

Craigslist price makes me smile.

A Garbage Disposal and A Lizard

When we bought The House it had been stripped of any valuables that hadn't been bolted down and even some that had.  Here's what our House didn't have on moving day:

a refrigerator, 

an oven, 

stove top vent, 

washer, 

dryer, 

water heater, 

garbage disposal, 

light switch covers, 

closet handles, 

closet magnets 

or 

kitchen cabinet closers.

What it did have lying on the kitchen floor was a very long, very dead Southern Alligator Lizard.

I gasped when I saw its prone body.  Our Realtor, Thelma, brushed my fear aside.
"Congratulations," she smiled.  "A lizard in the house brings good luck."

No wonder Thema's been selling houses for 30 years.  She knows just what to say.

A house good enough for a lizard was good enough for me.

Good People

Commuting from work the other night I exited the freeway early to cruise our neighborhood.  I passed the river, turned at the school and stopped by the park for a herd of dog walkers.  In my corner of Los Angeles, the ratio of Chihuahuas to humans is something like 7000: 1.  And in the fashion competition the dogs outdress the people with their studded collars, knit sweaters and pillbox hats jauntily titled to one side.  If any coyotes came to my ‘hood they would dine very well if they didn’t mind swallowing doggie fabric, zippers and rhinestones.

Before I could move the car forward two boys dashed across the street in front of me.  One looked to be nine-years-old, the other seven and both wore silky blue uniforms and huge, face-splitting smiles.  The older one cradled a soccer ball, indicating he was either an excellent goalie or a lousy striker.  As they ran past I noticed the backs of their jerseys both read “Perez”.  How great to play soccer with your brother; to be near your family; to have a washer and dryer to clean sweaty uniforms. 

My family didn’t live nearby and Mr. Wonderful’s lived even farther away, which meant we were free from nosy mothers, nosy in-laws and complicated Thanksgiving dinner plans.  So we were happy.  But it wasn’t like we disliked our families.  Au contraire Mr. Wonderful and I still gabbed with our relatives through regular phone calls, emails and text messages because they were good people and good people are hard to find.

So every now and then when I saw two brothers in the park or two sisters shopping at the mall I longed for some old-fashioned, good-people family contact.  It was in this mindset that I read an email from my older cousin’s son, Matt, a 23-year-old itching to leave the Midwest and move to the big city.  Not the Big Apple but the Big Citrus “Orange” of Los Angeles, the 21^st century locus where dreams, dreamers and folks on the make came for money, fame and a slice of the organic, fructose, silicone-implant life.

   

“All I need is a place to stay while I look for an apartment,” Matt wrote.  “Can I stay w/ u?”

Mr. Wonderful read the email and cocked an eyebrow.  “What’s your cousin’s kid to you?  A second cousin or a cousin once removed?”

“Does it matter?  He’s family,” I said.  It was true.  I didn’t know Matt well.  He had grown up in a different city from me and his branch of the family didn’t come back to the homestead often.  Although I did remember seeing him at my sister’s wedding when he was battling a particularly bad case of high school acne.  So we had that in common.

Family is good people.  Of course he could stay with us I decided and Mr. Wonderful agreed. 

Just then my mother-in-law called to chat so I told her the Matt news. 

“He’s moving in with you and my son in your brand new house?” she said shamelessly inserting her nose into my business.

“He’s not moving in, he’s just going to stay a few days.”

“Uh-huh,” she said sucking on a cigarette.

“Until he finds a place of his own.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I believe him.”

“Make sure you give him a move-out-by-this-date because if you don’t, he’ll never leave.”

Don’t you hate when your nosy mother-in-law is right? 

September 11, 2011--10 years later; 2,977 lives lost; 350 million lives changed

On the coast of Malibu, Pepperdine University erected a moving tribute to those who lost their lives on Sept. 11, 2001.  One flag for each person.  The strong Pacific wind whips the flags, which flutter, quake and bend but never break.

"Urban Light" and a night out

All work and no thrill makes me a sad... grill.  

Off to the Los Angeles County Museum of Art (LACMA).   I love walking through LACMA's lamp post exhibit.  At night it's especially cool when the lights are on.

 

The Neighbor 1 Part 2

It was Sunday and I'd decided today I wouldn't work on the house.  Last night I stayed up until 2 AM to finish painting the bathroom.  So today was a free day I'd more than earned.

In the morning I shuffled out to the driveway to get the newspaper.  Nothing says weekend more than sipping espresso and lingering over the paper version; from the front page, to the editorials, to the comics.  On Sundays I need my fix of "Zits"in color, thank you very much.

Bending down to pick up the plastic-wrapped paper I felt each separate muscle in my back burst into a flaming pyre of aching agony halting me in mid-reach, just three inches from "Zits", "Doonesbury" and Sunday comfort.  After four weeks of continuous house painting the physical pain lingered.  

But today it didn't matter because today I.  Was.  Doing.  Nothing.  I would lie on the sofa, drink coffee and read all the comics.  With it out of arm's reach, my foot pushed the paper toward the front door.

"Nothing like a seven mile power walk to get the juices flowing," says Harold, our geriatric, nosy next-door neighbor.  He stopped in his marathon shoes to look down on me bent over like an uncoordinated gymnast.

"Hey, Harold," I said.  "Be careful out here in the hot sun."

"Me be careful?  You young people can't keep up," from his lawn he picked up hand weights and started doing curls.  Just watching him make me winded.  

But Harold was just getting going.  "I saw you painted the bedroom Navajo white," he said. 

"You looked in our window?"  

"You don't have curtains." 

Wow.  He looked in our window.  Okay, it was true.  I had bought fabric to make curtains but between work, commuting, the painting and cooking and just life in general I hadn't had the time to make the curtains.

"The color looks... okay," he continued.  "At least it beats the green sponged stuff."  

He looked in our windowS!  My sense of independence and freedom felt violated.  

"So when are you going to work on that lawn of yours?  Replant the dead grass?  Remove the weeds?"

He's telling me what to do?  "Seems like today is a good day for you to do yard work," he said doing curls while twisting at the waist.

"No, Harold, no yard work today," I said opening the front door and sliding the paper inside with my foot.

I closed the door, pulled out the sewing machine and bag of fabric.  Today is curtain making day.

The newspaper laid on the floor all day unopened.  

Mailbox and Doorbell

Starburst Mailbox and matching Doorbell from the 1950s.  Made in Los Angeles, California by the "Babco" company.  So nifty-fifties mod.

Mailbox

Part of the journey of being a new homeowner is examining the house and yard you've plunked down a boatload of money for and asking yourself: What were the previous owners THINKING?

Why did they paint the living room PINK?  Why did they plant ELEVEN palm trees in the itty-bitty front yard?  Why did they hang the mailbox on the BACK of the house?

Some questions are elementary.  As for the walls, since the previous owners painted the master bedroom a 3D reptilian green and the dining room a salmon-orange meets WWII-era Spam, of course (!) they painted the living room a feminine pad pink.

And landscaping with eleven palm trees?  The people who built the house back in the 1950s were from the Midwest, so they embraced the exotic palm and planted it wherever there was an available plot of one square foot just to say, "Look, Honey, we aren't in Cleveland anymore!"

But hanging a narrow, wall-mounted mailbox on the BACK of the house?  Behind a locked fence?  In the backyard?  That was a head-scratcher.  Perhaps the previous owners disliked junk mail?  Or they disliked ALL mail?  Or they used it as a laundry hamper for just one dirty sock?

"Maybe," Mr Wonderful said, "They retired it to the back because it's too small for a mailbox now."  Granted this was a valid point.  It measured just 7 inches wide by 9 inches tall by not even 3 inches deep and was capped with a flip-top.  It was so tiny a box of Girl Scout Thin Mint Cookies wouldn't fit inside.  "I'll go to the home store and buy a bigger, standard size one," he said unscrewing it from the back wall.

But I found this old mailbox appealing.  Yes, it was small but it was in proportion with Our small House.  According to the metal stamp inside it had been manufactured in Los Angeles, "CA" by the "Babco" company, which meant it was local and since that company no longer exists, made it a relic.  Finally and most importantly the starburst cut out pattern decorating its front matched the illuminated starburst pattern of our doorbell.  This mailbox was original to the house.  It belonged with Our House.  I wanted to keep it.

"For a postal worker a mailbox, is a mailbox, is a mailbox," I said.  "But if you're right and it is too small for current U.S. Postmaster specifications, let's at least hang it near the doorbell since... they go together." 

Despite his misgivings Mr. Wonderful mounted it on the wall between the front door and our starry 1950s doorbell.

The next day I came home from work to see our starburst mailbox holding a packet of envelopes bound with a rubber band.  Flipping through them I noticed various postmark dates stretching back to our escrow.  Apparently the postal carrier had been carrying our mail around for weeks because he didn't have a place to put it.

Happily now he does.

Paint Supplies

We've painted the living room, dining, master, spare, bath, closets, cabinets, ceilings, crevices and cracks.

Now it's time for quiche!  Goat cheese and zucchini.  And garlic.

Made by yours truly.

Delish!

Painting

Bending, dunking, straightening.  Climbing the ladder I craddle the roller so as not to let random paint droplets sprinkle the floor.  Roll one coat up, roll a second coat side to side over it, finish this two foot square area by rolling down.  Repeat.  And repeat and... repeat... until cream covers green, eggshell covers pink and white covers caca-colored brown.  Why anyone would paint a bathroom caca-colored brown is beyond me unless they had a permanent diarrhea problem.

Painting gives me an achy back, sore arms and the discovery that maybe I do have muscles.  They are very latent but they exist, otherwise I wouldn't feel this excruciating pain more befitting of an 80-year old woman.

No pain no gain.  After the last few days of painful painting, we have gained a better house.  Or at least one we can live in now.

Neighbor 1

This morning I ate my first breakfast in the kitchen; it was the best singed toast ever. Then I skedaddled out to the driveway for work.  Yes!  We have a driveway!  Big enough to park two cars in!  So long metered parking, street parking, parallel parking.  I won't miss ya'.

Climbing into my car Harold stops me.  He's our next door neighbor, a retired engineer who wears running shoes with marathoner arch support and knows the skinny on every man woman and cat within a five mile radius.

He tosses out a nonchalant wave and says, "You're the fifth couple in that house in six years."
"We'll be here longer than them."    
"Let's talk again once you start working in it.  You got a lot to do."
"We like the challenge," I said feeling my chin jut out.
"Uh-huh, welcome to the neighborhood," he said turning into his garage.

Welcome indeed.  Harold, the challenge is on!

  

First Night

It's 1 AM and still 95 degrees, the house is full of boxes and I can't find my toothpaste.  I put clean sheets on the mattress and crawl on top of the duvet.  Mr. Wonderful joins me.  We're going to sleep in Our House for the very first time.  No more neighbors with shared walls, or landlords who change contracts, or gross rent increases.  We're home in Our House.  I look at him and kick my feet like I'm at an all-girl sleepover.  We laugh and laugh and laugh.

Moving Day

Moving “Day” is a total misnomer.  It took me two months to inform the world we were moving, three months to find the right boxes, and four months to pack.  Nothing happens in a day, especially moving every one of your life’s possessions from a rental apartment to your first house.

For our actual move, Mr. Wonderful and I went local.  I called several Los Angeles-based companies and got price quotes for our in-town move.  This shopping around proved invaluable because 1) I discovered the going rate to move a mere 10 minutes/five miles away; and 2) I learned we wanted movers who communicated with us.  Of the companies I called one was unavailable, one’s office number was disconnected and several others never bothered to return my voicemails.  I know, how demanding, old-fashioned and just plain silly of me wanting a business to call me back to discuss me giving them my business.  Get with the times, Girl!

In the end we chose a company who called us back and could move us on the date we wanted.  Finally someone was speaking our language.  Actually they didn’t speak much of our language but they were fluent in Russian.  Our moving crew consisted of a Muscovite, a Ukrainian and one Kazakhstani who had immigrated to the City of Angels just one month before.  I only know one thing about Kazakhstan so I asked our mover if he knew that crazy Kazak reporter, “Borat” and his tour of America.  Right about then the Kazak broke my grandmother’s picture frame.

After that I decided to stop asking stupid questions and get out of the movers’ way, which definitely helped because they finished loading the truck without breaking anything else.  As the sun climbed pushing the temperature close to triple digits, these men from a region of the world where Siberia is a vacation destination and “summer” is a foreign concept, were visibly wilting in the Southern Californian sun.  To offset the heat they gulped down a bottle of water for every five boxes they put on the truck; in other words 732 water bottles.

Driving his car Mr. Wonderful led the way out of our noisy rental neighborhood, which lay in the middle of the Burbank Airport flight path, to The House.  The moving truck followed him while I took a detour to pick up a dozen sandwiches from Subway.  By the time I arrived the driveway, kitchen and patio looked like a World War II depot had vomited boxes.  Then the Kazak approached me with panic in his eyes. 

“Wh- where restroom?” he said shifting his weight from foot to foot in a universally understandable jig.

I steered him to the room off the kitchen then joined the others schlepping box after box after box.  Boxes labeled “living room”, master bedroom” and “random junk I should have thrown out” soon filled the rooms.

Inside I bumped into the Kazak holding a box labeled “bathroom”.  

“Where I put?” he asked.

I steered him to the room he already knew located off the kitchen.

“No,” he shook his head, “That ‘restroom’.  This go to ‘bathroom’,” he pointed to the label I’d written.

“Bathroom means restroom.”

He tilted his head like a Terrier.

“They mean the same thing, they are the same thing,” I said wiping the sweat from my brow.

“Two words for same thing?” he grimaced.  “So not practical.”

Practical?  He’s talking prac-tical!?  I looked around: the place was littered with boxes of stuff I didn’t need, a long scrape now ran across the whole wall of a freshly painted bedroom and our solid oak dining room table suddenly had two wobbly legs.

He’s right!  It completely impractical to pack up all your life’s possessions, cart them to a new house, which you don’t fully own but are borrowing from a bank and for the next twenty years and must spend every month paying back.  Packing, moving and not breaking anything in the process are absolute impracticalities I never should have embarked upon.  Turn back!  I want to shout to Mr. Wonderful.  I’ve changed my mind!  This is too impractical, messy and disruptive for me!

“Excuse me—”

“What now?!” I wailed.

“The truck is empty,” Mr. Wonderful said.  “You hungry?”

With the movers I pulled together a couple random chairs in the back yard and laid out the Subway sandwiches and drinks.  The sun shone, a gentle breeze rustled our palm trees, a mockingbird perked on the fence and sang his melodious repertoire.  I didn’t hear an airplane, or a truck not even a motorcycle.

The Kazak grabbed a turkey sandwich on focaccia bread and announced, “This good.” 

I looked at the stacked boxes pouring out of the rooms like a disaster zone.  I saw all the work we had to do just to make a cup of coffee.

“Yes,” I said looking at our first house, “It's very good.”

Pool BEFORE and AFTER

Here's the pool BEFORE--on the day we first saw The House.  It was filthy gross and looked like the home of the Creature from the Black Lagoon.

 
Here's the pool AFTER it was drained, cleaned and refilled.  Ahhh, the power of a good scrub and a shock of chlorine.

The pool was built in the 1940s by a swim teacher who used it to teach swim classes.  Even today it's a joy to swim in--long and wide.

Chimney BEFORE and AFTER the Ivy

Here's the Chimney BEFORE when it was overrun with ivy.  It was so covered we didn't know what state the chimney would be in...

And here it is AFTER we ripped out the ivy to reveal a beautiful, intact chimney.

I'm looking forward to the winter to roast chestnuts over an open fire.

We Got The House!

The day we “closed on The House”—in other words the day we promised everyone from the bank, seller, realtor, insurance agent, title company and Chinese traveling circus that we would spend the next 20 years paying for it—we got the keys. 

After work I stopped at our apartment, picked up a bottle of chilled bubbly then rendez-vous’ed with Mr. Wonderful at The House. 

“You do the honors,” he said handing me the keys.

Odd, they felt light and inconsequential in my palm.  Yet these thin pieces of metal were moving us into a new chapter of our lives—from renters to first-time homeowners; from hunters and gatherers to stationary farmers; from a devil may care couple dropping all garbage into the apartment dumpster to Dang!  These devils really care about sorting paper and plastic from watermelon rinds and coffee grounds. 

I put the key in the lock and turned.  The door swung wide and we stepped into the cold emptiness.  The night’s darkness masked the dirt on the floors and the garish paint on the walls letting me momentarily forget about all the work this House needed before we could move in.  With a flashlight I walked into each room imagining: here’s where we’ll eat, where we’ll sleep, where we’ll Google kitten videos on Youtube. 

I opened the French doors and set up two folding chairs by the pool whose still water was bathed in moonlight.  Mr. Wonderful popped the cork on the bubbles and poured it into two coffee mugs, one chipped and one with “Elvis!” blazoned across it. 

“Congratulations,” I said toasting us with my King mug.  Sipping I watched the blinking lights of planes passing in the inky distance and wondered what city—or far away country—that plane was going to and—

Splash!

The champagne bottle pierced the placid surface of the pool and broke my traveling reverie.  The green bottle bobbed in the water like a buoy on a choppy sea, the rings of waves rippling out from it like the endless embrace of parentheses.  Surprised, I turned to Mr. Wonderful.

“They christen boats,” he shrugged.  “I just christened our pool.”  

Let the plane go where it will, let the passengers wander the world, I’m staying here and putting down roots with this man in Our House. 

Champagne never tasted so good.  

Master Bedroom--BEFORE--with the Green Painted Walls

Because you wanted to see it...  BEFORE: this is how the room looked when we moved in--green paint applied to the walls with a sponge...

AFTER:

This is how we covered the green walls--with one coat of white and two coats of cream.  It was a lot of painting but now the green is history!

Parlez-vous Escrow?

Once the seller accepts your offer to buy the house, you enter a 30-day period known as “escrow”.  In these four weeks you hire electricians, plumbers and chimney specialists to inspect the house and all of them tell you 101 reasons not to buy it.  The roof needs repair, the foundation isn’t bolted, the property sits in the middle of a flood plain/earthquake/iceberg zone. 

If finding the house with a realtor is like falling in love with a guy, escrow is like meeting that guy’s friends who tell you all the horrible things he does, has done and may possibly do again.  So if you decide to go ahead and marry him don’t say you weren’t warned by the specialists!  Escrow only ends when you accept a house’s imperfections, hold your nose and close the deal on it anyway.  They make it official by recording your name on the house’s title, which you can’t see unless you pay for a copy.  Paying people money during escrow is as easy as taking candy from a baby.  You walked in the house, that'll cost you $125.  You breathed in the house, that'll be $125.  You "thought" of the house, fork over $200.  

For most homebuyers 30 days of escrow is all the time you get to make the single biggest purchase of your entire life.  But 30 days is all you need because a house “For Sale” is a house that someone wants to get rid of. 

Or at least that’s how it used to be.  Things have changed since the housing market meltdown.

In the case of The House with the green bedroom walls and pool that Mr. Wonderful and I wanted to buy, our escrow lasted three times that—three very long months.   Just when we thought we’d close “this week”, the seller would call asking to extend escrow for another seven, 14, 30 days.  The seller requested the extensions for one reason: the house could not be sold.

According to official records, The House had sat vacant for 18 months during which time it racked up violations with the city that had to be amended before it could be sold.  The violations included “mow the lawn”, “trim the hedges”, “fence the backyard”.

Mr. W. and I prepared to take a weed wacker to the front yard but Thelma stopped us saying since we didn’t own the house, we couldn’t cut a blade of grass nor rake an unruly palm tree leaf.  That work was to be done by the seller.

Meanwhile the bank that was lending us the money for our loan was tired of waiting and threatened to increase our mortgage rate if we did not close by the end of the third month.  Trapped between a lazy seller and an antsy lending bank, we did the only thing we could: we went looking for another house. 

On the theMLS.com I found a two bedroom, two bath in tip-top, turn-key shape with a huge yard without a pool.  Mr. Wonderful and I went to see it during its open house and we liked it.  We called Thelma and told her to remove our offer from The House we loved and put an offer in on this new house we liked.   

“What?” Her voiced bellowed over the speakerphone.  “I thought you wanted that fixer upper with the green walls?  That you were going to make it beautiful?”

“The seller isn’t serious about removing the violations, so we can’t buy it.  Besides you called us idiots for wanting to buy that house and apparently you were right.” 

“Everyone who buys a house in this market is an idiot.  The process turns you into an idiot.”

“Thelma, we just can’t wait forever.”

“I’ll call you back,” she said and hung up.

I don’t know who she called or what she said but by the end of the month, the lawn was cut, the papers were signed and our escrow ended.

Finally The House belonged to us idiots!  

Finding "The House"

Mr. Wonderful and I first saw “The House” in late December.  

Let me be more specific, Mr. Wonderful is my husband and he’s just that, awesome.  The day was December 26^th when the excitement of Christmas, Santa and receiving gifts is a daily expectation.  And “The House” was a one-story with chipping paint, overgrown lawn and a tilting “For Sale” sign wedged in the front yard.  

We peeked in the windows.  It was filthy, in disrepair and covered in ivy, which had grow up, over and into the chimney so thickly you’d need a blowtorch to remove it. But the house had some things going for it like an open floor plan, a large kitchen and a pool!  I was in love.

The best part though was the sale price, which shockingly, was within our budget. 

I called our Realtor, a woman with a florescent white smile and bottle blond hair who insisted on wearing sensible shoes.  Thelma removed the keys from the lockbox and swung the door open.  We stepped inside The House. 

“It needs a lot of cleaning,” she said sniffing the air.  “And fixing.”  She entered the master bedroom and shrieked.  Mr. Wonderful and I raced in to find her staring at the walls.  

“They’re… green!”

“We know,” I said.

“Lime green and forest green together, which some colorblind fool applied with a sponge--”

“We know.”

“Which makes this the ugliest bedroom I’ve seen in 30 years of being a realtor." 

“We want to buy it.”

“This house?  Absolutely not.”

“It has a pool.”

“Which is empty and might not even hold water.”

“We like the kitchen.”

“I wouldn’t let my daughter cook in that kitchen, not to mention enter this house!”

“We can afford it,” I said.

“Because it’s a dump and needs serious help.” Thelma crossed her arms and shook her head.  “No way.  I won’t let you buy it.”

I looked at Mr. Wonderful.  Could we buy this house and fix it up while living in it?  He nodded and smiled. Yes, we can.

“You're right, Thelma,” I said, “This place is a dump but we can repair it, we can make it beautiful.  We want it.  So will you help us, or not?”

Thelma's sensible shoe tapped on the wood floor while she looked at the green bedroom with disgust.  “Fine, I’ll do it."

"Thank you!" I hugged, then I embraced Mr. Wonderful.

"I can’t decide about you two," Thelma said. "Either you have major vision or you’re complete idiots.”

I didn’t realize how prophetic her words would be.