One Resolution, Anyway...

But I am, by God, shooting for a sugar-free January.

Last night in our staid N. Berkeley neighborhood, there was actually NOISE on New Year's Eve.  The House of Millennials next door (seven banding together to pay the $7000 monthly rent) had a big party, and I could hear them counting down the seconds until midnight, when they let off a bunch of fireworks.  Thumping rap music, shouting, and then, around 1 a.m., silence.  This morning: the massive the clatter of bottles being dumped in the recycle bin.

We were tucked into bed at midnight, Jerry snoring and me wondering if we were going to have to put in a bomb shelter under our driveway to cope with Trump.

Onward.

Clear, Warm, Beautiful

Sitting in the garden under the oaks

We had a good weekend, except for the fact that the Bay Area is swamped with people, and it took us nearly half an hour crawling along the freeway to get on the Richmond-San Rafael Bridge on Sunday.  I heard that the drive from Santa Cruz to San Jose, over the mountains, took an hour and a half on Memorial Day (usually 30 minutes).

But!   Mr. Adorable came for a visit.  I was prepared with a chocolate-frosted-doughnut-with-sprinkles, as specified. 
Then we went for a walk around the 'hood.

First, a stop to feed the chickens (25 cents a handful for whatever it is they eat, proceeds to charity):

A rush to the feeding funnel

Rope swing down the block.  Note the Warriors hat.

 A hike up to Indian Rock:

Clambering to the top (why use the steps?)

Summiting.  Albany Hill in the background, faint outline of Mt. Tamalpais in the far distance

* * * * *

On the domestic front:  This is what happens when the basket of paper recycling loses a handle as you're walking down the back stairs:

* * * * *

Below is a Memorial Day photo of my favorite park.  No driving, no parking, no crowds,  a table always available, and cleanish bathrooms: 

The Randal-Powell Oasis

To the next 10,000 people contemplating a move to San Francisco (that's how many are moving here annually):  Please stay home.  We are filled up here in the Bay Area, maxed and gridlocked.   Rents are high, house prices are astronomical, and tempers are frayed.

But a very nice weekend can still be had, if I'm honest about it.

Sincerely,

The Curmudgeonette

Can't Choose Your Neighbors

We've had an exceptionally close relationship with neighbors on one side of us, Laura and her daughters.  We've celebrated Thanksgiving with them, and for years the girls adopted my Christmas tree.  Jerry and I have flown to their college graduations on the East Coast.  I spoke at their bat mitzvahs.

 Celebrating Leah's graduation from Tufts in 2013

Neighbors on other side have been problematic. First, there was a single lawyer who turned the place into a boarding house.  We hardly ever spoke to him, because he was rarely home.

Ten years ago, he sold his house to a family of five with young children.

This has not been a happy relationship.  I won't go into the details, but the easiest route seemed to be not to speak.  It's been difficult and unsettling.

A couple of years ago, this family moved across the country and rented their house to another family of five, who were quiet and delightful.  My shoulders dropped.  I opened windows I'd kept shut, literally and metaphorically.  I left the shutters open all day.

This week, the renter-family moved out, and the owners returned.  Their presence felt HUGE, like this:

 Actually, their house is no bigger than anyone else's

There was unpleasantness over the state of the house and the renters' security deposit.   Neighbors have taken sides. Some aren't speaking to each other. 

The owner-family is loud, and I'm constantly opening and closing the windows in my studio, depending on their volume.

 Closed window and drawn shade in my studio

I think about my mom and the kind of friendships she made with neighbors in our San Jose housing tract in the fifties and sixties. Virtually all of the women were housewives with children in the same school that my sister and I went to.  They gossiped.  They borrowed from each other.  They lent each other maternity clothes.  They commiserated. 

My mom didn't like every single one of them, especially the "trollop" in short-shorts who petitioned against fair housing.  My mother slammed the door in her face.  But generally it was copacetic.  The trollop lived on another block.

Obviously, I'm not going to move because of this tension.  I tried drawing the neighbors' house more to scale to see if that would help:

 It did, a little.   But my house still feels like less of a refuge.

But, Hey, I've Had a Hard Day, You Old Fart!

Yesterday, after our shift at the Food Pantry, I was driving my friend Anne home.  She is 81 and very fit, but she usually has trays and other things to carry, so rather than drop her at the corner of her block, I take her all the way to her house.

The problem is this sign at the corner of her street:

It was about 4:30,  and I needed to make a left turn.

Every Monday, I break the law doing this, with the rationale that I'm not using the street as a thoroughfare, but giving a lift to someone who lives on the street.  I'm prepared to tell a cop this if I ever get caught.

But yesterday, a bent, white-haired man yelled at me from his front yard.

Him:  "Can't you read?"

Me (startled and slowing down):  "I'm dropping someone off."

Him:  "Doesn't matter!"

Here I'd spent all afternoon helping to give out food to people, and this man was giving me a hard time about driving Anne, his neighbor, to her house.  I felt like crying.  I muttered a bad word that begins with an "f," which I never do around Anne, because she is very nice and not a Boomer.

She furrowed her brow, not at me but at him.

"That's Jim," she said.  "He's old."  

 "Humph!" I said. 

"You could go back and talk to him," she suggested, as she got out of the car.  "Tell him what you've been doing."

I didn't think telling him what I'd been doing would cut any ice,  plus all I could really think to say to him was, "You're a hostile old fart who needs anger management."

Now I'm sort of afraid of him, mad at him, and ashamed that I broke the law.   Would any amount of explaining on either of our sides (me doing good works, him mad at getting old and infirm, perhaps) do any good? Don't think so.

C-Day Minus Two

This is how the morning began, just past 6:  Sounds of a big truck backing up--beep, beep, beep-- and then pulling forward and then backing--more beeps--like it was parking in a tight spot.  Which is was, right across our driveway.

Our neighbors the hedge fund manager and his wife are hosting their annual family Christmas party, which involves a giant tent, tables, chairs, glassware, cases of wine, and God knows what else.  A lot of it is rolled up their long driveway in metal cases that make a racket as they go.  This will go on for hours.

Event décor within

By 6:30, I said to hell with it and got up.  I was busy worrying about a) getting out of the driveway, b)  finishing a quilt by mid-January,  and c) doing my usual volunteer gig at the Berkeley Food Pantry today, the last day it's open before Christmas.  Chaos.

Quilt first:

Semi-controlled chaos

Jerry says he's never heard as much profanity coming from my studio.  I'm making it up as I go, many pitfalls.

By 9, I'd listened to  a lot of Motown, Carol King, and "The King and I".  Deborah Kerr is right this minute singing, "Whistle a Happy Tune."  (Oh, right, Deborah!)

* * * * *

A few days ago, I realized I've seen no package deliveries addressed to Jerry.  Where were my presents?  I'd given him a list of things I'd like for Christmas, complete with 800 numbers (he can't do online ordering, phobic).  I heard him reading his Visa number over the phone some time ago, so I knew he'd ordered.  But where were they?

This made me anxious.  What would happen Christmas morning?  Why wasn't he worried? 

"Did you remember to order my presents?"  I asked.

"Is Christmas coming?"

"Yes, it is!  What about my presents?"

"Presents?"

"Nothing's been delivered."

"Really?"  He didn't seem worried.  In fact, he looked amused.

One afternoon when he was out, I came THIS CLOSE to inspecting the closet in his study, but I thought that would be juvenile.

I told him this.  He looked more amused.

Two days ago I saw a scrap of wrapping paper on the floor of his study.  He'd been wrapping!  Things were looking up.  (Does Christmas make everyone a big baby?  One year he gave me a big button to wear that said, "Where's My Present?")

Have managed to finish gift-wrapping, with the help of Prosecco and "Sleepless in Seattle"

* * * * *

Dept. of Jumping to Paranoid Conclusions:  I'm one of those people who shopped at Target during the period when credit and debit card numbers were stolen.  On Saturday I studied my Visa bill online.  There was a weird charge I was sure wasn't made by me.  To Best Buy.

I called the number:  It was the Geek Squad.  Never use them.  I hung up.

Called the credit card company.  Waited 16 minutes on hold, during which I took a shower while Jerry babysat the phone, which was on speaker phone.

Finally, post-shower, I heard a woman say her name, and I clicked back to non-speaker. I explained the situation. She assured me three times that I wouldn't be liable for charges.  Then, she switched me over to the Stolen Card Department.

A guy who sounded like a nervous person trying to be reassuring said he could help me.  Was I sure that charge wasn't mine?

"Oh, yes,"  I said. "Certain."

He tapped away on a computer for a long time.

"This charge has been made to your credit card every month for a year," he said, finally.

"What?"

"It has to do with your cell phone purchase," he said.

I apologized madly and called the Geek Squad. The charge was for some sort of warranty I'd forgotten I'd signed up for.  I cancelled it on the spot.

What a dope.

* * * * *

My friend Mabry brought over a big bag of hand-knit scarves and hats to distribute at the Pantry today.  I'm trying to figure out how to do that without causing a riot.

I've got the new aprons for the volunteers--veggie print or stripes.  I'm trying to decide if we should wear our cheery aprons AND a hat and scarf--to model them for clients.   God forbid we should look ridiculous.

* * * * * 

Does anyone have a spouse/partner who ends phone conversations with "Love ya, babe?"    I'm doing a survey.

I'm pretty sure Deborah Kerr didn't hear that from the King, but then she did get to wear that GIANT skirt. 

Weekly Wrap-up: Pumpkins, a party, and a visitor from Texas

On Thursday, I took these pictures of favorite street of mine in the Rockridge neighborhood of north Oakland.  I walk it every month or so when I go for a check-in with my sleep doctor (no more meetings after January--cured!).  I always admire the craftsman houses, some updated, some not, all with personality.

Love the paint job on this house. And now white pumpkins to match.

 

 

 

Definitely fall

 

 

 

If you squint, you'll see the figure on the porch that always surprises me.  It's a mannequin .

 

 

Just about buried in leaves

 

 

 

I love the polka dot pot

 

 

* * * * *

 

 

My sister's friends threw her a 60th birthday party in San Jose.  Jerry and I drove down for it and spent the night at the Fairmont San Jose.  Table for 20,  wine pairings, cupcakes:

 

 

At Savory Kitchen, San Jose

  

 

 





Fall centerpiece.  She was the first baby born on Thanksgiving Day, 1953, at San Jose Hospital.

 

 

 

A circle for each course's wine glass

 

 

My sister thanking people who enrich her "universe," as she gracefully put it

 

 

Her fans listening to toasts

 

 

Her friend and neighbor, Julie

 

 

 

Birthday girl (center, wearing glasses) with admirers

 

 

Chocolate, vanilla, and banana cupcakes for dessert

 

 

 

I went with the gardener (we forgot our party clothes; fortunately brought the shoes and scarf, and the "festive" clothes suggestion turned out to be open to wide interpretation.) 

 

 

...which were still in a garment bag when we got home.

 

 

 

View from our hotel room: A harvest moon rising over downtown San Jose and  the San Jose State campus

 

 

* * * * *

 

 

And we had a visitor from Texas, Jerry's son, David.  They took hikes for three days, and David showed us how to consume most of a meatloaf in one night (no, seriously, it was flattering).

 

 



 

 

                         It's startling to see someone you met when he was 15 now wearing bifocals.

 

 

Loved having you, David.  And thanks to his wife, Michele, who is a commercial airline pilot and can wangle near-free flights for him.

 

 

* * * * *

 

Another reminder:  Only five days left to bid on the 45" square, machine-washable quilt I made to benefit the Berkeley Food Pantry.  Highest current bid: $275. 



 

 

 

 

 

 

Teach Your Children Well

Last night our new neighbors, the renters next door,  invited us over for a drink, along with some other neighbors who've helped them out.

This couple, Mark and Lisa,  moved a houseful of furniture from a four-story Victorian in San Francisco and somehow fit it artfully into a smaller house--pictures on the walls, books unpacked--so that it looks as though they've lived there for years.

Their three kids started at Berkeley schools last week.   The younger two somehow got into the school closest to us, Thousand Oaks Elementary (often kids from this neighborhood are bussed across town).  They like it, but it's very different from the Catholic private school they went to in San Francisco. 

The fifth-grader came home and reported that everyone in the class had to describe their family, based on interviews each kid did with parents.  Then her teacher, known as Teacher Bob, talked about his family, which consists of his husband (also some pets, I think).

The mother looked delighted as she told us this.  Her daughter was a bit wide-eyed, she said, but accepting.  The third-grader has a teacher with multiple tattoos.  The son, an eighth grader, continues to pop in with spiders to show Jerry.

Frass, etc.

Last week I picked a few flowers from the garden to put on the kitchen windowsill, kind of a cheery-homey thing.

Soon tiny black balls littered the windowsill.  I knew what this was:  bug poop, otherwise known as frass.  I learned this years ago from Jerry-the-entomologist. 

Note the tiny black balls

I wiped away the disgusting black balls, searched the flowers for the defecating worms, found none, and left the flowers on the windowsill.

Next day, more frass.

I complained.  Jerry examined the flowers and found a worm.  Then he explained that the reason the black balls were some distance from the vase is because the worm possesses something called an "anal comb," which enables the worm to fling frass.

Then he coaxed the worm into a vial because he's going to raise it and identify it.  He's pretty sure it's a tortricid, a group of moths he specializes in.  The frass-shooting behavior is diagnostic.

                                                                                2.



A few years ago, I took a drawing class at the local adult school.  It was a revelation.  Drawing turns out to be something you can learn.  I always thought it was something art majors were born with.

Very hard

We drew eggs, oranges, ladders (tricky).  I found it was very meditative.  It's almost as good as swimming for taking me out of my dreary, worry-obsessed self.  True, it's time-consuming, but it's also engaging, and if you can give yourself over to it, it's very relaxing.

Drawing makes me look at the world more carefully.
 

This took ages and let's face it, it's crooked.  Don't care...

                                                                               3.

Yesterday, I got into the car with my friend Anne to drive to the pool, and she told me that her nephew, in his fifties and recently diagnosed with a brain tumor, is not doing well.  He's had surgery and radiation, but the tumor is growing again.  Anne's preparing to drop everything and fly to Chicago, if necessary.

Damn it!  And an acquaintance from high school--Pat Monahan to Del Martians--just found out that the chemo she's been on for advanced breast cancer hasn't worked.  She's switching to another one, per her doctor's recommendation.  She quotes a fellow cancer patient's doctor:

"You can wake up each morning and worry about dying, or you can wake up each morning and celebrate living.  Before you know it, several years may have passed.  Do you want to waste that time with mourning, or use your time to celebrate?"

Brave, brave, brave.  She's celebrating--zip-lining, cruising, working on her bucket list--but I can't help thinking that I'd take more of a Woody Allen-depressive approach if I were in her shoes.


                                                                          3.

Also yesterday:  the pair of sisters who bail us out every two weeks by cleaning the house--God knows how much clutter would accumulate if they didn't come--appeared promptly at 1 pm.  They're always cheerful and kind.

The older one, Sonia, told me that she's 56, much older than she looks, and that she recently took a 10-1/2 hour Greyhound bus ride to Tijuana for medical treatment that she can't afford in the U.S. because she has no health insurance. She's looking forward to buying insurance under Obamacare. 

She rarely goes to the doctor, even though she has high blood pressure.

                                                                           4.

We have new neighbors, a family of five who moved here from San Francisco.  They're renting the house next door.  The boy, an eighth-grader,  is a fan of insects and spiders, and Jerry's already supplied him with a vial to collect things for identification.  The kid is very polite.

There's a spider in there from one of our new neighbors

One of his sisters plays soccer and practices in their backyard.  The other day while I was unloading groceries, a missile of some sort shot past me.  A soccer ball.  I tossed it back to the girl, who was peering over the fence and apologizing profusely.

                                                                         5.

Jerry and I watched a documentary we loved: "Undefeated" (2012 and an Oscar-winner).    It's about a poor high school in Memphis with a losing football team that's  taken under the wing of a volunteer coach, who inspires, preaches, and whips them into shape.  Even if you don't like football, it's moving and instructive.

Most of the players don't have their father in their lives and virtually all have a relative who's in or has been in prison.  College is a far-away dream, accessible only if they manage to win an athletic scholarship.

                                                                           6.

A friend wants me to talk to her  daughter today about insomnia and what I've learned about it. No reading in bed, same bedtime every night, no TV or computer within an hour of bed, limited caffeine.  It works.

Also, drawing, pool time, and walks in the Berkeley summer fog.  It's been one of those summers.

                                                                        

Real Estate-ese

So, yesterday Jerry and I went to an open house a few blocks away.  Here's what the real estate brochure said:

"While away those super summer days working in the garden, selecting veggies for today's lunch.  The creek [behind the house] is a perfect place for kids to play.  Start with the built in cabinets and large bonus space downstairs.Create a playroom or A/V room with french doors out to the sunny backyard.  Have the entire family over for get-togethers.  There is room to spare!"

Here's what we saw:

One of three bedrooms

Kitchen

Living room

The price?  $599,000.

Block Party with Skywriters

At 11 am on Saturday, barricades went up at either end of our street,  Jerry carried out our patio chairs, and I moved a bunch of Safeway bakery cookies from a plastic tray to a plate (fake homemade!)

Out in front of our house a block party was getting underway to welcome a young family that just moved in.  Somebody wheeled out a grill, and the block captain, Joan, and her husband brought out bags of hotdog buns and bowls of condiments.  Other people appeared with trays of veggies, fruit salad, and desserts.

It was fun! We've lived here 28 years, but we rarely see most of our neighbors, and I like to keep up with the narrative of their lives (nosy!).  One man is recovering from a head injury, a couple presented a new granddaughter,  kids zoomed down the street on  bikes and skateboards.  The weather cooperated, and the Blue Angels thundered overhead (Fleet Week).

One of the youngest of our new neighbors

Our new neighbors have a 2 year-old and a 4-year old; the parents work at UC Davis and UC Berkeley. 





















Party gets underway

Hotdog accoutrements

 

A cat finishes off a dropped hotdog

 GEICO hired skywriters