Well, I did it. My Realtor, Jan, came by yesterday with a colleague of hers, and we signed the papers to put the house on the market. I have yet to get the screens replaced or the carpets cleaned or the front door repainted, but as those are the only things holding me back, I decided to get the ball rolling, which would be a motivator for getting the rest of the job done.
The realty people showed up about 2 o'clock, and Patty raced upstairs to hide, as usual. I showed them around the house, first the main floor, then upstairs. After, we went down to the garage to show them the laundry and built-in shelving. Then we went upstairs to the dining room table to lay out the paperwork. Lots of paperwork.
I haven't signed and initialed so much since I was laid off by Nielsen at the Hollywood Reporter. But I read through all of it, with Jan explaining each document and what it dealt with (which really helped). Lots of it was disclaimers and agreements that I would have had to read through three times before feeling comfortable enough to sign them if I was doing this on my own. Now I understand what Mom meant when she said Realtors "earn every penny." I would not want to go through this process on my own.
So next week a woman is coming out to measure the place, and the screen guy will be replacing the screens. Once the carpet guy is scheduled, Jan's photographer is going to shoot the place. After that, we schedule the open house and go from there. Sale times are running 60 to 90 days, but there's not much inventory right now, so the chance of getting a bidding war going is a possibility; about a third of the comps Jan showed me were selling above asking price.
So the ladies left around 4 o'clock and I was feeling like another underpinning of my reality had been knocked clear. Soon I'll be standing on one foot, balancing, waiting for someone to shout, "Jenga!" I realized that I hadn't gotten around to lunch, so I had lunner and sat down to continue my viewing of "Fringe" on Netflix.
The sun had been down for a few hours when I realized that I had not seen Patty since the Realtors were here. I had been out on the patio a couple times after, and Patty usually runs from wherever she is and joins me outside, but she hadn't. So I checked all the cabinets and cupboards, all the places she likes to hide. No Patty. I went down into the garage, called to her, looked in the crannies, but nothing. On a hunch, I wedged the door to the garage open and in about three minutes, you betcha, here comes Patty yowling and bouncing up the stairs.
I was reflecting on the fact that her previous disappearance into the garage occurred the day they finished the remodel on the house. Now she dashes down there when I sign the papers putting the house on the market. At least this time it only took me three hours instead of three days to locate her. But still, I can't help thinking she knows exactly what's going on, and this is her way of making comment of the progress towards impending changey differentness.
So I am opening myself to a new flow, a change. I don't know if it's opening like a budding flower or a festering pustule, but either one would be therapeutic at this point, and perhaps both would be appropriate. Because, now that I'm honed and decluttered, ready to slough off our home of eight years, only now do I start to realize the volume of crap I have yet to go through to finish the active portion of my mourning. If I'm lucky, I'll be wrapping it up just about the time I head out on my drive to La Crosse and my new world.
My ultimate goal: a white Christmas this year, in a new town and a new home.
Friday, January 16, 2015
Sunday, January 11, 2015
New Year's Recommendations
I've decided this year I'm not making New Year's resolutions, I'm making New Year's recommendations. This means I won't feel so let down or guilty when I ignore them in a few week's time. Some of them are so easy, I'm sure I'll have 'em down in no time.
The last entry was made Christmas Eve. I can say that nothing of note occurred in the week between then and New Year's Eve. On Jan. 31, Kittie and David drove down after work from Grover Beach and spent the night.
So on the Monday before, I went to the store, having planned out how much food I'd need to stock in for three people over four days. I had been most meticulous in my list making, and I even texted Kittie a couple times from the store, asking advice on juices, snacks, etc.
I got home and lugged the groceries up from the garage. After stowing everything, I was relaxing on the couch when the phone rang. It was Kittie. She had called to say that she couldn't get Friday off, nor could David. Luckily, most everything I bought was freezable, so much of the excess was moved down to the freezer for longterm storage.
On New Year's Eve, amazingly, they drove down in well under three hours, and when we went online to purchase an overnight parking permit (you can't park on Pasadena city streets between the hours of 2 a.m. and 6 a.m. without a permit), we found they were waiving the ordinance between Dec. 23 and Jan. 3, so that was one less thing to worry about.
So we sat by the TV and chatted, channel-surfing from one broadcast from Times Square to another. I was explaining that the folks on the street in New York were huddled into pens (for lack of a better word), not allowed to leave to eat, drink or go to the bathroom: they are stuck there for eight, ten, twelve hours waiting for the ball to drop.
Midnight came and we toasted the new year with some sparkling grape juice (I think it's nice when everyone toasts with the same beverage), and headed directly to bed.
I had had the idea that we could get some tickets for the grandstands, walk down to Colorado Boulevard and watch the Rose Parade in person. None of us would probably ever get the chance again, so why not? They liked the idea and each would try to get the Friday after New Year's Day off so we could make a weekend of it.
I got up the next morning at 6:45 (unheard of for me these days). Kittie made coffee, baked cinnamon rolls and scrambled up some eggs, and we headed out the door just before 8 a.m. in order to be on the freeway overpass when the B-2 Spirit stealth bomber did its flyover to start the parade.
The parade begins at the corner of Colorado and Orange Grove, at the Norton Simon Museum and heads east on Colorado. Our seats were about halfway down the route, and the parade wouldn't arrive until about 8:45. So we walked the mile to the bleachers and, surprise, surprise, our "end seats" were not on an aisle, but crammed up against the outside railing. So instead of having a little leg room and a better view, we were trapped for well over two hours against a diagonal cage and a wall of not-yet-spent revelers.
Also, we were on the north side of the street, so the low winter sun was blasting into our eyes for the first half of the parade. On the upside, the morning, which had started in the mid-30s, warmed up quickly as the sun rose, and we were comfortable in our seats, at least temperature-wise. Instead of having the broadcast commentators, a mousy-sounding girl behind me read out what each entry was, getting very confused and frustrated when entries were swapped or simply missing.
After the first hour, my agoraphobia started kicking in, my back started aching, and I turned into my father (meaning I began morphing into a grumpy old bastard).
By the time the parade broke up (the end wasn't really clear to us: Giant tow trucks blasting their horns, Jesus freaks carrying placards with bible verses and slogans; flamboyant homeless riding outrageous bicycles), I was more than ready to get out of there.
As we walked back, I apologized for being such a whiner. And, after two hours on a metal bleacher seat, I knew about halfway back I wasn't going to make it home, so David consented to getting the car. By the time he showed up, I had rested the back and could have walked the rest of the way.
When we got home, I turned on the DVR and we watched the parade all over again.
Most of the folks I know here in Pasadena told me not to waste my time with seeing the parade in person; that it was much better to watch it on TV. After this experience, I heartily agree with them, for several reasons:
In the final analysis, I'm glad we went down and watched the parade in person because we saw one thing they don't show on TV: The sweepers who come behind the equestrian entries, and the roar and cheer that breaks out (almost as enthusiastic as those for the veterans) whenever a sweeper steps up and do his or her duty. I suppose the spectators can identify with the true value of the cleaners' contribution.
Like the Oscars, the Rose Parade is one of those things that locals point to to prove that, even if they're not better than everyone else, they do lead superior and secretly blessed lives. It's all illusion, of course, and it's expensive to maintain. Most of the world could care less about this vortex of corporate creative self-interest we call L.A., but the residents spend their time telling one another how fabulous each is.
Naturally, no one in this town cares to hear that they are not the center of the universal cosmic consciousness, nor that a shit shoveler might have more immediate value than all of them put together.
The longer I'm here, the more I feel, clear and simple, that I have to get out of all this. And, gosh darn, if that isn't one of my top new year's recommendations.
The last entry was made Christmas Eve. I can say that nothing of note occurred in the week between then and New Year's Eve. On Jan. 31, Kittie and David drove down after work from Grover Beach and spent the night.
So on the Monday before, I went to the store, having planned out how much food I'd need to stock in for three people over four days. I had been most meticulous in my list making, and I even texted Kittie a couple times from the store, asking advice on juices, snacks, etc.
I got home and lugged the groceries up from the garage. After stowing everything, I was relaxing on the couch when the phone rang. It was Kittie. She had called to say that she couldn't get Friday off, nor could David. Luckily, most everything I bought was freezable, so much of the excess was moved down to the freezer for longterm storage.
 |
| The B-2 flyover starts the Rose Parade each year. |
So we sat by the TV and chatted, channel-surfing from one broadcast from Times Square to another. I was explaining that the folks on the street in New York were huddled into pens (for lack of a better word), not allowed to leave to eat, drink or go to the bathroom: they are stuck there for eight, ten, twelve hours waiting for the ball to drop.
 |
| Showing my photographic prowess. |
 |
| An Oregon fan's head was most of my view. |
 |
| Do you see kids hanging from a railing or the Love Boat float? |
 |
| Don't know what it is but, dang, what a lot of flowers! |
The parade begins at the corner of Colorado and Orange Grove, at the Norton Simon Museum and heads east on Colorado. Our seats were about halfway down the route, and the parade wouldn't arrive until about 8:45. So we walked the mile to the bleachers and, surprise, surprise, our "end seats" were not on an aisle, but crammed up against the outside railing. So instead of having a little leg room and a better view, we were trapped for well over two hours against a diagonal cage and a wall of not-yet-spent revelers.
Also, we were on the north side of the street, so the low winter sun was blasting into our eyes for the first half of the parade. On the upside, the morning, which had started in the mid-30s, warmed up quickly as the sun rose, and we were comfortable in our seats, at least temperature-wise. Instead of having the broadcast commentators, a mousy-sounding girl behind me read out what each entry was, getting very confused and frustrated when entries were swapped or simply missing.
After the first hour, my agoraphobia started kicking in, my back started aching, and I turned into my father (meaning I began morphing into a grumpy old bastard).
By the time the parade broke up (the end wasn't really clear to us: Giant tow trucks blasting their horns, Jesus freaks carrying placards with bible verses and slogans; flamboyant homeless riding outrageous bicycles), I was more than ready to get out of there.
As we walked back, I apologized for being such a whiner. And, after two hours on a metal bleacher seat, I knew about halfway back I wasn't going to make it home, so David consented to getting the car. By the time he showed up, I had rested the back and could have walked the rest of the way.
When we got home, I turned on the DVR and we watched the parade all over again.
 |
| Fairly good shot No. 1. |
1. NO CROWDS
Steve and I went down to Colorado on New Year's Eve a couple years ago, and I remember perceiving these partiers, young and old, families, lovers, all seemed to be the homeless of Disneyland: camping out on the street, sometimes rubbing each other the wrong way, but everyone dedicated to getting the best seat without paying for it. By the time the sun rises on New Year's Day, these folks have a feeling of entitlement, nerves that started being frayed the night before are being rekindled in the morning light. A good percentage of those on the street just want to get this over with so they can leave. |
| Fairly good shot No. 2. |
2. WHAT'S ON THE OTHER SIDE?
On television, they have at least a half dozen cameras covering each parade entry as it comes down the street. When you're in person, you've got one angle only, and don't even think about trying to jockey for position to get a good shot of the floats.3. ENVIRONS
On television, there is the backdrop of the Norton Simon Museum and its lush grounds in which to frame shots of the parade. When you're farther down the parade route, you're taking shots of the stores and pocket malls across the street, as well as the extensive forest of poles and overhead wires that make it nearly impossible to frame a good shot without having the ugliness of the real world (which we tend to filter out day to day) compete with the beauty of the floats. |
| Fairly good shot No. 3. |
4. DISTANCE
On TV, the marching bands and horse brigades are just coming out of the gate, feeling honored to be a part of this very famous thing; you can see it in their eyes. But the farther down the parade route they go, the more drained they become, and after about 45 minutes of high-stepping and overflowing enthusiasm, the ebullience is perceptibly worn down, and a good percentage of parade participants just want to get to the end so they can go party or get ready for the Rose Bowl game.5. CONVENIENCE
Even living so close to the parade route, you still have to "get ready," get down to Colorado, and be there on time. With TV, you can make the coffee and putter around in the kitchen in your pajamas or robe. Or, better yet, you can record the whole thing and watch it at your convenience.In the final analysis, I'm glad we went down and watched the parade in person because we saw one thing they don't show on TV: The sweepers who come behind the equestrian entries, and the roar and cheer that breaks out (almost as enthusiastic as those for the veterans) whenever a sweeper steps up and do his or her duty. I suppose the spectators can identify with the true value of the cleaners' contribution.
Like the Oscars, the Rose Parade is one of those things that locals point to to prove that, even if they're not better than everyone else, they do lead superior and secretly blessed lives. It's all illusion, of course, and it's expensive to maintain. Most of the world could care less about this vortex of corporate creative self-interest we call L.A., but the residents spend their time telling one another how fabulous each is.
Naturally, no one in this town cares to hear that they are not the center of the universal cosmic consciousness, nor that a shit shoveler might have more immediate value than all of them put together.
The longer I'm here, the more I feel, clear and simple, that I have to get out of all this. And, gosh darn, if that isn't one of my top new year's recommendations.
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