The Snow is Getting Real

It snowed about six inches Friday and it snowed about four inches this afternoon. The snow was predicted to start at 4:00, and right on schedule like a Swiss train, it started to snow. It is supposed to snow more later this week.

When the snow started, it was tiny flurries and there was only expected to be one inchced of accumulation. Wrong.

I am not excited about this.

I wonder when we are going to melt, if ever. Of course, it will warm up, but then it will re-freeze leaving everything covered in a sheet of ice.

Jack and I got out to shovel the sidewalks. At least, I haven't hurt my back or anything else while cleaning up the snow. I remember when I grew up in the midwest, there were men who would shovel snow and drop dead from heart attacks. These were guys who hadn't lifted anything heavier than a beer over the previous year and then they would go out and do a cardio/weight lifting combo in the cold. No wonder they keeled over.

I am raedy for this to be over.

Snow Day = Work from Home = ?

Yesterday, Seattle expected the snowstorm of the quarter-century, which means like six to ten inches. Having been raised as a hearty and hale Chicagoan, I have lived through multiple blizzards.

When I googled the definition of a blizzard (because that is what bloggers do), I found this:

A winter storm warning for one to three inches. Seriously. I lived in Chicago when we had one to three feet of snow. We also had flat terrain, frozen ground and snow plows. The clothes weren't nearly as high tech as they are now. I remember my mom wrapping our feet in old plastic bread bags before we slid them into out boots to keep our feet dry. I remember jumping off our second story deck into a snow drift with my dad hold us above ledge. After we moved to Columbus, Ohio, I remember taking two hundred mile road trips to Chicago over Christmas to visit my grandparents during blizzards which are different than snowstorms, apparently. According to Wikipedia:

Given the snow as forecast several days ahead of time, everyone on my team planned to work from home on Friday given the impending snowstorm. My manager posted this on our team's chat page:

This is highly relatable as last night my former Iowan husband grilled steak outside for dinner and this morning the governor declared a state of emergency. Not kidding.

I worked from home yesterday for the first time in the year and a half that I started my new job (which isn't so new anymore) as I got a laptop a few weeks ago. There is a wonderful New Yorker humor piece where a man calls 911 because he is working from home which is true and scary and hilarious. Until you work from home and live it.

I fail to see the appeal of working from home. I got up, took a shower, washed my hair and I even put on make-up and jewelry for no one except myself. Sure, I skipped the commute, but I also skipped lunch because I didn't have my co-workers there pushing me along to stop promptly at noon to eat, play cards, and/or walk to the market. I worked through the noon hour because I wasn't hungry. Then at 2:00, I was on a phone call when I became ravenous. We were sharing a computer screen so I couldn't just click the mute, walk into the kitchen and make lunch. So I ate lunch at 3:00. One of my remote co-workers who lives in the Central time zone said "You are eating lunch now?"

Yeah. Because I suck at this.

And then I worked until 6:00 p.m. because like I didn't need to stop. I was on a roll. And now, Saturday morning, my computer is here in the corner, beckoning me to work. I am supposed to finish something by end of day Monday which could take one hour or could take six depending on what I uncover in the data. So should I work on it this weekend? Maybe start this weekend and then double check it Monday? If I work now, I will be undisturbed by meetings and emails. My head hurts thinking about it.

And the worst thing is that snow days used to mean no work or school. Now that I have a laptop, I can work instead of baking cookies, working on a quilt or doing a jigsaw puzzle. That is NOT a snow day. God made snow days to make us stop, and now that is not possible. Oh the existential crisis I am having!

...which was wiped out when I went for a walk in the quiet beauty of my neighborhood blanketed in snow.

Fox looks like a honeybee except his sacs are snowballs not pollen.

Swearing, Part 2

I like to swear and I swear a lot. I can't drive without swearing at other drivers. Is swearing a problem? At times, it can be unprofessional when used inappropriately at work. It can be hurtful when swearing at someone else. Otherwise, I am fine with it. It is like chewing gum, another vice of mine. It is kind of gross but meh.

Apparently, the US Youth Soccer League thinks swearing is bad all of the time. They have a new rule where any player who swears on the field will get a red card for three games.

Seriously.

One of the best and most fiery boys on my son's soccer team was jacked for three games because he dropped an f-bomb on the field. Their coach was subsequently jacked from three games for saying the call was bullshit. I am not sure how many people if anyone knew that was a rule besides this ref. Trying to get a group of physically aggressive teenage boys from not swearing would be one mean feat.

Today at my son's soccer game, I ran into the mom of the boy who got the red card for swearing. I told I thought her son's ejection from the game was ridiculous.

"I don't think I could go a week without swearing," I said to the mom.

"I don't think I could, either," she said.

I had to leave the game early to wait for the cable guy at the condo. As I was driving downtown, someone cut me off while they were making a right turn on red while I had a green.

"Douchebag," I said to the man in the Denali/Suburban/Mt. Everest size truck who tried to cut me off. Drivers who make a right on red directly in front of oncoming traffic with a green light should be deported. I don't care if their ancestors came over on the Mayflower. In that case, they should be deported back to England or wherever. I suppose Native Americans can stay since they were here first, but I'll still swear at them.

Okay, where was I? I dropped the thread. Swearing. I also flip people off while I drive, but I hold my low enough so they don't see it. Seattle is so polite I don't want to offend anyone, but I sure feel better knowing that I am giving them the bird while they can't see it. Also, when I swear, other drivers usually can't tell I'm swearing. When make a rude hand gesture, they know I am trying to communicate with them. Not only is Seattle polite, but it is small. I am afraid that if I flip another driver off, it might be someone I know. It has happened before and it is very embarrassing.

And so my goal of not swearing for a week didn't make it past a five mile drive. I am going to try again, starting at 11:00 p.m. before I go to bed. I likely don't swear in my sleep so I'll have a nice eight hour cushion to start the week.

I get to the condo to wait for the cable guy, whose visit was a disaster. (Insert worst story of cable guy visit, which ties with more than half of all cable guy visits on the planet.) Then I get a text from Jack:

"The Boy got a yellow card for dropping an f-bomb."

My first thought was I am glad it wasn't a red card. And then I thought I was to blame. Now I am not one of those parents who racks up tons of guilt for all of the crap their kids do. In this case, however, I think I have the right to feel a little guilt. Perhaps if I wasn't such a potty mouth, maybe my son would swear less.

When I got back home, Jack told me the story of rough play, an opposing team player down on the ground, and the parents of the other team calling for the head of one of the Boy's teammates to be served to them on a platter. Refs and coaches were called to discuss, while the parents on the other team boil to a froth.

"Shut the fuck up," said the Boy yelled to the parents on the other team, particularly one very loud and hostile parent in an orange poncho suggesting to the ref that someone on the Boy's team be kicked out of the game.

This is not the first time the Boy has said this to parents on the opposing team. Last time this happened, the other team's parents actually did shut up. Being called out for boorish behavior by a fifteen year old can have that effect.

After the game, I asked the Boy what happened. "One of the parents was heckling our team, I heckled him back, and then he shut up."

"The guy in the orange poncho was being a total jerk. Action needed to be taken," he said. "After I yelled, the guy was ashamed and he went off and hid at the end of the field by some trees, although it is hard to hide in an orange poncho. I won that argument. What a pussy."

While I don't exactly condone my son's behavior, he did stand up to what he thought was bad behavior, albeit with bad language. The two people I feel most sorry for here are the ref and the son of the guy in the orange poncho. I would imagine the worst part of being a ref for youth sports is being harassed by parents. One ref once thanked the parents on the Boy's team for being civilized. But we are. Our kids are fired up enough. We don't need to add fuel.

And the boy of the orange poncho. Sometimes mild mannered people lose their shit when their kids play sports. Sometimes assholes have kids who play youth sports and use the soccer pitch as a venue for sharing with the world their true nature.

While in this case, swearing was unfortunately effectively, sometimes we are not so lucky. I should know better. I am going to try to go a whole week without swearing. I'll keep you posted.

Mackenzie Bezos and Lauren Kondo

Why am I so curious about the Bezos divorce? I find it so fascinating, I am almost giddy when I read about it. Am I basking in a little bit of schadenfreude, enjoying someone else's misfortune? I thought I'd be angry, pissed off the Jess Bezos ran off with someone with my first name and my age whose had way more plastic surgery than I've had. (Lauren McGuire = 0 botox injections, facelifts, liposcution, etc., Lauren Sanchez = a lot).

I was walking Fox today when I realized I am jealous of Mackenzie Bezos. Of course I fell bad for her that her marriage of 25 years or whatever is falling apart because of her roving spouse. But I am jealous because she gets to divorce Jeff Bezos for $70 billion. Heck, I'd divorce him for $7 billion, except for that precedent would hurt other divorcing women in the State of Washington who are entitled to half of all martial assets.

Plus, Mackenzie looks sweet. She looks like someone I'd walk around Green Lake and have coffee with. I wish her all the best as she creates her new life.

(And isn't this rich (no pun intended)--an article from the summer of 2018 on how Jeff Bezos keeps his marriage strong that was published about the time he started his affair.)

I haven't been following Marie Kondo too much with her Netflix show on decluttering, I but I did figure out how I got rid of a ton of stuff from my house: I brought the extra plates and silverware and mugs and rugs and whatever cluttering up my house and brought it to my condo. Could I market this idea and call it Lauren Condo?

Condo Weekend, Part 2: The Monday Reckoning

Mondays are the true test of a weekend. Are you tired? Hungover? Relaxed? Happy to be at work? Sad the weekend is done?

This morning, the weekend in the condo felt like a month vacation. It was awesome.

And yet, there were things I did and did not do that I had planned to do, like

• my taxes
• balancing the checkbook
• working on a quilt

Instead, I worked on the hardest jigsaw puzzle in the world. I have a friend who asked me once why do women feel like they always need to accomplish something. Why can't they just sit and have a beer and do nothing and feel good about it? He was well intentioned and has a point but I didn't want to say because women across the globe have been conditioned for generations to be taking care of other people and not ourselves, but I digress. My piano teacher said the jigsaw puzzle is meditative. She is right.

So today, on Monday, I was less eager to be at work than usual. I still like my job, but rather I loved my weekend. Perhaps my six minute walk to work from the condo didn't allow me to get in the proper mindset.

Condo Weekend and the City Mouse

This weekend, Jack took the Boy skiing in Canada while I spent the weekend at the condo. Two friends came to visit. It was fun to entertain and they seemed to enjoy my urban oasis. Or at least the novelty of it.

This is the longest time I've spent down here, and it is kind of weird. Maybe it is odd because I've spent a decent amount of time down here by myself as opposed to with other people in my family. I don't know. Nevertheless, it feels like vacation, but a homey vacation instead of a stressful vacation where you have to be places at certain times. For some reason, many of my past vacations came with a tight schedule instead of just chilling.

Friday night before Jack and the Boy went to Canada, Jack and I went to World Market and bought plates for the condo. Previously, we were using Jack's plates from his bachelor days. He had a set of four dinner plates, four salad plates and four bowls. While this was fine for a while, it wasn't enough to have people over for dinner. Even if there are four people over, sometimes you need an extra plate for the raw fish before it is cooked. And then you are cooking and cleaning at the same time, which is, as the Boys says, no bueno.

So now we have twelve dinner plates, twelve salad plates, and a slew of bowls in different sizes. Hurrah. Saturday, I bought an iron, an ironing board, extra sheets (more of a want than need) and three alarm clocks. I feel like we have hit a major milestone with stocking the basics. As far as stuff we need for the condo, we are nearly there for being functional. We still need internet installed, but the rest of the stuff we need is decorative: rugs, lamps and art of the walls. I was at a restaurant and saw really cool blown glass light coverings that would look awesome in my kitchen.

Now that we have nearly everything we need down here, I feel like the tide is turning for how we use the condo. Now we are using it more for fun and relaxation instead of trying to fix it up.

This morning, I went to Top Pot donuts for breakfast and got a mocha and a double-trouble. (Sure, there is a nice Top Pot in Wedgwood. A great one, in fact.) As I was walking home, I remembered how when I visited Seattle years ago and saw apartments near Pike Place Market that overlooked Puget Sound. I remember thinking I wanted to live there someday, and now I do.

As I unlocked the door to the courtyard, I wondered. After going through the hassle of finding a place, buying it, furnishing it, etc, was it worth it? It is as cool as I thought it would be?

Yes. Yes it is.

So my two friends visited. Katie and I walked along Elliott Bay and through the sculpture garden, which was nice. But I did something else this weekend, something both bad and good: I shopped and ate, the whole purpose of living downtown. I am not a big shopper. The guys in my office probably think I am thrifty because I pack my lunch every day. I pack my lunch because I don't want to decide every day where to eat. I have other hobbies besides being a consumer, but when the boys are having a weekend and I was left home alone, I cut loose. Steelhead Diner for dinner Saturday, lunch at Etta's with Ella today.

The Foxee Dog cocktail. Of course, I had to get it.

Ella and I were out and about, and she asked if I had ever been in Isadora's, an antique jewelry store. It is one of those shops where they have to buzz you in. It took the sales women less than two seconds to open the door for us. I didn't buy anything, but I left with a wish list. (Here is something fabulous...)

I walked to Lush and Sephora for soap and make-up. I stopped in the "Made in Washington" store because it had a sale sign in the window and bought chocolate and tea just because. I stopped in a clothing store called Beyond Threads and bought a sweater.

After dinner tonight, I walked Fox, which aside from hanging out with my friends, was the highlight of the weekend. If I didn't have a dog, I'd be some random woman walking the streets at 8:30 at night when most things are closed. But no one looks at you strangely when you have a dog on a leash. I walked through the closed Market. I looked at the closed Highway 99. I saw the stars and the super moon, all against the lights of the city--the ferris wheel, the lights of the West Seattle harbor, and the tall buildings behind me. Tomorrow, I'll have a six minute walk to work.

I like being a city mouse, in case you couldn't tell. So does Fox(ee) Dog.

Condo Dog, or as the the Boy calls him, CORNdo Dog.

Ant v Grasshopper, or Negative Savings

When I was a little kid, my mom got me a Aesop’s fable book. It came with a record so I could listen to the words I couldn’t yet read. One of the stories I remember the most was the Ant and the Grasshopper. (And one about a vain crown who sings and drops his cheese and then a mouse eats it.)

By my basic nature, I am an ant. I toil and save and prepare. I am ready for a financial nuclear winter.

Then a bunch of shit happened and I said fuck it. Why am I saving all of this money? So if I die of cancer in the next three years my husband's next wife can drive a Telsa from the money I scrapped and saved?

No.

I went total grasshopper. "There is no winter coming!" I said to myself.

Until this week when I looked at my famous banking spreadsheet where I track all of the money we earn, save and spend.

For the first time in as long as I can remember, we had negative savings. Which means we spent more than we earned. And that is not including the downpayment for the condo.

Ouch.

The good news is we had saved a bunch of money for years and years for a year like 2018. We had a massive tax bill, college tuition, a new car and furniture for the condo, plus a vacation to London, tickets to Hamilton twice, new ski equipment and a trampoline.

The best thing about the pain of looking at my spreadsheet was the pain of looking at the spreadsheet.  If I hadn't kept track of all of it, I wouldn't have known. If I could go back, would I do things differently? Not really. The spreadsheet helped us keep track of reality. If we didn't have the spreadsheet, we might have bought new furniture instead of Jack toiling for hours finding gems off of Craigs List. Would I have given up a trip with my daughter before she left for college? Never. And now I know so I can roll back my expenses for 2019.

The ant is back. Granted, I'm sitting my very nice condo, with my dog curled up next to me. Is it easier to be an ant when I am comfortable? I don't know. I'll find out. Hopefully, I'll spend more time with friends and family in 2019 instead of spending money. Maybe I need a spreadsheet for that.

Ode to a Blank Page

Damn you, blank page
for I am supposed to write
for my make-it-yourself book club
where we write the books we want to read.

Betty
my main character
doesn't have enough emotional depth.

What to do?

By design
she is both shallow
and deep
and therein lies her struggle.

Do I attack this challenge?

Instead, I scroll through Facebook
cyberstalking friends old and new
eating Moose Munch from Harry & David
that I bought on clearance at World Market
last week.

Damn you, blank page.

FIRE v Condo

** Note: This is a blog post from the end summer that was stuck in “Draft.” I had wanted to write about the emotional roller coaster of buying the condo, but I didn’t want to make those thoughts public to sellers, bankers, realtors, etc. who after a 3 second google search could read my mind. Here it is now, because it will relate to my upcoming post. Enjoy! **

A few weeks ago, the New York Times ran an article about FIRE: Financially Independent, Retire Early. Initially, the FIRE movement was started by people who wanted to live simply and consume less. It has since been taken over by people with high paying, burn-out jobs who amassed a decent amount of money but wanted to bail on the workaholic lifestyle.

Without even knowing what FIRE meant, I always kept that possibility in mind. Both Jack and I had grown-up in families that who were once comfortable and then experienced a financial crisis. As a result, we both have been reliable savers and conservative with spending our money.

For me, money in the bank is a parachute, a get-out-of-jail-free card for a bad job. And I hate Jack's job. I loathe and despise it. The job turns Jack--who is otherwise a nice guy--into a self-absorbed, irritable, do nothing around the house, zombie when he is at home.

Long story short--I saved a bunch of money and paid off the mortgage. I did this initially as a way to maximize our cash flow before Claire-Adele went to college, but then she got into a state school (granted, out of state) and got a scholarship, and we ended up with an extra bolus* of cash we weren't expecting.

After we learned about Claire-Adele's college situation and I paid off the mortgage, I told Jack he could quit his job. We had no debt, money in the bank and I had a job. I didn't know the term FIRE at the time, but we had lived it: we were financially independent (mostly) and Jack could retire early.

I told him this for nine months. Nine months.

Finally, one day he said to me. "I'm not going to quit my job."

Fine.

Okay, not fine.

What should I do? What kind of person wouldn't take me up on such a wildly generous offer? I told a friend what I told Jack and he said letting someone quit their job was the most supportive and generous thing a person could do. But now what do I do? How should I responded my offer being rejected?

“Buy me a condo downtown.”


* Jack is a physician. We use terms like bolus around the house even though it means nothing related to what we are talking about. According to my internet dictionary, bolus means a small rounded mass of a substance, especially of chewed food at the moment of swallowing. Normal people don't use words like bolus.

Rest in Peace, Marshmallow Man

Walter Mischel, father of the Marshmallow Test, died this past year. I read about his passing in the New York Times end of year article, The Lives They Lived.

Rest in peace, Marshmallow Man.

The Marshmallow Test, Part II and De Trop

My friend Laura recently shared an article about the famous Stanford Marshmallow Test from The Atlantic. I have a subscription to The Atlantic, but stopped reading it because it has become way too fucking depressing since Trump became President. A recent cover:

A new set of researchers tried to replicate the Stanford Marshmallow Test with a different population. The study found that preschoolers who could delay gratification by not eating the marshmallow and waiting for a second one would become more successful later in life. Instead of only looking at ninety kids who went to pre-school on the Stanford campus as the original study did, this new group looked 900 kids from a variety of backgrounds.

And the results did not hold up to the degree they did in the original study. Could there have been bias in the original study? Yes. Low income children did not want to delay gratification because they might believe the promise of a second marshmallow might be gone in fifteen minutes.

Alack and alas. While the first study wasn't fraudulent, neither was it completely true. Here it was, I was believing a lie. I wrote about the Marshmallow Test a few years ago. When I was a kid--and even and adult--I could have held out for a second marshmallow forever, so much so that it begs the question--not if I should delay gratification--but how long?

Alan Naiman from Seattle was at one end of the spectrum. This guy put me to shame. When he died last year, he left $11 million to local children's charities. No one knew he had that much money. The guy was frugal to an extreme. He would duct tape his falling-apart shoes even though he had millions.

Now that I am approaching the Queen phase of my life (post-princess and mother), I've pretty much stopped delaying gratification and saying "Fuck it" to just about everything. The condo is Exhibit A. I bought myself some bling for Christmas, a ring with three flowers made of sapphires, Exhibit B.  I am sure there are Exhibits C (Prada shoes from last year), D (trip to London with Claire-Adele), E (seeing Hamilton three times) and F around somewhere as well, but I'll stop here.

My drawing. I didn't want a picture of my really cool ring on the internet.

When I asked Jack if I could get it, he said, "If you want to...", showing no preference either way. My marriage has reached the phase of "Whatever." So I got it.

The ring is a little much, but lately I have been a little much, over the top, excessive. Or as the French say, de trop. I was reading an article in yesterday's New York Times about a grandmother feeling lost amid her son's new family. She feels de trop, which can also mean "in the way" or "not wanted."

Oy. How can one phrase mean such different things? I want to be the cool de trop, not the old pain-in-the-butt version.

Why am I letting loose after living such a restrained life? Why now?

Death?

I have two friends (out of hundreds) who are dying of cancer much earlier than they should be. One is my age and the other is sixty-four. I've been saving and delaying gratifcation for such a long time, what if I die in a few years and never lived? A friend was talking about his bucket list and he asked about mine.

"I've seen Hamilton in New York, Washington, D.C. and London," I said. "I have always loved living in walkable places and now I have a condo downtown."

"So you have finished your bucket list?" he said. I never really thought of it that way. I still have more I want to see and do, but I keep moving my bucket list moving along at a rapid pace.

My ninety-eight year old friend Eleanor helps tether me back to reality. "It is nice to be ninety-eight years old and not have to worry about money," she said the other day at lunch. What better time to embark on a money diet than New Years?

Maybe in 2020.

The Last Supper

A friend of mine is dying. I don't know whether or not to call him a good friend, but he was a friend. My family knows his family. His daughters are the same age as my kids, and they all went to school together. Claire-Adele played on the same soccer team with their daughter for years.

James has a rare and aggressive form of cancer which is now in the end stage. There are no more experimental trials left, except one in Maryland, and the trip would probably cause such a high level of exhaustion, it might kill him. His wife sent out an email informing their circle of the news. He is the first friend of mine who is dying.

I got on the the list of people to make dinner for them. I am dropping off dinner tonight so they can have it tomorrow. As I write, James is at the hospital getting pain meds, and he is expected to come home Saturday. I am supposed to leave the food in a cooler on their porch. The family doesn't want visitors. Jack said he would not want to attend his wake before he dies.

The family is vegan. I am not. I figured a mushroom risotto made with olive oil instead of butter would be good, so that is what I did.

I can't help but wonder if I am making his family their last supper with him. I pondered this as I was at Pike Street Market buying vegetables.

James loved Scrabble. He met his wife at Cornell and he worked at Microsoft. He has two daughters. On New Year's Day, his family would host a game party, which was lots of fun. James is a damn nice guy--gentle, modest and kind, a mensch. I don't know if James knows how much people are thinking about him, but we are. I am also thinking about his daughters and wife, and the hole they will have when James leaves.