Seller's Remorse

 

buyer's remorse - noun - a feeling of regret experienced after making a purchase, usually one that is extravagant or unnecessary.

We have all heard of the above or have experienced it at one time or another. After all, we do live inside of capitalism, an "ism" dependent on buying and selling. But have you ever entered the Twilight Zone of seller's remorse? The feeling of unmitigated rue after selling something special? I think you have. I definitely have.

Case in point, a year ago this past April, I put my perfectly perfect (as opposed to imperfect) 2,000 square foot home in Jersey up for sale in a competitive market. I spent about thirty years and about 200K renovating, polishing, updating, enhancing (whatever). In short, I kept the home politically correct stylistically. Heck, I even created a perennial English garden out of what had looked like a pigsty when I moved in back in the late 1990s. Two days after publishing the listing, I sold my dreamy cottage for nearly 800K to two twenty-eight-year-old, newlywed New Yorkers who swore on their great-grandparents' graves that they loved the house as is and would never do the unthinkable: tear it down and build a McMansion, the current exasperatingly trendy trend (that is completely selfish). 

And what do you think happened?  After less than a year, my designer home is gone. The kids transmogrified the Cape into a cookie-cutter, center-hall colonial, unrecognizable to any of my former visitors, which only took about five months to do. Shocking. I don't even want to think about what happened to the garden. Ugh. Okay, I get it. They bought it, so they get to do what they want to it. Right? Fine. But is lying to get what you want the way to go? They could have told me the truth so that I didn't have to tell my neighbors–sick of listening to the cacophony of construction every time a house gets sold on the street–that I hand-picked buyers intent on preserving a 1930s relic with class, something the existing residents wanted to hear even though most of them had "renovated" their Capes as well. To them, I'm the liar, not the buyers. How was I to know these twenty-somethings would deceive me? Human nature is a bitch.

Seller's remorse, big time. 

On the other hand, I chose to part ways with my Jersey roots, and now I have none that are discernible, a kick in the teeth to my sense of identity. I moved three thousand miles away into a time zone that gave me back three hours of my life. Everything about this place is far more livable than my old neighborhood. I'm the winner here. Even though it was disclosed that the land is basically a swamp, the naive pair from Brooklyn decided to buy it for a hefty price. My guess is that karma will kick in (because it always does eventually), and my seller's remorse will become their buyer's remorse. And all will be well, in balance, as it should be. Hahaha! 

Just sayin'. 

#real estate, #buyer's remorse, #personal essay, #blog, #blogger, #social commentary

Should Love Recognize Age?

 

cougar - noun - slang term for a middle-aged woman who pursues romantic or sexual relations with men ten to fifteen years younger (Google).

For whatever reason, I've been spending time reading biographies this summer, which is something I used to do as a teenager. I have regressed to a literary adolescent state as I am running out of classic fictional titles that interest me, and nothing that has been published within the last twenty years is even close to being well written. (Please leave me a comment if you think I'm wrong because I'd like to be.) I just finished James Kaplan's massive, two volume biography (1700 pages) of Frank Sinatra, and now I am just about through Woody Allen's autobiography Apropos of Nothing. Other than both gentlemen being born under the zodiac sign of Sagittarius and knowing Mia Farrow in the biblical sense, initially, I didn't think they had too much more in common. But they do. For one, both men married much, much younger women: Frank, Mia and Woody, Soon-Yi. Despite each couple's tying the knot 31 years apart, upon hearing the news, true, judgmental conservatives all dropped their jaws simultaneously, apoplectic with rage. However, the fervor in both cases died down eventually as everything grows old with time.

Nevertheless, when it comes to May-December romances, I've always thought that there is a double standard. Just recently, Mick Jagger, who is at least eighty, married his long-term girlfriend Melanie Hamrick, who is 44 years his junior. If I married a young man 44 years my junior, you better believe most of my friends and relatives would have something derogatory to say about it. I wouldn't be a cougar, I'd be a jaguar, and I'm not referring to the automobile - or maybe I am?

But should love recognize age? Are numbers significant? Case in point: as the three of you who read this blog religiously already know, I am dating a man whom I refer to as James Bond. James, his actual name, has two things in common with Frank and Woody. He just happens to be a Sagittarius (like I am) and his last girlfriend was 35 years younger than he. But I can tell you why he did fall for her. 1. She was gorgeous. 2. She hit on him. 3. James has the mentality and body of a 35 year old even though his face looks and is 65. They broke up because she wanted to have his child, and he just wasn't selfish enough to say yes because let's face it. By the time the kid was in college, he would most likely be deceased, something Mick didn't think about when he had his eighth child, his six-year-old son, with Melanie. James also didn't want his lover to wind up having to take care of him in twenty years when he would be 85 and she, only fifty. Ergo, he left her and is with me, someone a year older and much, much wiser, not nearly as problematic. In James's mind, age does matter when it comes to romantic love. 

In order to sidestep hypocrisy (if I am indeed being a hypocrite), my name did show up under the nomenclature of "Super Cougars" once when I dated a guy twenty years younger than I, but it came down to one date exactly. The young man, as well as those who surrounded him socially, was just too immature. And then there was my cousin, a private school English teacher, who gave me a hard time since this young man had been a former student of his too recently. I didn't wish to get on the wrong side of a family member.

In closing, let's return to the aforementioned questions in paragraph 3. Perhaps what matters most is simply the notion of love itself, something I kind of skipped over until right now. Love in all of its forms doesn't have a numeral attached to it. It is eternal. Love whom your heart tells you to love. It isn't a numbers game.

Just sayin'. 

#love, #relationships, #age, #blog, #blogger, #society, #spilled thoughts, #personal essay, #editorial  

Playing With the Boys

avuncular - adj. - relating to an uncle. (Google)

The platonic friendships I have built with boys and men throughout the years have been meaningful if not just a heck of a lot of fun. Although I was not blessed with a brother or brothers, their likenesses–stunt doubles, if you will–usually surrounded me in the neighborhoods of Jersey where I grew up. For whatever reason, there were just more boys than girls, so even though I longed for more close gal pals, there just weren't enough of them to go around. By the time I was in high school–albeit, I did befriend quite a few females–I found myself playing poker for pennies with five male friends every Wednesday night, something my Depression-era mother could not quite fathom. What could I possibly say? I just liked hanging out with the guys. And I wasn't bad at Texas Hold'em either. 

When I turned nineteen, I really got to know my father better after deciding to become more solicitous in terms of his occupation.  He hired me as his personal assistant for the summer, and together we appraised numerous edifices, a.k.a. real estate, including musician George Benson's home in Bergen County. June, July, and August of 1978 were enlightening months in my life that I will never forget.

It comes as no surprise then that the men in my life today are somewhat avuncular. As an adult, despite still having a considerable amount of women friends (some are the same ones whom I had in grade school), I also enjoy men as buddies, particularly those with whom I can collaborate in some organized way. 

For example, when I perform as a jazz singer, I prefer to play with the boys. Quite literally.  One evening two weeks ago when Bond (yes, I did decide to take a risk and go back to dating him - see the entry dated March 5th) and I were strolling the pier, which extends out into the Pacific from Hermosa Beach, we came upon a trio of very young jazz musicians busking. As I have no real understanding of shyness, I bounded up to them between tunes. Before one could say, "Play it again," I was jamming with them on an extended version of Cole Porter's "I've Got You Under My Skin" in Db. The jam, complete with my improvised scat singing, continued for about twenty minutes. After we realized that night was upon us, the crowds had dissipated, and we could no longer see well, the notes ceased. Before saying adieu, we exchanged Instagram info and promised each other we would do it all over again in the near future. Even if it never happens, inside of those musical moments, I couldn't have been happier. 

When it comes to playing with the boys, what I adore in particular is golfing. Sorry, ladies, but my past experience tells me that you are way too competitive for my taste and are too concerned with playing by PGA rules. I'll follow its game book when and if I ever make it into the PGA, which I can tell you right now, will be never. Playing along with men is lighter. As I can keep up with them for the most part, they respect me, treating me as a peer. In general, we don't take the sport that seriously, offering each other a polite mulligan when necessary and spending a lot of time laughing generously at our triple bogeys. My favorite golf buddy, the ruggedly handsome Rory (not quite McIlroy) just happens to be a fellow actor, forty years my junior, who keeps me on my toes since he is extremely good and a perfect gentleman. How lucky is this sixty-six year old? I'd say extremely lucky.

Ladies, whether you are married or single, it is perfectly okay to spend time with platonic, avuncular men friends who are more than capable of enriching your lives in one way or the other. And I emphasize "enriching" because every once in awhile, the male perspective is needed. Although there are women out there who honestly believe men are only good for sex and moving furniture, they are wrong. Okay, may some men are, but not the majority :).

Just sayin'. 

#Personal Essay, #blog, #blogger, #society, #spilled thoughts, #friendship, #editorial 

"And Just Like That" My "City" Was Gone

 

bibulous - adj. - excessively fond of drinking alcohol (Google)

In case you live under a rock, you already know that HBO's "Sex and the City" is a chancy cable series. When it premiered in 1998, it reconfigured the notion of women's lib. Decades later, it is still an adored television staple that never ages for us broad-minded women, gays and a few metrosexuals with a sense of humor. Unfortunately, the original has graduated to MAX's "And Just Like That," an often painful spin-off featuring three of the four formerly lovable characters: Carrie, Charlotte, and Miranda, who ironically pronounces on the third episode of the new season, "I have actually experienced the joy of hate-watching." Exactly. Miranda, when it come to "AJLT," we know what you mean. Why? Nearly thirty years later, the landscape of the "City" has changed so drastically (which is also true regarding the real New York) that it is barely recognizable. And neither are the three main characters. 

A now cult classic, "Sex"went from featuring four urban, bibulous, thirty-something, white single women with no filter when it comes to sharing their sexual conquests to the same-but-different three surrounded by the woke ideal: friends of color with dashes of LGBTQ correctness. Which just seems forced as though extreme liberals had emailed the writers informing them that if they didn't include every possible politically correct angle, the show would be put to rest permanently. My thirty-four-year-old daughter who as a pre-teen had learned about the birds and the bees from secretly watching the show on DVD, pretty much hit the nail on the head when she commented, "The characters are in an alternative universe wherein the only character who is consistently himself is gay Anthony, but he was never fully developed in the original."  

Just in case you don't already know, at the sequel's premiere, "And Just Like That," Samatha (real-life confederate Kim Cattrall) has retreated to life in London disappearing like gay, Shinto monk Sanford (the deceased Willie Garson) in a new world–in his case, Kyoto and culture (Japanese). Miranda transitions from steadfastly heterosexual to a fully realized Lesbian; the former Ralph Lauren teen model, Upper Eastside Charlotte becomes ensconced in the expectations of severe maternal materialists: New York upper class soccer moms. Yuck. 

Every fan's favorite, Carrie has gone from funny, fabulous, and flawed–just F.I.N.E."(fucked up, insecure, neurotic and emotional) to goody-too-many-shoes as proven by her reunion with twice-ex Aidan Shaw (John Corbett, famous for marrying Bo Derek). Although pseudo-redneck Aidan is universally likable, he has never been the right match for our "material girl," who still has the nerve and impracticality to wear six-inch sandals and a frilly, low-cut, tight-tube designer dress in her fifties while visiting Aidan and his adolescent sons (at least one of whom is in his sexual prime) on the family farm in Virginia. The reason why she broke up with him in the original series was because the two were just like oil and water, meaning they had nothing in common. And now in "AJLT," they still don't, which at least is consistent. Even though Carrie has always loved Aidan, it doesn't make sense that she would graduate from whiney selfishness to understanding selflessness. Technically, nobody (especially not Aidan) should get away with putting Carrie in the corner of a guesthouse without her unfairly overanalyzing the move and motives and abruptly breaking up with him on the spot. The new Carrie is just too perfect to be entirely sympathetic. Audiences used to be able to see their own imperfections in vulnerable Carrie. She was the more "real people model" whom we viewers related to on a gut level, admiring unconditionally as if she were a best friend or sister.

Of course, it remains to be seen whether or not the writers of the current show will somehow come to the conclusion on their own that their reimagined, formerly beloved "Sex and the City" characters are just not attractive anymore. Perhaps they will be forced to watch the original series in full so as to become reacquainted with the fictive women who did so much for the televised sexual revolution in the early 2000s. Or maybe not. Maybe they think those days are over and the New York woke present is the only validity that makes sense. I don't know about you, but I'd like to see a bi-sexual Miranda forget about her lust for unattractive women and fall back in love with Steve, an exhausted Charlotte send both of her kids to board at the Lawrenceville School in Jersey, and "Tiffany-twisted" Carrie dump agrarian Aidan and run into Big's stunt double at LeCirque. And perhaps an impersonator can do a close Samatha on the smartphone to Carrie every once in a while. I'd even take a text message from jolly ole Ms. Jones. The new gal pals may slip in on occasion but perhaps by chance. I'd be fine with all of this. But then again, I've always been a purist. What can I say? When it comes to TV comedies, I just don't like change. 

#personal essay, #opinion, #Sex and the City, #And Just Like That, #blog, #blogger, #TV series, #MAX

Nepo Babies and Claims to Fame

 

nepotism baby (nepo baby) - noun - term used to describe a person often in the entertainment industry who benefits from their parent's fame or connections, suggesting that their success is partially due to those connections rather than solely their own merit or talent. (Google)

A couple of weeks ago, I found myself in the auditorium of the Academy Museum of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences listening to legendary actor Goldie Hawn, whom I have always respected, mainly because she, unlike so many in the industry, is not a nepo baby, one who benefited from her parents' connections. Although she had a lot of information to share, mainly about her own career, she mentioned in passing that she never outright helped her children Kate Hudson, Oliver Hudson, and Wyatt Russell get to where they are today in show business. Albeit honest, the statement struck me as being ironic as she has never needed to lift a finger to assist them. Everyone who is anyone in Hollywood knows her and recognizes her children, giving them a clear advantage over actors who aren't related to celebrities. Although many in the biz will insist that the wielders of power in the entertainment sector don't like the idea of nepo babies, they clearly have a leg up and always have. Remember the adage: "It's not what you know, but whom you know"? I do. 

How many nepo babies can you name? There are just so many. Hmm. Other than the aforementioned, there are Miley Cyrus, Dakota Johnson, Drew Barrymore, Jennifer Aniston, Nicolas Cage, Lenny Kravitz, George Clooney, Nancy Sinatra, Liza Minelli, etc., etc. Some nepo babies have considerable talent while others don't. All grew up in the shadows of their famous parents, not knowing much of anything but privilege and all the right moves that might make them some money in the entertainment world.

Those who have been in show business all of their lives and have never been given much in the way of breaks via their parents or anyone else know that luck and talent need to work together to create success. For example, although Cher's mother was an actor who appeared as an extra in many films, she never got anywhere because she refused to use the casting couch (big in the forties and fifties) to obtain roles. In her recent memoir, Cher writes that she is aware that there are thousands of performers out there who have way more talent than she does, but Lady Luck has not been on their side. And she is absolutely right. She just happened to be in the right place at the right time and met the right men who promoted her to super stardom. Serendipity always makes for a better story than nepotism in my opinion anyway. The rags-to-riches yarn is pretty much the definition of the American Dream.

Interestingly enough, the celebrity of the moment, Taylor Swift enjoyed luck of another kind. Her parents, notably her dad, possesses sumptuous quantities of money to finance her career. Emotional as well as monetary support can result in fame. Talent, although generally natural, can be enhanced via the right people. In the music business, it is usually the producers that make the difference, and Swift has had many. 

Although there are times when I wish I were a nepo baby or just had parents who had the motivation to be stage parents, I am glad that I remained a hardworking G.D.I. in show business. Lady Luck shook my hand momentarily, but the timing just wasn't right. And as we all know, timing is everything. Besides, who wants mega attention anyway? It involves so much responsibility and very little privacy. Heck, the Internet thinks I'm famous. What more do I need? 

If you aren't a nepo baby, don't despair. You are probably way more content than they are. 

#nepotism, #nepobabies, #Personal Essay, #blog, #blogger, #society, #spilled thoughts

Telltale Texting

 

telltale - adjective - revealing, indicating, or betraying something. 

About how many text messages do you send and/or receive daily? I am guessing you don't count them. Neither do I. I'm probably afraid to as I am the type who still appreciates the simplicity of antiquated means of communication despite the fact that they are rarely used. You know, like the long lost art form known as letter writing and talking on a landline phone. If I didn't have a hip, thirty-something daughter, I'd probably still be an analogue "artist." During the pandemic after my flip phone flipped out, she's the one who convinced me to get an iPhone, a device that has definitely changed my life just as it has altered the myriad users of it internationally. Sure it has its advantages, one of which is a glorious camera that I use just about every day. The other is–dare I say it? Texting.

Texting is not what it seems to be. But as you already know, nothing is. What it seems to be is a modern alternative to what we used to do in high school in the 1970s: pass each other messages scratched out in pencil on torn-off looseleaf notebook paper folded in half at least four times for privacy. When the classroom teacher wasn't looking, we would toss the notes that sometimes looked like miniature footballs to each other. It definitely was the forerunner of today's texting, only it was much cheaper and, in some cases, faster because we could write quicker than type and also were forced to relay the communication within seconds before we were caught and given detention for passing notes. Because there was no such creature as spellcheck, we could spell fairly accurately (which few know how to do at present as we don't have to) or use shorthand (specific abbreviations) in order to get our gossip across. The verboten "bad habit" sure made some of our dull classes tolerable. 

Fast-forward to the present: what I find interesting is that texting or telltale texting can be a reflection of the writer's personality. For instance, unselfish people-pleasers tend to worry that they have texted too much or too little. They always respond to texts within seconds of their receipt. On the other hand, those self-centered types whose attentions lie elsewhere (such as Instagram, Facebook, TikTok, whatever) instead of on you will procrastinate, often forgetting completely to answer a text message. Days or weeks or months might go by, leaving the sender frustrated, wondering what he or she or they texted that could have possibly have affected the receiver negatively enough to ignore it. And then there are the inexplicable, idiosyncratic types who will send a lengthy text, prompting one in return, but then the conversation will end there, leaving unanswered questions. I know of friendships that have dissolved because of unanswered texts, which has come to be known as "ghosting." But is the ghosting intentional or not? Sometimes we never quite know for sure. The tenacious few resend and hope that the message won't go unanswered a second time. Those who feel secure might just move on to text another, more responsible friend, a reliable first text responder for instant gratification.  As for me, I'd like to go back to what we did in high school :). 

With the aforementioned in mind, I can't help but think that more relationships could remain in tact if we gave up texting altogether and just emailed each other. Or we could use the call feature and actually have a conversation or at least leave a message. Maybe the parties queried will return the call? Maybe not. It's a crapshoot because human nature is just so capricious. 

#blog, #PersonalEssay, #texting, #blogging, #Society, #HumanNature 

The Journey by Jet

 

peregrination - noun - a long, meandering journey. Google

Although I fear that I might have blogged about this subject before, I am going to take a stab at it again since I might have been overly critical initially regarding the topic. And I am also thinking that some of you missed the original essay.

Journeying by jet may be the most expedient, safest means of transportation albeit it is no longer 100% enjoyable like it used to be, let's say, in the early 1960s when topnotch airlines, such as Pan Am and Eastern, dominated the skies. With the onset of People Express in the 1980s, practicality and affordability replaced stylishness and comfort. People Express gave passengers the options of paying for food and taking their carry-ons on board. It also employed men as well as women in the cabin so that the "sexist" label "stewardess" graduated into the P.C. "flight attendant." (There might have been other airlines that did this around the same time as well. I am just relying on my own memory, which may or may not be accurate.) 

It goes without saying that 9-11 made things tough at the airports. Before the terrorists attacks, security was loose and family and friends could accompany travelers to the gates or meet them there armed with affectionate signage as they disembarked their planes. I have to admit that this is the one thing I truly miss: the ease of entering and exiting air terminals with or without family and friends.

But despite the desperately disappointing changes, no one is staying home. On a recent trip to Raleigh-Durham from LAX, I had to change planes in Chicago. On a Wednesday in mid-May, all three airports were packed to the gills with travelers so that the flow of people reminded me of a salmon run in an Alaskan river. The planes themselves were also full so that tensions were high and the F-bomb bombings booming as extra space in the overhead bins was nonexistent. I also noticed that on the 737-8MAX jets, there is no such animal as first class, making me feel like I was on a city bus but with two additional seats per row. Squeezed tightly into our seats, we became unwillingly upfront and personal physically with each other. I actually felt sorry for the passengers with a few extra pounds as there was no room for them.

I know what you are thinking. Where is the part that includes the praise?  Okay, here it is. In the midst of the chaos, there is often calm. Every once in awhile, the stranger sitting intimately close to you is not only talkative, but interesting. On my Southwest return flight from RDU via Phoenix, a kind gentleman of approximately my age sat next to me and proceeded to fascinate me for the full hour and a half trip to Los Angeles. An international fish monger/importer (first I've ever met), he regaled me with pretty personal tales involving his Brazilian ex-wife, talented children, exotic girlfriends, place of birth, familial history, etc. T.M.I.? Maybe. But after going through the motions of driving two-point-five hours that morning, returning the rental car, negotiating stuffed airport terminals and security, hopping on and off and on planes traversing the country, I craved the diversion. And you know we authors love to draw any reality from life and then fictionalize it. Unbeknown to him, Mr. Fish might just become the romantic love interest in a salacious beach novel that I'm hoping to begin as soon as I sell the dramatic tome I just finished writing. Yes, there is always a silver lining in the clouds jets populate daily.

Happy trails and peregrinations to all who travel in the friendly or unfriendly skies more than they would like. 

#personal essay, #blog, #blogger, #jet travel, #air travel, #social commentary