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