Now maybe not all husbands are resistant to change, but Boomer husbands tend to be stuck in a land somewhere between Pink Floyd and The Beach Boys. Even a little change can be daunting, say, like switching from Skippy to Trader Joe’s crunchy organic, which is why the fact that we are now having to look for new digs is throwing the husband into a sizable, negative nutcase. No doubt, relocating is difficult for everyone and I, too, am sorry our landlady has decided to move back into our comfy home, after eight years. So, my plan is one of aggressive house-hunting that involves perusing pages of listings online and cruising nearby neighborhoods. The husband, however, is wading in pools of nostalgia, convinced he can talk the landlady into not moving back by simply throwing piles of cash at her. And how much will it take? I don’t wanna know. So far, he’s managed to find fault with every house we’ve seen.
- Beverly Hills charming three bedroom house, yard, one car garage, “I’m not living in a house that’s only 1550 square feet.”
- Beverly Hills charming three bedroom, yard, two car garage, “I’m not living in a house with a knotty pine kitchen.” (Can’t say I fault him there.)
- Culver City who knows what (since he won’t bother to even see the house), “I’m not living in Culver City; there’s no Jews there.” Huh? I think he’s reverting back to his Beverly Hills High School days when that was the general thinking. And I don’t even know where that’s coming from. It’s not like we’re observing the Sabbath and shopping at Glatt Market. Culver City is not the dark side of the moon. It’s hip.
- Franklin Canyon “drop dead gorgeous” (the husband’s description) three bedroom, den, and view of the hillside from the master bedroom. Now this was a house to love, never-mind that it’s out of the way of every convenience known to man, except charming Coldwater Park. We looked out that master bedroom at the grassy hillside laden with flowers and became smitten. Yeah, it was way over our budget, and granted it is hotter in the canyon in summer and colder in winter, and yeah the garage could accommodate only one car (unless you drive a smart car; who does?), but those objections were not the deal breaker.
The deal breaker was the wattles. I’m not talking about turkey necks, plastic surgery, or how ducks walk; that’s waddle. I’m talking about rolls of hay-like composite that are used as a means of erosion control. Like this:
And when we looked closely at the steep, lush hillside, there were wattles. Lot’s of em! I saw the husband’s gaze go all the way up the hillside and then saw him gasp as he spied a huge house at the top. (Well, semi-gasp.)” I’m not living in a house where I have to worry about wattles. To me that says landslides, earthquakes, flooding, and that McMansion up there sliding down on me. No way, Jose.”
Back to square one: the husband.