wealth

I can say in all honesty, with a straight face, that I don’t need a beach house to be happy.

I’ve made it this far in life without one and things have been pretty terrific so far.

That being said, when one is offered to me for a night I don’t hesitate to say yes. I’m not daft.

The house in question belongs to one of my husband’s clients. It is an architectural marvel that sits on the sand in a private cove of only six other homes. It cost in excess of fifteen million bucks and a famous rapper/music producer is living next door for the summer.

All of that makes your butt pucker, right? Me too!
Like how can I relax and enjoy the experience? I can’t handle the grandiosity, the smell of money in the air. I won’t be able to touch anything for fear of destroying something it would take me ten years to pay-off. Like red wine on a white chair. Or sand…anywhere.

This house and this couple are not like that AT ALL. They are gregarious and tons of fun. They have kids and dogs and everything in that house says, ‘Come on in! Relax! Have fun! Make a mess! Enjoy! Feel rich!’

What? Feel rich?

As you know, I’ve been trying that “rich” thing on lately.
I’ve told you of the hours I’ve spent on Zillow looking at homes for sale in Santa Barbara. Montecito to be exact. The hometown of Oprah. And to clarify even further—five to ten million dollar homes. With land. And nifty views.

So, the house this weekend could have felt intimidating, but it didn’t.

Not at all.

It felt like the next logical step in my search for a dream house.

And that’s when the magic started to happen.
Duh.

Hubby, Ruby dog, and I, spent Friday night enjoying stinky cheese and a bottle of my favorite red wine as we listened to Adele sing her sad songs of love gone wrong while the waves crashed and the negative ions had their way with us.

I could not have been happier. I felt rich in so many ways.

The next morning I went out to my car for something important (poop bag) and found a neatly folded twenty-dollar bill on the ground just behind the tailgate.

“You must have dropped this”, I said as I handed it back to Raphael knowing full well that Ruby only travels with hundreds and I had all of eight dollars left in my wallet after buying the cheese. (The stinkier the cheese the more it costs. Why is that?)

“It’s not mine”, he argued. “The only time I walked over there was at 5 am when I took Ruby to pee and contrary to stories you’ve heard, I don’t carry a wallet when I’m not wearing pants. It looks like it’s yours”, then he smirked in response to the look on my face as I pictured him balls to the wind, and went to make himself another espresso on the F-you espresso machine that lives in the kitchen.

“I’m rich!” I yelled, like Leonardo DeCaprio on the bow of the Titanic. (I know, he said I’m King of the World—just go with me here.)

Now I had twenty-eight smackers! Time to go buy some more cheese. Instead, we sat around all morning covered in dog hair, as a low, gray ceiling of clouds hung overhead making the view outstanding and the house impossibly cozy.

“I’m not leaving!”, I announced after he had laid out his plan for the rest of our day. Shower, lunch, drive home—and then what? He had plans that afternoon and all day Sunday.

I did not. I had no obligations. Nada. Zilch. Zero.

“I’m not leaving”, I said again out loud, just to hear the words a second time. Sometimes I just say stuff for dramatic effect. Like ‘I’m not leaving’ means ‘I’m having a good time’. Like that.

Was I serious?

“Fine. I love that”, he said looking at me kinda funny. “You’re keeping the dog—and what about your computer? Remember? You didn’t bring it. You can drive back in your car and get it. It’ll only be a three-hour round trip because it’s Saturday.”

I thought about it for a minute. I needed to post Sunday’s blog…but the internet sucked.

“Fuck that!” I exclaimed. Why would I kill my beach buzz?”

Sorry, but I shirked. I shirked all responsibility and sense of obligation and, and, and.
I was so relaxed at that point I was literally drooling.
I blame the ions. The ions made me do it.

“Exactly!”, he agreed, and he meant it.

In a spontaneous act of whatthefuckery, I called my friend Sally to come after work and partake in some of my stinky cheese, wine and mind altering ions. In an uncharacteristic act of selfishness—she said YES!

Sunday morning as I sat bathed in the wealth of my weekend, looking around at the house on the beach, the one with dog slobber on almost every wall and knee high handprints on the bank of windows that looks out over the endless expanse of Pacific Ocean, I received a text from a dear friend. That alone was a mini-miracle due to the shitty WiFi.

You see, a mystical, magical project I’m working on has to be delivered to just the right people.
Or I’m fucked.
Until I could guarantee that, I’ve been sitting on it. Praying. Trusting the powers that be to pull a rabbit out of someone’s ass. That text, that Miracle in Malibu text, held the answer to my prayers and it was so implausible that if I told you—you wouldn’t believe me—and you’d have me arrested for public drunkenness.

I’m tellin’ ya. Being irresponsible, selfish, and acting rich has gotten a bad rap. It really worked magic for me this weekend.
You should try it.

Carry on,
xox

*Sally and Ruby-do in the ‘Bu

In case you want to try this yourself:

http://www.zillow.com/santa-barbara-ca/

“Wealth is not about having a lot of money; it’s about having a lot of options.”
~ Chris Rock

Being the obedient, Catholic girl and rule follower that I am, when I was advised by my accountants back in 1998 to save every dime I could scrap together, scavenge every couch cushion quarter I could find, and buy a house–I did just that.

I took my sister up on her very generous offer to move in, put everything in storage except for the scratch post/cat palace and my pillow, and called a small room with Teddy and Fraidy, my two Siamese cats, home for a year. We all went on what I referred to as ‘The Austerity Program’. The only thing tighter than our living conditions was my wallet.

Oh, don’t feel sorry for them. As I came to find out cats have little concern for square footage. Think about it. They tend to claim one or two spots in your house as their own, which they mark with coughed up fur balls and claw marks and that’s where you’ll find them hour after hour, day after day. For mine, it was the three story cat palace during the day and my pillow at night.

Anyway…Austerity became me. I excelled at it.

Living small became a mindset that I was assured would come in handy once I purchased the house and was subject to the “sticker shock”. Except for some measly living expenses and a car payment I banked every dollar. Contrary to my former way of living there were no extravagant trips, expensive new shoes or shiny new cat toys. We all hunkered down.

I had been ‘pre-approved’ to a certain dollar amount meaning that if I exceeded that imaginary line in the sand, I did so at my own peril. Of course, as I started to look around, spending my Sundays at open houses, everything in my price range was dreck. Run down with peeling paint, wonky, un-permitted additions that looked as if they had been slapped together with playing cards and duck tape, and bathrooms that were one mold spore away from being condemned by the health department.

Did I mention the amount I had to spend was HEALTHY? Like, buy me a castle with a moat AND an alligator in Ohio, healthy?

I was advised to stay away from the properties that were over what I could spend, so I immediately made a beeline for the homes north of a million dollars. These were my people. They had taste and class and lush green grass. Alas, even if I robbed a bank that would barely cover the property taxes, so most Sunday nights saw me drowning my austere little sorrows in a bottle of two-buck-Chuck, my face buried in a cat hair covered pillow to disguise the sobs. I felt sorry for myself that I only had the equivalent of a king’s ransom to spend. Oh, poor me.

Are you feeling bad? Maybe for the cats?  Please don’t.

Eventually, I did find something I liked. It had just been reduced to the very tippy top of my price limit, so I pounced, made an offer, and I’m sitting happily in that very same house writing this today.

As it turned out the peanut gallery was right; my mortgage, gardener and other responsible homeowner generated expenses kept me waist deep in austerity for a couple of years. Then so did my business. Austerity had become the gum on the bottom of my shoe. The mindset that wouldn’t let go.

Recently, I have felt the tug diminish. I’ve begun to dream of a compound in Santa Barbara.

Yep, you heard me. A compound. It may seem as unlikely as catching me gardening in a bikini, but everything starts as a dream, right? I’ve pulled up Santa Barbara real estate on Zillow the past few Sundays as a lark, and due to some residual austerity that stuck to my face—the prices caused an accidental nose-douche with ice-tea.

Fuck it! I yelled to no one in particular after almost drowning, then I clicked on an 8.9 million dollar property.
‘I have all the money in the world to spend!’, I told myself.
‘No limit, no imaginary line in the sand to keep me down! SHOW ME A COMPOUND!’

Then the funniest thing happened. And it surprised the shit out of me.
I felt a blinding white hatred for the 8.9 million dollar house. It was dark and medieval with a wine cellar that could double as a torture chamber for a serial killer. The kitchen was enormous… but it was trying was too hard! Custom this and custom that—bleeeaaaack!

I felt the same about the 12.5 million dollar monstrosity on the hill.
And the ranch with a view of the ocean.
I don’t need nine bedrooms.
I don’t want a horse property.
I don’t need a vineyard…

Come on people! Show me a decent house!

A 5 million dollar FIXER-UPPER! Yuck!
A 3.9 million dollar nightmare dipped in gold leaf. Puke!
I started to laugh. LOUD. Here, I have all the money in the world to spend…and I still can’t find something I love! I mean, at those prices—you’d better love it.

Since succumbing to the austerity mindset, I had convinced myself that the things I couldn’t afford were the things that would make me happy!
Which made me wonder. If I really had let’s say, only 2 million to spend, would I be loving these pricier properties and cursing my sad little austere lot in life, like I did before?

Uh…NO!

I actually liked the 2-3 million dollar homes better.

So, it wasn’t about the money. It was NEVER about the money. It’s a mindset.
Even with an imaginary wallet full of cash, what you want may be hard to find.
Good taste doesn’t come as a result of having a lot of money (Donald Trump).
And real wealth has nothing to do with dollars and cents.

Isn’t that good to know?

Carry on,
xox

Christmas toes in Mexico!

I’m in a bathing suit—in December.
The only thing worse for me is being in a bathing suit January-June, July-November.

Remind me again. Why was this a good idea?

Because cellulite looks better tanned. Everybody knows that. Right? I mean, we can all just agree to that, can’t we?

Jiggly, white, bumpy chicken skin OR delicious, golden brown with crispy edges.

I can break everything down to a food analogy. It’s a gift.
And it helps you to understand how I think.

Remember that trip we cancelled back in September?
Well, we decided instead to run to Mexico and as luck would have it we have the resort to ourselves this week-before-the-week-before Christmas. The over-attentive staff are enjoying their calm before the storm (the place is sold out the rest of the year and into January), following us around with cold beers and guacamole, scented oils and homemade warm tortillas.

It makes me smile and squirm all at the same time.

Oh yeah, I could get used to this. And a bit of deja vu.

Ancient memory: For one week in my late twenties I had the good fortune to be taken to one of the all-time grand luxury hotels in the South of France, The Hotel Du-Cap-Eden-Roc, where besides exquisite food, surroundings and people watching, each guest is assigned a maid or valet depending on your gender.
I’m serious.

Immediately upon arrival, my assigned young woman unpacked my suitcase (while I stood there dumbfounded), and hung everything on quilted satin hangers. Then she matched each pair of shoes to the outfit (A talent even I don’t possess).

To my amazement, I watched as she meticulously laid out my beat up old Keds on a fancy, monogrammed white hand-towel.
What?
Had it been today I would have posted it on Instagram, the juxtaposition was just that good!

The whole experience of having a servant at your beck and call was surreal.
I had my very own beck and call girl you guys!
At first, I felt uncomfortable. Undeserving. Embarrassed. I was no better than her.

Quickly I became appalled.

This young woman was around my age at the time and it felt odd to have her waiting on me hand and foot.

After she laid out all of my mismatched, shabbily cared for make-up on the vanity and practically brushed my hair for me, I became indignant with my then boyfriend. The one who was picking up the enormous tab.

It was then that he set me straight.

“This is a career for her and a damn good one,” his tone suggested he was getting annoyed with me. “It’s not like in the States, she’s not waiting to sell a screenplay. She chose to work here. There is a waiting list to work here. They are heavy vetted and they only accept the cream of the crop. The best of the best.”

Now he was on a roll. “You’re the one with the attitude. You’re the one looking down on HER.”
Ouch.

As it turns out her entire family worked at the hotel. Her father poured drinks at the giant mahogany bar downstairs, her mother assisted the chef in the kitchen. It was their family business so to speak and she was very proud of that.

So I got into it, appreciating every tiny gesture. Reveling in her joy. Becoming friends.
She thought my American accent was really cool. I loved the way she called me Mademoiselle Janet.

She ran my bath. She brought me earl grey tea at 5 p.m. She laid out my clothes every morning.

Late one night she found me extra tampons which she delivered to me ever so discreetly, knocking softly on the door, averting her eyes and pulling them out of her pale pink uniform pocket tied with a blue satin ribbon. I kid you not.

When we left and I went back to real life—I missed her.
I missed her sweet smile, her heavily accented English, and how much she enjoyed her job. Oh, and the tampons with the blue stain ribbon. I desperately missed those.

So now back to Mexico and the same lesson was repeating itself all over again. I get squirmy when people are over-attentive. I shoo them away. I reek of embarrassment.

Raphael told me this story once about a riding trip he took to South Africa and how indignant he became after witnessing all the locals throw their trash on the ground.
Just like that. Drink water, throw the bottle on the ground. Eat a…something South African, throw the wrapper on the sidewalk.
After awhile his entire party started to do it. He was appalled, doling out the dirty looks like Tic-Tacs, running around picking up all the yucky shit off the ground until one of their guides informed him that the local government pays someone VERY WELL to do that very thing. So as it turns out, what appeared to be jerkishly-selfish littering was just the townspeople keeping some guy gainfully employeed—or he was being punked—I’m still not sure.

This same husband is fluent in “Mexican”, (he balks when I say Spanish so I’ll indulge him here and go along with the charade).
Anyhow, he was chatting it up with Pearla in the gift shop as he browsed for a better hat with a wider brim to protect his delicate French skin from the sun.

“She LOVES it here,” he informed me, translating their lively conversation. “She braved three interviews and waited several years to work here and when she left the other resort–they congratulated her! You know, they give her health insurance and many other benefits she can’t get anywhere else. She’s thrilled to be here. They all are.”

And you can tell.

For cryin’ out loud!
It is still and always will be MY attitude and misperceptions that get me in trouble.
They aren’t pretending I’m better than them—it’s their job to be nice!

Forever a work in progress y’all.

What do you think?

Carry on,
xox

*Occasionally I’ll be reprising some of the most popular posts from the past. Today there are actually two. My letter to money, and money’s response.
Enjoy!
XoxJanet

Dear Money,
I know our relationship has felt strained these last few years,
but we’ve always been so close and……..I miss you.
My darling Money……I think we should reconcile.
I know it looks like my life’s been all topsy turvy for a while now, and I seem like a bad risk, but I can assure you, I’ve worked really hard on myself and I’ve grown so much.
I feel like I can meet you half way. 
You must admit, you’ve been very elusive, really playing hard to get.
You barely even show your face, and when you do, I turn around and you’re gone.
That hurts, because I can still remember all the good times we had.
All that crazy spontaneous traveling we did together, remember Italy, with the shopping, and long lunches? 
You were always so there for me. I want to make more of those memories!
We even bought a house together for cryin’ out loud!
I think I showed my commitment to the long haul, what about you?
Sure, I’ve made a few mistakes, but who hasn’t!
We had “it” once and I think we can have “it” again.
That kind of relationship doesn’t just disappear.
My choices may have seemed questionable, but now, if you could just stick around for a while, you’d see how they’re all working out for me.
You’ve said in the past that I’m overly sensitive, but you’re the one who’s stayed away for so long…and without even a goodbye.
I’m willing to forgive, forget and move on…together, hand in hand…like the old days.
Take a few days to think about it…….I know how you are about change.

XoxJanet

Money’s Response
Earlier this month you wrote me a note, expressing your desire to reconcile.
My Darling, I never left you, you lost your faith and trust in ME.
Mistakes were made, c’est la vie!
I’m incapable of holding a grudge, yet, you doubt my devotion.
Believe me when I tell you:
I am here to help you.
I am here to support you in your endeavors.
I am trustworthy.
I can be counted on to show up in your life when needed.
There is more than enough of me to go around.
I’ll never let you down.
I want to help you, help others.
Don’t worry about me, I’m here.

Xox