I know owning a home is supposed to be an asset. That’s what they tell you. It’s bullshit. They tell you it’s an asset to make a traditional 30 year mortgage seem like a great idea. That’s not to say I don’t believe in the investment possibilities of real estate, I genuinely do, but home ownership is bullshit. Why? Nature and taxes.
Even if you manage to stay in one place long enough to pay off the loan, you still have to pay property taxes or the State can and will seize your home. As insidious as that sounds, Nature is far worse. It is the death of a thousand cuts. It’s the little things that decay over time. You can maintain your brains out and there will always be something that needs replacing or repairing, consuming resources.
This year alone, I’ve spent roughly $12,000 out of pocket for expenses incurred due to Nature. Generator, fuel, replace the fence the hurricane destroyed, plumbing issues and now, thanks to pine bark beetles, I’ve just had to spend another $1900 to have a 40 foot tall pine tree removed. I’m fortunate to have had the money in savings, but I’m one more disaster away from being completely broke and having to borrow money against my equity to cover it.
So yeah, when most people look at their home, they feel that pride of home ownership. All I feel is dread. Everywhere I look, I see the next expensive thing that has to be repaired or replaced And I don’t have the funds to be proactive about it, I spent them being reactive and it’s a bitch.
I’m not saying there’s an evil system that works against the middle class to keep them in their proper place by holding them hostage to their “things”, but I am strongly not not saying it either. Enough of that.
Some women, as they age, start to experience bladder leakage when they cough or sneeze. My wife is like that except she pees quilts. It’s true. I’ve seen her sneeze and suddenly there’s like five new quilts in the house. I thought this only afflicted Amish women, but there she is. And I’m certain she doesn’t have an Amish bone in her body. At least not these days. I have no idea who she dated before me.
Anyway, we had some leftover cloth from the mask making frenzy of 2020 and I asked her if she might make me some new pot holders for the camera. Not that I don’t love the sunflower ones she made last time, I use them, but the internet demands variation despite herding us all into a lump of uniform sameness. So I’m minding my own business, watching my usual murder shows on Sunday, I hear a cough and suddenly, potholders.
She’s very sweet. But if she farts and a barn suddenly appears, I’m going to have to seriously examine the nature of our association.
She makes fruitcake every year for Christmas. It requires 8 ounces each of green candied cherries, red candied cherries, candied pineapple and pecans to be soaked in whiskey for a month prior to baking. It’s honestly a really good fruitcake and I look forward to it. She normally makes two: one for her people and one for the Offspring and me. I didn’t get any last year because while I was carrying it, I tripped over some uneven tile and dropped it. So I’m really looking forward to this year’s fruitcake.
It's also worth mentioning that every year, we have to scramble to find the candied fruit. Yes, I could make my own, but she likes the storebought and I get it. It’s more predictable.
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This bit is hard for me. On one hand, part of me really needs predictability and uniformity. Not enjoys, but needs. On the other hand, I really like variation. It’s a contradiction I’ve not been able to sort out. It’s also one of those things that make traditional holiday cooking unpleasant for me. Again, a contradiction. I’m seriously into traditional foodways but I want the Liberty to freestyle. like Dixieland Jazz. But traditional meals must be traditional. Boring! Also, you can’t fuck it up. Much too rigid for me. I need room to fuck up. It’s how I express myself in a socially acceptable way.
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After dealing with the tree on Saturday, neither of us were in the mood for Sunday morning snuggle time so we decided to go on the quest for candied fruit which sadly meant Walmart. Candied fruit is expensive. And nothing screams cheap and uniform like Walmart. I hate Walmart. Nothing convinces me more that civilization is over than Walmart. Well, maybe Presidential elections.
Unable to find candied fruit at Walmart, I suggested we hit the other end of the spectrum and see if Whole Foods had any. Now that I’m writing this and thinking about it we visited two completely different Americas on Sunday.
I enjoy Whole Foods a lot. I mean, it’s not like the one we used to shop at in Austin, which I’m fairly certain was the original. That place was pure Magick. It was the mid 90’s and staffed with tatted up weirdos of various genders, sexualities, races, unnatural hair colors, and religious paths. And there was no acrimony or judgment. It was a bastion of individuality, self-expression, and overpriced Hippy shit. No two weirdos were alike and it was perfect. It reeked of patchouli and joy.
Our Whole Foods is totally sterile. I mean, sure, there’s much higher quality overpriced Hippy shit, but it’s just so dull and uppity maybe? I still like going there. The products are nice and it’s so obvious when I cross the threshold that I do not belong. It’s crawling with nicely dressed, up-scale Millennials, people we would have called “Yuppies” in my day. Like that Whole Foods in Austin, the staff looks just like the customers. It reeks of ethically sourced, low carbon footprint cleansers and condescension.
Still, we walked away with some delightful and expensive cheeses and chocolates, but no candied fruit.
It’s totally cool. When we got home, I hit my local HEB’s website and located the sugar plastinated fruit. They’ve settled nicely into their month-long Jack Daniels bath. She normally uses Dickel, but Jack is cheaper and available, so Jack it is. Oh, God! Variation! We’re doomed!
After Whole Foods, we weren’t ready to let go of what we later realized was a sense of normal, so we headed to Biff’s Banh Mi and Pho for a nice lunch. I’m super excited Biff’s passed the Wife’s muster so we can frequent it. The place fills me with hope and really competently prepared, reasonably priced Vietnamese food.
She’s still skittish about Vietnamese Food but there is enough on the menu for her to eat while I systematically eat my way through their menu. She was going to just have Cha Gio and Fried dumplings, but she swerved into their chicken fried rice at the last minute. It was nice. She tasted it, noted the differences between it and Chinese style, looked up at me and said, “This is exactly what I wanted without realizing it.” Seriously high praise.
I noted the staff were all wearing the same Biff’s t-shirt so I asked the guy who runs the place with his wife, she was out sick, if they sold T-shirts or if they were just for the staff. He indicated they were for staff, but because of my size, I could have one. From his perspective, it’s free advertising.
He rushed to the back to bring me the biggest T he could find and handed it to me. I offered to pay him again and he indicated no payment was necessary. They would never need it as no one on his staff would ever be big enough to fit in it. I suggested they might need it for camping, possibly.
The thing is, it’s an XL, I’m a tight 2X right now, so I’ve got to lose weight in order to honor his gift. I tried it on, just to be sure, and yeah. It’s like wearing a bra with a Pho slurping water buffalo on it. Still, my titties looked great, so there’s that.
I mean, sure, I’m heavier than I’ve been in 10 years, my blood pressure pills are working over time, I’m having trouble moving my bulk around, and I genuinely feel awful these days… You’d think that would be enough to motivate me, but no. When the Banh Mi guy gives me a shirt, well, that’s just different. Receiving gifts is complicated for me.
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As is my way (weigh, get it?), I’ll tend to that after the holidays.
Now go cook something. Maybe low calorie.
