Let this be a cautionary tale about how not to buy a house in La Jolla. Or anywhere, really. We arrived in San Diego in June of 1973 for my physician ex-husband to do his required two years of Berry Plan military duty. Right out of medical school four years earlier, and weeks after we had married, he’d been offered the opportunity to “volunteer” two years to the military after he finished his specialty training or go to Vietnam as a general medical officer the next week. Took us up to four seconds to decide.
My expat friend Julia had to go out of town for several weeks on a family emergency and was surprised to return and find a veritable mountain of laundry waiting for her. She’d expected laundry, of course, but commented that she had never realized that her husband Fred owned so many clothes. Turned out that when she left, he hadn’t. But as he ran out of clean clothes, he just kept buying more. Weeks of more.
With the summer travel season upon us, a person’s thoughts just naturally turn to … underwear. My many friends who travel a lot have been lamenting for some time that they just can’t seem to resolve the underwear problem, especially if they’re going to be staying at a different place every night.
You know you’re getting older when you catch your adult kids walking around with a tape measure envisioning the remodel after you’re dead. Actually, in our younger son’s case, he’s sort of hoping for the remodel before we’re dead.
Last week, an otherwise-intelligent acquaintance from La Jolla sent me (and about a hundred other of his closest friends) an email entitled “REFUSE NEW COINS!” The all-caps subject line is usually a good tip off that it’s either an urban legend or some mass hysteria among the wingnut set, which was only confirmed by the three-inch-high [...]
My adult sons would disagree with me on many points but I think the one issue they wouldn’t dispute is that the best thing that ever happened to the three of us was my second husband, Olof.
This is not to discredit their dad who has been a hugely active and loving participant in their lives (and with whom Olof has miraculously managed not to compete). As for mom, parenthood fortunately seems to be dissipating the kids’ litany of complaints regarding my performance. (For their complete list, email me specifying alphabetical or chronological.)
I’m always a sucker for those Internet and magazine self-help articles on the theme of “What your car/phone/hair style/electronics/wardrobe says about you” or the ‘How-To’ pieces: How to Land the Man of Your Dreams, How to Look 10 Pounds Thinner in One Day, or even How to Look Great Naked.
Given the number of doctors in La Jolla, it’s probably not surprising that I would count among my friends a certain number of fellow ex-wives of physicians. Virtually all of us have remarried (as have our former spouses) and I’m happy to say that despite early rancor, we all have good relationships with them now.
The New Year has always been a struggle; grappling with all the avoirdupois I packed on during the holidays. But now, in a cruel twist of fate, Girl Scout cookies are showing up in January.
Over the years, my neighborhood has waged a personal war against RVs. Boats, trailers and campers tend to not be our favorite vehicles either.
I don’t think there is a person on my block, including me, who isn’t totally in favor of recreational vehicle ownership. We truly want you to have fun. But we also truly want you to store this vehicle somewhere other than in front of our homes.
