You're Frightening the Neighbors

My house is dirty, the yard is a mess, and my cat needs to be brushed. My hair is piled atop my head with clamps, and I think that I forgot to brush my teeth this morning. So is it any wonder that I have a reputation for visitor rules?

At one time I had a no drop-in rule. It was originally established for a specific individual but gradually grew to encompass most everyone I know. And the rule wasn't intended solely to keep people at bay . . . one simply never knows what I might be doing (or not doing) when the doorbell rings unexpectedly. Anyway, that was years ago. While living in Pô, no one understood a no drop-in rule. In fact, a drop-in is arguably the highest compliment one can receive in West African culture. The drop-in is a barometer of how well integrated one has become. So I learned to accept, if not embrace, the drop-in. These days I could count on one-hand the people I know who still must follow the no drop-in rule . . . and no, Sally, you are not one of ‘em.

I was born in the age of the calling card, though they were passé even for my generation. I suspect that today’s youth don’t even recognize the term calling card. Here in the U.S. I’m all for bringing back the days of receiving. My friends know this. Becky, jokingly, still calls to ask whether I am receiving today. For Becky, I am always receiving.

Why are we talking about receiving and drop-ins?

If You Obey All The Rules You Miss All The Fun

I was contacted by another Montaña neighbor. It's exciting to make friends even before we arrive in Samara. But this also means that my neuroses are showing. This blog is no longer seen only by my Peace Corps pals, California family, and Texas friends. Perhaps I should curtail the sarcasm . . . tone-down the sassy attitude. It's a bit concerning to feel that I might frighten the neighbors, even before we've met in person. Strict rules of polite society should dictate my posts. Sadly, I don't do well with rules.

Wrap It Up, I'll Take It!

Es·crow: eskrō/noun -- a bond, deed, or other document kept in the custody of a third party, taking effect only when a specified condition has been fulfilled.

In a prior life I worked in the legal field. In fact, I've done plenty of real estate law. However, perhaps I should have studied my Black's Law Dictionary . . . especially because the above definition of escrow has little to do with the use of escrow in American English. It's difficult to define escrow; and lucky us, we're in escrow in two countries. 

I’m a Portlandia addict . . . and there’s a House For Sale episode that involves a classic Portlandia explanation. Fred & Carrie meet the S-Crow, which is an animated crow who explains the term escrow. I find my own escrow explanation more simple and far more honest: escrow is real property limbo. It's kind of like real property purgatory. Purgatory: a place or state of suffering inhabited by the souls of sinners [be they buyers or sellers] who are expiating their sins [read: finances] before going to heaven. Now doesn't that better explain escrow? Didn't need Black's dictionary after all. Goes to show you.

I’m Going To Make Him An Offer He Can’t Refuse

What a view! Someone needs some poolside furniture to sit and admire that view. My Amazon.com-typing-fingers say buy, buy, buy! My bank balance says Buying bad, saving good. My bank balance needs to mind its own business.

Mil Colinas, our little home in Samara's new development, was listed as Lot 6 on the community's master plan. Just above us up the mountain is Lot 7. We looked at and considered purchasing Lot 7. It was a bit more expensive, had a few hundred extra square feet and a separate half-bath. Still, we preferred Mil Colinas. And in the negotiations for little Lot 6, Lubos made us an offer we couldn't refuse . . . adding a kitchen island, furnishings of our choice, new paint colors, etc. Our home, we believe, has the better ocean/jungle view . . . even though it doesn't have the infinity pool like Lot 7. I don't need an infinity pool. Really, I don't. I believe, I believe.

When Will You Make an End? When I am Finished!

Okay, a grand estate it's not. But it's ours, and I'm already thinking of it as home. I thought to myself this morning (whined, actually): I wanna go home. Ah, our little two-bedroom Samara home -- the home with no closets on 1.65 acres, more or less, so near, and yet so far . . . but we're getting there. Check-out this photo as it shows several items of interest, not the least of which is an absence of curb appeal, the remaining mauve paint . . . and the fact that you'll never see the home from this angle unless your driving downhill. The front terrace needs some tall planters/plantings beside the door. Still lot's o' machinery on that western slope.

There's our utility pole in the foreground. True, a utility pole isn't exciting . . . but just wait until I paint it and cover every inch with little shells that we'll collect at the beaches. Such is my plan. The pole is also notable as it marks the northern boundary of Mil Colinas. An unresolved issue is the overall plan for this area -- how to transition and landscape an almost vertical hill that denotes our northern lot-line from the flat, garage-level area. The transition plan depends on Rusty's garage plan. I believe that he's already got a few ideas.

I'll Have What She's Having.

My friend April has a knack for getting anything she wants from her husband. For ten years she's tried to explain her secrets. I thought I owned a brain, but clearly such is not the case. I want this knack that April has. She should write a book.

You should see our DFW home, or not. Still packed with boxes going first to storage and then to Samara; a game room, garage, and patio filled for a garage sale; and a wreck of a bedroom full of once-clean, never folded laundry. For an obsessive organizer, it's my idea of heaven, or not. Too bad it's the maid's year off.

Years ago I learned a little trick. I don't think it was from my mother-in-law, though it's certainly her style. Here goes: Wanna look as though you've not sat down once all day and have been working hard to please your hubby?

Gone To The Dogs

So there's this old movie called If A Man Answers starring Sandra Dee and Bobby Darin . . . Cesar Romero, too. Anyway, newlywed Sandra struggles to make Bobby into an ideal husband and approaches her mother for advice. Her mother presents her with a little book on . . . wait for it: dog training. It's entitled something like How to Train Man's Best Friend. Sandra is appalled! She's disgusted . . . even more so when she realizes that her parents' perfect marriage is the product of tips in a dog-training book. But wait, ChouChou, she tells Sandra, and turns to the chapter describing how to make your dog come to you. "Rule Number 1: Always associate something good with the words "come here."

Suddenly it all made perfect sense. In my junior-high-school brain, I now had a plan to live happily-ever-after, one day. Of course in the film the scheme blows-up for both marriages . . . but everyone still lives happily ever after. Hey, it's Sandra Dee . . . we expect nothing less than a fairy tale.

Things Are Not What They Seem. Nor Are They Otherwise

Last October we placed a contract on our new Samara home and closed in January. It's now officially late March. Not early March or mid-March. It's late March; and we're still back in Texas waiting to sell our home. That's not quite right. We're still waiting to put the For Sale sign in the yard. We're waiting on my disposa-phobic husband; but that's a whole 'nuther story, another blog, or at least another post. Yes, I am the victim of a disposa-phob. There. I said it.

I have FEVER! Cabin Fever . . . at 22 Degrees!

Cabin Fever - noun; A state characterized by anxiety, restlessness, and boredom, arising from a prolonged stay in a remote or confined place.

I'm back . . . still complaining about the snow and ice in Dallas. Intellectually, we realize that this may be the last time we experience snow, in person -- and it is indeed a beautiful covering of snow. So we should appreciate it, right? But emotionally, we want sunshine, sandy beaches, monkeys, and cold cerveza on a hot Samara day. Today in Samara is Thirsty Thursday at our favorite beach bar, Lo Que Hay. And Samara will reach the mid-90s today. What are we doing here?!