First installment of disjointed recollections of California…
I had conversations during the week with multiple moms whose kids are leaving for college soon, and I really couldn’t wrap my mind around it. I’m having a hard time going a week without seeing 3B, and you’re telling me that he’ll go away for four years? What now?
We went over to Aunt M and Uncle B’s for a family cookout. 3B loved the cousins and aunts and uncles, the horses out back, the yard in front, the boat on the trailer, which Cousin E helped him drive. 3B still talks about everyone from that night, including Valentine, the horse. Mama and I are still talking about the yard and how 3B suffers from Outdoor Deficit Disorder because outside is an elevator ride away in our building. If anyone knows how to add a yard to a condo several floors above ground, please let me know.
Many parts of the OC are wasted on the wealthy:
- Perfect weather. Seriously, you rich people all work and exercise indoors, which is just as pleasant in, say, Yellowknife as it is in the OC. And when you do take a vacation from work, you can afford to fly somewhere with beautiful weather.
- Aston-Martin dealerships. Just because you spent more on this car than I did on my house…OK, condo…you seem to believe that it’s only appropriate to drive your Bondmobile a few times a year. This wastes a valuable investment that is built to be used, denies young boys the opportunity to ogle it in the parking lot at Target while you buy lightbulbs and, because the car is its own best advertisement–Daniel Craig has to be its best spokesperson–by taking it out of circulation, you reduce demand for it, meaning that A-M won’t ramp up production, which would make them affordable to…well…me.
- The ocean, the wind, your boats. Here’s the deal, rich people: to live within 50 feet of the Pacific Ocean, you paid a sum for your house that would bail many developing countries out of debt, and yet you never set foot in the water. You bought sailboats that could either comfortably house a small village or compete in the America’s Cup, and the most you do with them is pay someone to scrape the barnacles off their bottoms. I know that you currently pay a pretty penny in taxes on these items, but I propose that the government move to a use-it-or-lose-it system because, really, you’ve become an obstacle to those of us in the leisure class who know what to do with such amenities, which is certainly not to look at them in the rear-view mirror every morning as we drive off to work.
Virgin America. Thank you for getting it, for not treating me like a piece of baggage to be folded, spindled and mutilated on its journey, for not treating me like a wallet to be robbed, and for taking the time to do the little things right. As the magnet on Mom’s fridge says, Use your brain; it’s the little things that count.