California Uber Alles*

I live in California now and I didn’t even have to move. 

It happened this morning.  I went in earlier than normal to the gym.  Replacing the usual grunting muscle-heads was a line-up of retirees.  These weren’t the familiar slow folks from the water-movement class.  These were Californian seniors, I could tell.

The men had unusually straight spines, not normal for older Oregonians who’ve spent a lifetime bent over, trying to stay dry.  The women wore their white and gray hair in young, hip, swingy styles like my 16 year-old daughter’s friends.   Oregonian women, once we get that AARP card, turn into our own Grandmas.  Our hair becomes short, thin and wavy, and our closet is full of out of date clothing which we wear with frugal pride.  We know the only bright thing in an Oregon winter is our matching pink workout outfits.

These Californian seniors looked like they’d put up a fight if you made them wear last year’s fashions.  They wore so much skin-tight lycra that you could almost see their plastic surgery scars.  Their faces were tanned, healthy, and pulled up tight.  One look and you knew they weren’t from around here.

Okay, I admit it: so am I.  This is how I can spot them/us.  Not only was I born in the Bay Area, but my oldest son is 5^th generation San Franciscan.  I grew up around people who were blessed beyond belief and believed they deserved it.  I thought it was normal.  I thought everyone woke up to a bright sunshiny day full of hope and equity. 

I moved to Oregon when I was 19.  I lasted six months and swore I’d never return.  I had a hard time waking up to rain every morning.  This was when Oregon really had rain.   It rained hard all day, every day.  I felt like I was in a cold, mold-filled sauna.  I had to move, it was ruining my hairstyle.  Hair was important to me then; I was still such a Californian.

It’d be hard to find much Californian in me now after a decade of living in Oregon.  I don’t even have a hairstyle.   If I did, it would do wonderfully in this past Oregon winter.  It’s been dry, sunny, and as close to perfect as anywhere I’ve ever lived, including California.   I feel guilty I ever complained about the rain.

My parents live in California.  We have weather competitions when we call.  “It’s 70 degrees and sunny,” my Dad might say.  “It’s 40 degrees and raining hard,” I’ll reply.  I could never win, unless winning is losing.

Today, my Mom emailed me from California.  She wrote it’s been raining all week and most of the winter and she’s sick of it.  She’s dealing with it by getting “really into being cozy and warm: a cup of hot cocoa, a mystery, soft music (lately it’s been Beethoven), a blankie and a hot, crackling fire.”  I win!  Now she’s the one in Oregon winter survival mode.

In Oregon winter survival mode, you turn into Laura Ingalls Wilder no matter how little your house and whether or not it’s on the prairie.  You spend your day with cocoa and blankies staying warm by the fire. 

If you see the sun, you run outside.  You see whole neighborhoods come alive.  Kids you’ve never seen before appear outside to play, people go for a run, and neighbors pick up their FoodDay collection off their driveway.  It’s only a matter of time before the rain starts again so you take advantage of the Vitamin D.  You know it won’t last.

People don’t do that in California.  They assume the sun will be there when they’re good and ready to enjoy it.  They schedule a run when it’s convenient, not when the sun’s out.  It’s always out.  You can count on that in California; up until this winter, anyway.

I’m doing leg-extensions near the California seniors.  They start talking to the guy at the next machine.  Here’s my chance to prove myself wrong.  They could be Oregonians: I shouldn’t be so judgmental.  Oregonians can have healthy tans and bright smiles and fancy clothes, right?

“Ben’s moving up on the 3^rd,” one senior says.  “His house appraised for exactly what they offered him.  In California, he’d only be able to buy another ranch.  He’s looking at a house on the lake.  Everything’s so cheap here compared to home.”

“I just spoke to my realtor this morning,” another one says.  “I’m going to try to get my kids up here, too.  They could afford a big place here.” 

When I lived in California, people introduced themselves by how much their house was worth.  “Can you believe it?” they’d say.  “I only paid a tenth of that five years ago.”  It was worth the rain to get away from the equity greed.

You’d think I’d appreciate Californians moving in and hiking up housing prices since we plan to sell this fixer the second we’ve replaced the last piece of 1970’s Mexican-style linoleum press-on tile.  A quick sale at full price is a good thing, right? 

Not when you have to buy again.  I’ve been in this situation before.  Californians discovered Montana through the movies and started buying up property in our little town.  The Wall Street Journal wrote an article and before you knew it, we couldn’t afford our own property taxes.  We did what anyone would do: cash out.  This is how you end up homeless in Montana.

Montana looked completely different by the time we left town.  The shops were remodeled and bought out by boutiques.  People started talking with California intonation, that is, their sentences went up at the end like they were asking a question when they weren’t.  They’d say rude things, smile, and say, “it’s all good.”  It was California with snow.

I got out of the gym before I started to worry about my hair.  Kevin, our friend and more-than-honest non-Californian sub, was home.  He’d just finished up his part of the 33 years of goo-filled plumbing replacement in the upstairs bathroom.  “Three hours and I didn’t even have to go to Home Depot,” he said.  “That’s a first.  I always have to take about three trips when I’m doing plumbing.”

“Charlie went three times yesterday,” I said.  “That’s why you’re here.  He gave up.”

Being around Californians all morning, I had to ask about his fixer for sale in this hot housing market.  I’m glad someone’s getting out from their fixer nightmare.  It gives me hope we can find a sucker happy enough to buy our ranch in this cul-de-sac from hell. 

“Sold in a day,” he said.  “Almost exactly what we asked for.  We move into the rental in two weeks.”

Rather than trying to handle two real estate transactions in one month, they’re renting.  After eight years of fixer burn-out, they need a few months of house detox.  I’m even more jealous.  Someone else has to deal with their plumbing when it gets full of goo.

“Now I’m worried the housing market will boom underneath us,” Kevin says.  “We might be priced out of the market if we wait a year.  Prices are skyrocketing.”

“I know what you mean,” I said.  “If we can’t find another house in town, we have to buy another car and commute.  I hate driving in traffic and I don’t even want to think about being far from a Peet’s.”

“Oh buy another car,” Kevin said.  “You’ll be fine.”

How can you feel sorry for yourself when you hear straight talk like that?

It’s important to get your mind off things that worry you, so I went to Peet’s.  I rummaged through the newspaper basket to find something mindless to read, like “Ask Amy” in the Living section.  I can always use some good advice.

Instead all I could find was Friday’s copy of the Wall Street Journal.  I sat down, opened up the Weekend Journal and saw a photo of three houses I drove by less than five minutes ago.  I would have rather seen “Ask Amy.”  The article sub-head read, “Unexpected Hot Spots.”  I start reading, “As home prices soar,” and “big gains,” and stop. 

It’s the dreaded Wall Street Journal article.  The turf wars have begun.  The Californians can come in with their money and say it’s all good, but it’ll be a while before anyone’s ready to call this part of town a hot spot.  You can’t drive by the fake-rock façade of Rosewood Market down the street and think soaring home prices.  Your first thought will probably be to lock the doors.

Still, I’ve done this before and I know what this means.  I explain my concerns to Charlie.  He seems worry-free and excited about soaring zip code housing gains, even if they’re lakeside rather than train-track-side.  Regardless, I’m not excited about the roof-free living potential if we sell.

“We’re competitive,” Charlie says, trying to reassure me.  “We’ll find something.  If we don’t we can always move to Florida.”

He’s always thinking of how to move to Florida.  He grew up there and whines about how much better it is, even though he has to see a dermatologist to undo the effects of that glorious Florida sun.  The General lately has decided she, too, needs to move to Florida.  They both have this vision of surfing and boating all day.  Besides small things such as a good job and a bad fixer, I’m the only reason we’re still here.

Besides, Californians don’t move to Florida.

*I met Jello Biafra when the Dead Kennedys were hot and we were both living in San Francisco.  I met his fiance and he met the loser boyfriend I had at the time.  I talked to him long enough to find out his real name (Eric) and long enough to realize California has a reputation that attracts a certain type of person.  I left for Oregon the next year.

A little help? [] 5:15:23 PM