Housing woes.

Ugh, ugh, ugh.

When we moved into to Monrovia, it seems like the perfect compromise.  It was half an hour from Pasadena, and an hour from San Bernardino: fair, since J. went into work every day, and since I only needed to drive to campus 2 days a week, 3 when we had faculty meetings.  We would have preferred to rent, but ... the California rental market is dismal.  We looked at a broad variety of miserable little rent houses with postage-stamp yards, at myriad multiple-family structures with delusions of tenement-grandeur, at (with longing) the plethora of delightful "rental communities" with all the amenities ... reserved for seniors.  And we despaired, because, seriously, I've lived in apartments that made "Joe's Apartment" look spiffy, but I have never lived in anything quite that soul-crushingly devoid of beauty and utility.  Seriously, California's rental properties seem to have been designed in direct opposition to William Morris's axiom that you should have nothing in your house that you do not know to be useful or think to be beautiful, because, seriously?  All of these properties appear to have been built in the 1960's, and 1960's architects appear to have some terrible aversion to both usefulness and beauty.  Pilled wall-to-wall beige carpet?  CHECK.  A pillar, closet, or fireplace (yes, for real) in every corner that could conceivably be used to house the furniture with corners, by which I mean pretty much all furniture?  CHECK.  Ceilings low enough that a woman who stands 5'4" in her socks can touch them without going on tippy-toe?  CHECK.  Ugly pine cabinets with confusingly spaced shelves that will fit no canned good known to man?  CHECK, check, and double-check.  And let's not even get into the crapalicious (sometimes literally) bathrooms ....

I sincerely believe that California's social hierarchy manifests itself more directly than New Yorks could ever dream.  One might pin this to car culture - as one could pin so many evils on car culture - but the biggest spit isn't between those who drive and those who take public transit, or those who drive luxury cars and those who drive beaters.  Nope, it manifest itself in the fact that California housing is grounded in the belief that rental units are reserved for those who Do Not Deserve Nice Things.  Because you can be willing to spend several grand on rent in the back of beyond, and not have anything to spend it on, because the apartment which you would conceivably be renting?  Has not yet been built.  And, quite possibly never will be.

So, we bought.  We bought a nifty little house that has cathedral ceilings and Spanish tiles and pool access and a patio, and we painted it a variety of pleasing colors, and we basically made it a home.  And I ... kind of love my home, which is great (I know, reading this entry, that at least one of you will be rubbing a thumb against a forefinger and thinking "World's Smallest Violin" whilst rolling an eye), except that I now have the two conflicting desires to keep my home (not my house - just my sense of home) and to also not have to drive an hour each way to teach or hang out with my colleagues.  Once again, why can I not simply have Baba Yaga's architect?  It would be so convenient to just magically relocate my house to Claremont or Redlands.

So, options, ranked from least to most likely:

1) Sell this house at a loss (thanks for the tanking economy, Bush administration!), and buy another one in Claremont.  This is not tenable because it would be time consuming, would involve the loss of funds, and would basically break my spirit.

2) Rent this house out to someone who will wonder why the hell the "master bedroom" (aka, my study) is painted in shades of indigo and gold whom I will hate with a violent passion, suck it up, rent one of the crappy apartments, and make it as lovely as I can.  Pros: halving my chance of dying on the highway, socializing, car-pooling.  Cons: losing a big chunk of time that I could be spending on revising the diss. and sending it out to publishers, planning my classes, etc., and will probably have to drive a lot anyway because I do not think it is likely that I will find a place in Claremont or Redlands that has the same happy 5-minute-walk proximity to everything I need on a daily basis (i.e., grocery store, dry cleaner, cobbler, and, gods willing, once they finally finish their year-long renovation of the public library, library). 

3) Stay in this house like a happy, happy hermit crab and hate my commute.  Pros: will probably get better at the driving out of necessity if nothing else, will have time to work, will, you know, continue to like my surroundings.  Cons: the stinking rotten commute, the fact that the distance makes socializing a bitch and a half because even if I drive to see other people, odds of their wanting to come out here are slim, which puts me in the awkward position of always-the-guest-never-the-host (I guess I could make a point of learning how to bake bread and bring it with me every time, or something).

4) Cry.  Pros:  emotionally satisfying.  Cons: swollen eyes, confused cat, no real ... solution.

Sigh.  BAH.

Dear California:

Please to be stoping sucking now, yes?

No love,
d_aulnoy

ETA:  Two worried phone calls later ... no worries, people: the crying was hyperbole.  I'm not quite there yet ....

Housing woes.

Ugh, ugh, ugh.

When we moved into to Monrovia, it seems like the perfect compromise.  It was half an hour from Pasadena, and an hour from San Bernardino: fair, since J. went into work every day, and since I only needed to drive to campus 2 days a week, 3 when we had faculty meetings.  We would have preferred to rent, but ... the California rental market is dismal.  We looked at a broad variety of miserable little rent houses with postage-stamp yards, at myriad multiple-family structures with delusions of tenement-grandeur, at (with longing) the plethora of delightful "rental communities" with all the amenities ... reserved for seniors.  And we despaired, because, seriously, I've lived in apartments that made "Joe's Apartment" look spiffy, but I have never lived in anything quite that soul-crushingly devoid of beauty and utility.  Seriously, California's rental properties seem to have been designed in direct opposition to William Morris's axiom that you should have nothing in your house that you do not know to be useful or think to be beautiful, because, seriously?  All of these properties appear to have been built in the 1960's, and 1960's architects appear to have some terrible aversion to both usefulness and beauty.  Pilled wall-to-wall beige carpet?  CHECK.  A pillar, closet, or fireplace (yes, for real) in every corner that could conceivably be used to house the furniture with corners, by which I mean pretty much all furniture?  CHECK.  Ceilings low enough that a woman who stands 5'4" in her socks can touch them without going on tippy-toe?  CHECK.  Ugly pine cabinets with confusingly spaced shelves that will fit no canned good known to man?  CHECK, check, and double-check.  And let's not even get into the crapalicious (sometimes literally) bathrooms ....

I sincerely believe that California's social hierarchy manifests itself more directly than New Yorks could ever dream.  One might pin this to car culture - as one could pin so many evils on car culture - but the biggest spit isn't between those who drive and those who take public transit, or those who drive luxury cars and those who drive beaters.  Nope, it manifest itself in the fact that California housing is grounded in the belief that rental units are reserved for those who Do Not Deserve Nice Things.  Because you can be willing to spend several grand on rent in the back of beyond, and not have anything to spend it on, because the apartment which you would conceivably be renting?  Has not yet been built.  And, quite possibly never will be.

So, we bought.  We bought a nifty little house that has cathedral ceilings and Spanish tiles and pool access and a patio, and we painted it a variety of pleasing colors, and we basically made it a home.  And I ... kind of love my home, which is great (I know, reading this entry, that at least one of you will be rubbing a thumb against a forefinger and thinking "World's Smallest Violin" whilst rolling an eye), except that I now have the two conflicting desires to keep my home (not my house - just my sense of home) and to also not have to drive an hour each way to teach or hang out with my colleagues.  Once again, why can I not simply have Baba Yaga's architect?  It would be so convenient to just magically relocate my house to Claremont or Redlands.

So, options, ranked from least to most likely:

1) Sell this house at a loss (thanks for the tanking economy, Bush administration!), and buy another one in Claremont.  This is not tenable because it would be time consuming, would involve the loss of funds, and would basically break my spirit.

2) Rent this house out to someone who will wonder why the hell the "master bedroom" (aka, my study) is painted in shades of indigo and gold whom I will hate with a violent passion, suck it up, rent one of the crappy apartments, and make it as lovely as I can.  Pros: halving my chance of dying on the highway, socializing, car-pooling.  Cons: losing a big chunk of time that I could be spending on revising the diss. and sending it out to publishers, planning my classes, etc., and will probably have to drive a lot anyway because I do not think it is likely that I will find a place in Claremont or Redlands that has the same happy 5-minute-walk proximity to everything I need on a daily basis (i.e., grocery store, dry cleaner, cobbler, and, gods willing, once they finally finish their year-long renovation of the public library, library). 

3) Stay in this house like a happy, happy hermit crab and hate my commute.  Pros: will probably get better at the driving out of necessity if nothing else, will have time to work, will, you know, continue to like my surroundings.  Cons: the stinking rotten commute, the fact that the distance makes socializing a bitch and a half because even if I drive to see other people, odds of their wanting to come out here are slim, which puts me in the awkward position of always-the-guest-never-the-host (I guess I could make a point of learning how to bake bread and bring it with me every time, or something).

4) Cry.  Pros:  emotionally satisfying.  Cons: swollen eyes, confused cat, no real ... solution.

Sigh.  BAH.

Dear California:

Please to be stoping sucking now, yes?

No love,
d_aulnoy

ETA:  Two worried phone calls later ... no worries, people: the crying was hyperbole.  I'm not quite there yet ....