Luxe Life

Throughout all our rental property mishaps this weekend, we've spent quite a bit of time speculating about the nature of luxury. Experience the best of urban luxury proclaims the website of our first place. The 2 bedroom, 2 bath unit on the fifteenth floor with concrete ceilings was not as posh as I expected, especially given the Rolls Royce and Maserati we rolled our suitcases past as we navigated our way from visitor parking into the not-so-ritzy corridors of luxury living. The pool view was pleasant, as was the sunset over the western reaches of Atlanta, but still.

And when we were, well, evicted is such an ugly word, relocated to our current place, which is billed as Local Luxe Apartment Homes, we had no idea what to expect. This neighborhood adjoins Georgia Tech and the residents seem to mostly be people in their 20s. The wifi network in our unit is called Millennial Luxury, but again, the stained carpets in the hallways and the sparsely furnished apartment belies the name. No coffee maker? Is it because Millennials buy all their coffee by the cup? Perhaps, but what about shower curtain liners, dish towels, and beds that aren't broken? 

Still, the contemporary four over four buildings form a horseshoe around a pool with gas grills, ping pong table, and shuffle board, and just off the pool deck is a lounge with fireplace and plenty of comfy seating. Swanky? No. Fun for a party? Probably. And in these times? That would be a luxury, indeed.

Mitzvah

The plans to road trip to Atlanta for my niece's Bat Mitzvah have been in the works since February. We were all vaccinated, and the idea that we might actually gather together as a family for such an important event was exciting and irresistible. So Bill and Emily and Heidi and I made a plan to rent a place, throw the dogs in a minivan, and drive south for a long weekend in April.

And we would have gotten away with it if it wasn't for...

• the dog-friendly rental house, just around the corner from my sister's, canceling us the day before we were set to leave.
• my sister's dog, Panda, blowing out her ACL so that no dogs could visit her, also right before we left.
• the neighbors who complained about Lucy barking and then stood by the door, recording her barking at them, getting us evicted from the place we found on short notice.

All of these things added a lot of stress to our trip. But there were kindnesses along the way, too:

• my sister's friends who kept the dogs all day so that we could attend the ceremony, pack everything up, and go to lunch.
• the rental agent who evicted us, but also found us another place to stay for the remainder of our lease.

What a crazy few days it has been for us! But luckily? 

This weekend is not about us.

Most Popular

In the bottom right hand corner of my blog is a list of Popular Posts. With the minute readership I enjoy, I'm not sure if the algorithm that determines the entries on the list has to work more or less than usual, but I generally recognize why one post or another is mentioned. To be honest, I rarely even look at that feature, but yesterday I glanced over and saw a title I didn't remember: Fair to Middlin'

Intrigued, I clicked the link and was taken to the post I had written exactly 10 years ago to the day, April 22, 2011. It was the end of a week at the beach with family, one that had started with renting a van and road tripping south with Heidi, Bill, my mom, and our dogs Sonic and Isabel to meet my sister and her family. Treat and Emily flew in, too.

I got a lump in my throat reading about our last night at the beach and the dinner conversation we had, and the whole story brought back a flood of sweet memories. Coincidently, just a few hours later I was scheduled to pick up a minivan to drive south with Heidi and Bill and Emily and our dogs to join my sister's family for our niece's Bat Mitzvah.

But the strangest thing about the whole thing was that there was absolutely no reason why that particular post should be on that list. When I checked my stat gadget, no one had accessed it but me, and only because I followed the link right then. By all rights? Fair to Middlin' should have been languishing right along side the other 4,000+ posts that no one has looked at for years.

And yet... there it was.

Get on your Feet

I woke up this morning dreaming that I was dancing. In the morning meditation that my sister turned me on to, we have had three minutes of dancing most of the week, and there's really nothing like it for a positive start to the day. Three minutes goes by in a wink, and there is a smile on my face when I sit down to practice being present. 

Our yogi reminded us of that great Mark Twain quote:

“Dance like no one is watching. Sing like no one is listening. Love like you’ve never been hurt. And live like it’s heaven on Earth.”

It's been so great, I just might add three minutes of dancing to my daily to-do list. 

Join me!

Playlist ideas, anyone?

Middle School Math

"My parents are young! They were really young when they had me!" I heard one student tell another this morning. "My dad was born in 1983 and my mom was born in 1985."

I did a little calculating: 26 and 24 is a bit young by today's customs.

"How do you even know that?" the other student responded incredulously. "I have no idea when my parents were born."

He raised his eyebrows and frowned. "Do you know how old they are?" he asked.

"Yeah, of course," the other kid shrugged.

"Then do the math!" he told her. "Just do the math."

Her eyes widened, mind clearly blown.

He just shook his head in disbelief.

The Wall

When you ask your students to come up with a two word alliterative phrase with their name, 

and

they

just

can't

think

of

anything.

Strange Ways

In the count-your-blessings department, all of my niece's aunts and uncles, as well as her grandmother are vaccinated and willing to travel to Atlanta to celebrate her Bat Mitzvah with her this coming weekend. On the flip side of the coin, planning to entertain out of town guests in COVID times has been challenging for my sister. Just today, she received a call from the restaurant with whom she had reserved a coveted covered patio space to let her know they were switching to a 4-or-6 course prix fixe menu that was really not a fit for our group. 

"You should call the manager," I suggested, but she told me it was the owner, a well-known chef, who had made the decision.

"We picked the place because of all the good work he has done in the food community during the pandemic," she told me, "and now we're stuck. It's disappointing."

"Maybe you could Tweet him," I said.

We brainstormed a few ideas, and eventually she crafted a <280 character message that she was pleased with. After we hung up, I tapped my Twitter icon for the first time in ages, eager to see her handiwork. Scanning my account before navigating over, I checked out my own mentions tab. There I found a Tweet from last May, from the parent of a student.

Above her daughters smiling face, she had posted: Blessings to the wonderful teachers @[ourschool] Thanks for your kindness! You made [my daughter] very happy! #teacherappreciation #QuarantineLife

Her daughter was holding an envelope with a note I had written and the small piece of candy I'd sent in recognition of the writing she had done after our school buildings had closed.

Exactly 11 months later, to the day? I feel the appreciation. And it makes a difference.