Coffee heat rising

The Art of Daily Living: Frugal New Shorts

So now that I’m “thin” and the fat doesn’t seem inclined to come back, the closet still holds great wads of size 12 and size 10 Gloria Vanderbilt jeans, my favorite uniform.

Hesitated to throw these out or donate them, for fear the diet might not stick and so I might need them again. But that fear seems to have been unfounded. And now…baby, it’s HOT out there!

Them thar 105-degree temps make the size 8 jeans feel a little on the hot and uncomfortable side. I’d already made a couple of pairs of shorts out of old Glorias, and suddenly I’ve found myself wearing them all the time. Since they’re always landing in the wash and leaving me with nothing to wear, yesterday I decided to  construct several more pairs.

Here’s the trick: Gloria Vanderbilt’s “Amanda” stretch five-pocket jeans are very much your mother’s bluejeans. These things are designed to fit up around your waist, truly stodgy, and they have rather baggy pants legs: i.e., a  comfortable, conservative fit for comfortable, conservative (fat) laydeez. What this means is, if you choose to make your cut-offs from a pair that is two sizes too large (as opposed to just one size), you can let the waistline ride on your hips…and voilà! Magically, you have a pair of shorts that fit like they were made for a younger, more stylish woman.

😀

They’re pretty easy to make, though it’s a little time-consuming to do more than one pair at once. Building three pair occupied an entire evening in front of Netflix. Here’s how:

1. Estimate the desired length. Put on the jeans, stand in front of a full-length mirror, and let your hand fall to about where you’d like the hemline. Take a straight pin and insert it an inch & a half or two inches below that level. This will mark where you’ll cut off the jeans.

2. Lay the pants out flat on an ironing board, a table, or the floor, with the leg seams together. Using a tape measure and a white Prismacolor pencil (unless, of course, your jeans are white…) or tailor’s chalk, rule a line at your cut-off point, parallel to the bottom seam of the legs. The idea is to try to make both legs straight level.

3. With a sturdy pair of sharp scissors, cut off the legs along this line.

4. Heat a steam iron to “cotton” or “linen.” On the front side (i.e, don’t turn the jeans inside out, since you’re going to make a cuff that folds up and outward), turn over a narrow edge and iron it down flat. Do this for each leg.

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5. Now fold that narrow edge over on itself again, once, and iron that down flat. Using a sewing machine, stitch a steam along this narrow edge. Be careful while sewing over the side seams, as these may be bulky for your machine and could break the needle, an annoying development. Ease the needle over the side seam. Repeat on the other leg.

6. Fold a cuff up, making it the width you desire. This will depend on how much fabric you left yourself when you cut off the pants legs, on how daring you like your shorts, and on how deep you like the cuff. Put the unfinished shorts on and check, in front of the mirror, to establish the size of the cuff and be sure the result is even on both sides.

7. Iron the cuff down flat, using your measuring tape to be sure it’s the same width all the way around and that the cuffs on each leg are the same. Tack it, with thread that matches the jeans fabric (more or less), at the side seam and the inside seam, and then tack again, gently and a little loosely, at the front and back of the pant leg. This will help keep the cuff from turning inside out when you run the shorts through the washer. Repeat on the other side, checking to be sure the cuffs match.

And that’s it! Very simple!

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Ga$p! House Drama, Dog Drama

7:00 a.m.: FLY out the door.

Dear friend takes me to breakfast and delivers lovely gifts for Birthday. {love love love}

From there, it’s off to the Vet with a container of edifying dawg pee, and from there a bounce-fest from vendor to vendor to freaking vendor.

Take Harvey to Leslie’s, where he’s usually repaired for free.

Cute (cute, cute, BORN THIRTY YEARS TOO LATE CUTE) tech: “Uhmmmm…  Well, the easiest fix is to buy a new one.”

$450 later, Harvey’s reincarnation is in the back of the car. To be fair (sort of): there’s a $30 in-store rebate and an $100 rip-off mail-in rebate. Meaning the gouge is a mere $320. Plus 10% tax. On the $450.

FLY in the house. Call the insurance broker; explain annoying predicament to his voicemail; point out that as of 4:30 this ayem the house stank so much the schmell woke me out of a semi-sound sleep.

Feed Pup expensive urinary dog food. Dump remains of yesterday’s attempt to cook new Real Food for Cassie into garbage whilst Pup is distracted with inhaling third-rate canned dog food. Decide to try to rescue expensive goddamn pan, even though hope looks forlorn; put same (pan, not hope) to soak in heavily enriched detergent water.

Prepare human food on grill: piece of lamb, asparagus sprinkled with balsamic, lovely little salad, more bourbon and water than is good for anyone.

Sit fanny down in chair.

Instantly get up to answer effing phone: Insurance broker.

Abhorred, is he.

[Graphic Designer has already been abhorred, by e-mail. Sister-in-Sin has already been abhorred, by e-mail. Son has been rendered, as usual, stylishly blasé, by e-mail.)

Insurance broker to look into costs of a) replacing microwave; b) hiring out smoke damage repair; c) replacing $10,000 worth of cabinetry and God only KNOWS how much in counter surfacing. Insurance broker to call back.

Sit back down to try to eat congealing mid-day meal. Add a little more bourbon to depleted bourbon & water.

Instantly get up to answer effing phone: Veterinarian.

Pup’s urine still has blood, although she’s much improved. He wishes to keep Pup on expensive special dog food for at least four more weeks. He suspects the ailment is a function of her runtiness, although there could be a physiological issue, expressed in old-guy language as “vestigial hymen.” Liberated human interprets this as old-guy lingo for “hooded vulva,” but whatEVER. Feel amazingly grateful and worshipful that he took time out of a very busy day to telephone me. He wants to delay another round of antibiotics because he thinks she may outgrow the issue.

Sit back down to magnificent mid-day meal.

Think of STAGGERINGLY GREAT exchange between two future Fire-Rider characters. Drop fork, run for computer, write down notes.

Come back to magnificent mid-day meal.

Think of COOL DIALOGUE after STAGGERINGLY GREAT exchange in novel. Back to computer: write down more notes.

Finish dinner. Realize chicken put to simmer is now cooked. Remove from heat, remove meat from bones. Place in container; refrigerate.

Put surviving pans and dishes into ’shwasher. Turn to “sanitize” (giant spoon for collecting you-no-what from Peeing Pup is in there, after soaking in Intense Detergent for several hours).

Collect Pup. Collect Cassie. Place on Bed.

And it is now time for a siesta. Thank heaven for the Mediterranean Lifestyle, to which I intend to adhere until I fall over dead while blogging at this site at the age of 110.

Hunker down. Instantly get up to answer effing phone: Insurance broker.

He’s sending an estimator over: determine what can be done, whether the fix is simple or whether (gawd forbid) all the cabinetry needs to be ripped out and replace. (Holy Sh!t) He believes this will be covered by homeowner’s.

Hunker down.

Please, God: NO MORE PHONE CALLS!!!!!

Drama of the Day

{sigh} Interested in today’s little drama? Check it out here.

I suppose I’m going to have to call the homeowner’s insurance guy and arrange to have someone clean up the smoke damage, huh? Won’t that have a colorful effect on my premiums.

🙄

A Long Dive off the Deep End?

On the way home from this morning’s business networking group meeting, my accountant (who also happens to be a fellow networker) and I fell into a conversation about the many quotidian distractions from paying work. I mentioned that a prospective client, who I thought had dropped off the radar four months ago, suddenly resurfaced…assuming I would index her 400-page tome on Anglo-Saxon maritime history at the drop of a hat. Her hat, of course.

And that this would come in the middle of the four-week course I’m teaching, the one that crams 16 weeks of instruction into 18 class days. And that I’d agreed to do it for a pittance — I mean, practically Fiverr wages! — in an effort to hang onto the entity that refers these obnoxious projects to me.

We reflected on the appearance, this morning, of a retired professor of economics who craves advice and help on a projected 400-page+ (typeset!) magnum opus, and who asked what I could do for him.

And that my associate editor, who makes it possible for me to take on these ridiculous projects, will soon be winging her way to China for a business/pleasure trip — smack in the middle of the four-week course and the 400-page Anglo-Saxon maritime indexing nightmare project.

And what a joy the advent of the new, brilliant cleaning lady proved to be, since she relieved me from a full day of tedious housecleaning work, which I then filled by completing a tedious (but paying) project.

And then I said, “You know, the problem with all these editorial jobs and teaching jobs is that they take away from what I really want to do, which is to write my own goddamn books, get them online, and build a micro-publishing house to promulgate future works of my own and of a select few clients.”

• How can I count the ways the prospect of indexing 400+ pages of Anglo-Saxon maritime history makes me cringe?
• How can I say how much I don’t want to fill the month of June with the Campbell’s Condensed Soup version of freshman comp?

• How can I express my delight at the prospect of editing 400+ (typeset!) pages of an economic history of the early Catholic church? (Yesh; that would from origins to 1350.)
• And how
much do I want to know how the Okan and A′oan bands, residents of a dire post-Apocalyptic future, get from the sere desert below the eastern face of the Sierras to their home counties and what, if anything, they make of the Sasquatch the young lesbian fur trapper kills in the act of saving Fallon Mayr of Cheyne Wells’s ranch foreman’s life?
• How curious am I about whether the trapper and the foreman get it on?
• And given the choice between indexing, editing, and preparing my own copy for publication, how clearly can I articulate which I would rather do?????

Accountant, as she’s opening the door to climb out of the car and wander off to her own office, says to me THIS:

You know, you are well set. You do not need to do any paying work to live comfortably for the rest of your life, especially considering how frugal you are. It is ridiculous for you to keep doing work you dislike. You could, quite safely, quit the editing business, quit the teaching, and devote all your time to writing and publishing your own books. Why on earth don’t you do it?

Why, indeed?

Life-Careifying My Home

A couple I know recently moved into a venerable life-care community here in Phoenix. They’re not that much older than I am… She has Alzheimer’s in her family and is beginning to show the earliest signs, and he is about ten years older than she. Their two-story house was getting hard for them to negotiate, so they figured now is the time. Another elderly couple — my current role models, come to think of it — are resisting being warehoused in a kennel for old folks, and getting by in their home pretty well, so far.

Within weeks after my mother died and was reduced to an urnful of ashes, my father moved himself out of their house in Sun City and into a Baptist-run old-folkerie called Orangewood. It was one of the early life-care “communities.” (Don’t you hate when the word “c0mmunity” is used to describe some development?) The idea with life-care is that you will move into an apartment in the joint, where, in exchange for a staggering amount of money, you will receive a variety of amenities, and, when the time comes, you will be guaranteed access to a halfway decent nursing home.

This expensive and, in my view, depressing arrangement turned out to be the biggest favor my father ever did for me. It relieved me of the responsibility of having to care for him as he declined into old age and death. He was only 69 when he moved himself in there, but he lived to be 84, and at the age of 80, he had a heart attack that reduced him to a cardiac invalid. Had he still been living in Sun City, I would either have had to get him into a nursing home at that point or would have had to move him in with me. Either scenario would have been a screaming nightmare.

So, occasionally I think I should do the same favor for my son.

But you know…I don’t want to live in one of those places.

For a dark little three-room apartment with an “efficiency” kitchen of the sort you see in motels (a hot-plate-like two-burner stovetop, a small sink, and an under-the-counter fridge), my father and his third wife forked over a $50,000 nonrefundable “endowment” and a monthly payment that was as much as my then-husband and I were paying for a 3,000-square-foot house on a third of an acre of the choicest real estate in North Central Phoenix, with a pool, five bedrooms, a huge country kitchen with breakfast nook, a vast family room, three bathrooms, fireplace, and pool. When I realized what he was paying for the little dump he and Helen were living in, I was just floored.

Now, they did get some amenities:

• Access to the institution’s nursing home and, if a lesser level of care was needed, to a studio apartment adjacent to the nursing facility. This was roughly equivalent to long-term care insurance, for which I now pay $107 a month, a figure that can be expected to rise steadily from now into perpetuity.

• A dining hall where they were required to take one meal a day and could also choose to take breakfast or a light supper.

• The option to have these meals delivered to their apartment. This cost extra.

• Semi-weekly light housekeeping.

• Electric bills (including air conditioning) were covered. Of course, this meant the institute would decide when the AC would be turned on in the spring…

• Access to an on-call doctor. Nevvermind that the guy was a dangerous, irresponsible quack who was enriching himself by defrauding Medicare. (Yes: my father caught him charging Medicare for visits after he (father) had told him and the institute that the guy was to stay away from him. Like all the other old folks there, he was afraid to report this abuse — getting into bad odor with the management would be counterproductive.)

• Access to a hobby room. Whoop comma de-doo.

• Access to a swimming pool that no one ever used.

• Access to a beauty parlor/hair salon/barber shop that dispensed dumpy-looking haircuts.

• “Free” shuttle-bus rides to doctors and a grocery store. Nevvermind that this meant once you were done seeing the doctor or dentist, you could sit in the waiting room for several hours until someone came to pick you up — it did defray some of the costs of transportation after one reached the point where one could no longer drive.

•  Oh, and also please nevvermind that every time some kitchen worker came to work sick or failed to wash her hands after using the bathroom, a wave of dysentery would sweep through the entire population.

{sigh} Every time I think about the possibility of signing myself into one of those places, I recall not only the amenities but also the limits to the amenities. And I think how much I absolutely positively do NOT want to be warehoused into a kennel for old folks.

So, here’s the question:

Is it possible to stay in one’s paid-off home through one’s dotage by cloning those amenities, for no more than it cost my father to live in Orangewood?

Today, those inflation-adjusted fees are much higher. One newer outfit here in town charges an entry fee of $310,00 to $1.1 million, with monthly fees that range from $2,400 to $4,100 — for one person. The place where my father and his wife lived has been torn down and completely rebuilt, so it now commands an entry fee ranging from $279,900 to $389,900, with monthly fees from $3,040 to $8,130. Entry fees, however, now tend to be at least partly refundable, an improvement over the pay-it-and-lose-it arrangements of the early days.

Well, think about it: $2,400 to $4,100 for base living expenses for one person strikes me as passing exorbitant, especially considering that person likely will find herself in a cramped one-bedroom apartment, with walls through which she can listen to the hard-of-hearing neighbor’s TV blaring.

My base nondiscretionary budget is $620/month. That includes all utilities, phone, DSL, yard care, and long-term care insurance. Add another $167/month for property tax and another $79 for homeowner’s insurance, and about $52 for car insurance, and you get a total nondiscretionary cost of $918 a month. As a practical matter, these expenses come in lower during the fall, winter, and spring, because the budget is based on summer costs, when power and water bills are at their highest.

Everything else, I class as “discretionary.” This category includes clothing, gasoline, food, entertainment, dog care, hair care, personal care and cleaning products, house and pool maintenance, and whatnot. The discretionary budget presently is $1100/month, although sometimes I overspend. Ruby’s endless veterinary bills caused a $300 overrun this month, resulting in $1,400 in discretionary spending for the current budget cycle. So let’s figure that’s a typical range for discretionary spending: $1,100 to $1,400.

What that means is that for everything — all my routine costs, which include nursing home insurance — I’m spending $2,018 to $2,318. That is less than the lowest rate for a mid-range life-care community. And what do I get for the price?

• A private pool that I can use any time of the day or night I please, that I can skinny-dip in; and I know who has been in it and what they’ve been doing in it.
• A large, low-maintenance yard with fruit trees, climbing roses, and three private garden “outdoor rooms.”
• The privilege of keeping pets.
• A garage (not an open carport) in which to park my car.
• No one on the other side of any of my walls.
• Central location.
• Brand-new light-rail going in within walking distance.
• A large, bright kitchen with a gas stove.
• My own propane grill.
• More living space than Carter has oats.

Sooo… What do I not get that, say, my father had at his old-folkerie, and what would be entailed in acquiring those amenities?

• Access to a nursing home.

The long-term care insurance I have plus Social Security and a 4% drawdown from savings should amply cover foreseeable nursing home costs. As for getting me into it? That’ll be my son’s problem, I suppose. As a practical matter, not all elderly Americans ever need nursing home, and often such care can be delivered in one’s own home (my insurance covers in-home nursing care). At age 60, your lifetime chance of needing nursing care is only 50%. If you have a policy with a 90-day elimination period, a typical 60-year-old’s chance of using that policy drops to 35% — meaning you have a 65% chance of dying or recovering within 90 days of admission.

• A dining hall providing two meals a day.

It’s impossible to describe how dreadful those meals were! Since eating and drinking are the two major pleasures of my life, I would be suicidal if I had to live in a place that served up swill like that, especially given that about twice a year the stuff made everybody in the institution good and sick.

• Option to have meals delivered, for an extra fee.

What part of Chinese order-out is hard to understand?

Okay, that’s flippant. But as a practical matter, many excellent meals can be delivered, for a reasonable price. On the low end, there’s a social service agency called Meals on Wheels, which provides healthy food for seniors in need. For those of us who can afford to buy groceries, grocery stores deliver these days! And most grocery stores stock various kinds of prepared meals, either in the frozen-food cases or at the deli. Here in Phoenix, both AJ’s Fine Foods and Whole Foods sell complete, fully cooked gourmet meals, and both stores deliver. 

Would having groceries and take-out meals delivered raise your food bills? Sure. But I’ll bet it wouldn’t add another $2000 a month to my existing bills. And the cost would be offset by lower gasoline bills.

• Light housekeeping

The going rate for a cleaning lady here is $80/visit. So two house-cleanings a month, which is what my father got, would set you back all of $160. Like food prep, this obviously costs more than DIY cleaning, but it’s not prohibitive…and it would not increase costs much more than I’m spending.

• Electric bills covered

For $4,000 a month? Seriously? Utility bills in these places are not free; they’re included in a staggering monthly fee.

• Access to an on-call doctor.

I have access to an on-call doctor. Young Dr. Kildare’s office is within walking distance of my house. And he is not an incompetent, dishonest quack who hands out sedating, brain-dazing, addictive pills like candy. If I need help on a weekend, I call his office and get the doctor who is on call.

• Access to a hobby room.

Be still, my heart! I have two spare rooms, one of which is now dedicated to my jewelry-making hobby. My office (which would not exist if I lived in an old-folkerie, because of course the presumption would be made that I do not need office space) is fully equipped, spacious, and dedicated fully to my writing and editing business. And I don’t have to share it with anyone.

• Access to a swimming pool that no one ever used.

I use my pool several times a day during the summer. Cost is nominal, and the light jobs of cleaning and maintaining it amount to mild, healthy exercise. If and when I reach the point where I need someone to clean and dose it with chemicals, regular pool service runs about $100/month and includes the chemicals.

• Access to a beauty parlor/hair salon/barber shop that dispensed dumpy-looking haircuts.

Granted, I can spend a startling amount on Shane: $70 for a haircut. However, my hair looks incredible, and as it gets longer, it has to be done less and less often. At this point I’m visiting him about once every six months. Here, too, this seeming “benefit” is not free to old-folkerie residents. You pay for it with your amazing monthly fee, and if you don’t care for dumpy-looking haircuts and drugstore coloring kits, you end up having to track down and pay the likes of Shane anyway.

• “Free” shuttle-bus rides to doctors and a grocery store.

What cost a free ride? Is it really worth spending three, four, even five hours sitting in some doctor’s waiting room, just to save a few bucks? Another circumstance, I’d say, that would lead me to consider suicide.

With grocers, drugstores, and Amazon delivering for little or no cost, I think I could afford a taxicab for the few trips I’d need to take around town. The amount saved on car registration, auto insurance, gasoline, depreciation, maintenance, and repairs would probably cover most of the cab fare.

It looks very much to me as if I can turn my own home into a life-care facility, if need be, with surprisingly little effort and, compared to an expensive institution, not all that much more cost than I’m already paying to live in my home.

Let’s consider what those extra costs would be:

Lifecareifying the house
Item Cost Times/month Total
Light housecleaning 80 2 160
Extra yard care 75 2 150
Groceries, Whole Foods 6 4 24
Groceries, AJs 6 4 24
Groceries, Safeway 12.95 1 12.95
Pool care 100 weekly 100
Lightrail rides 32 monthly pass 32
Cab fare (senior citizen) $12/$40 ride 2 80
Less monthly gasoline $80+/month 2 refills/mo. -80
Total added cost: 502.95

So, the additional cost, above and beyond what it costs to live now, to approximate the added benefits of living in an old-folkerie, comes to about $503. Innaresting.

Let’s see how that translates when added to the existing cost of living here at the Funny Farm.

Discretionary 1100
Nondiscretionary 620
Added old-age costs 503
50% Murphy’s Law 251.5
Total old-age cost 2,474.50  / month
Total annual old-age cost 29,694
Percent of savings: 4.60%

This assumes a 50% “Murphy’s Law Tax” on the projected old-age costs. And it produces a figure to cover ALL costs, including whatever indulgences one pleases, that is comparable to the BASE costs on the low end. Total annual drawdown to cover this amount would in theory be 4.6%, but in fact it would be significantly less, because Social Security would cover more than half of it.

Suppose, though, that Murphy’s Law applied to the TOTAL projected costs of living after one can no longer drive. Then what?

Discretionary 1100
Nondiscretionary 620
Added old-age costs 503
Plus 50%, Murphy’s Law 1112
Total old-age cost 3,335  / month
Total annual old-age cost 40,020
Percent of savings: 6.20%

In this scenario, we end up with a cost comparable to the mid-range cost of living in a life-care community, totaling about 6.2% of total savings. But here, too, some $14,400 of the cost is covered by Social Security, meaning the drawdown from retirement savings would be significantly less than that: just under 4% per annum.

So, even in the worst-case scenario, aging in place ends up costing the same as or less than residing in a life-care community. And for the price, I get a house — not an apartment in a people warren — plus the cuisine of my choice, the doctor of my choice,  privacy, and independence.

I don’ wanna work Monday

Nrfl. How can I count the WAYS I don’t wanna work?

A fine long list of To-Do’s was short-circuited by the unwelcome calendar reminder of the appointment to have the boobs X-rayed at mid-day. Ugh!

This bifurcated (heh! as it were!!!) the 87 gerjillion chores stacked up to be done, since rather little gets done (realistically, even if one drags one’s computer along) while one is cooling one’s heels in a waiting room with a GD television set blathering away.

So far I’ve managed to…

• Send course materials to Copy Center (took all of about 90 seconds)
• Contact disgruntled client (30 seconds)
• Update AMEX charges; find out how much was really charged after the $1795 in insurance premiums was racked up (about 10 minutes; approx $300 over budget)
• Add to that task: figure out WTF!!!?? (veterinarian bills, veterinarian bills, veterinarian bills)
• Contact associate editor; discuss summer’s work strategy while she’s junketing around China
• Get effing mammogram

We could add to those:

• Engage part of strategy described in last post — to relieve stress — by hiring neighbor’s non-English-speaking cleaning lady
• Figure out how to pay N-E-S-CL when there’s no GD cash in the house (exchange check for cash with neighbor)

And to that we can add:

• Respond to prospective client who had been presumed lost
• Negotiate delay in indexing volume of Anglo-Saxon maritime history to accommodate challenges of “teaching” a four-week comp course while sidekick is running around Asia

But we could say that ONE of us has not yet done…

• Read copy
• Read copy
• Read copy
• Respond to ALL “unread/flagged IMPORTANT” e-mail messages
• Pick up house for new N-E-S-CL
• Separate out rags that will scratch furniture from those that will not scratch furniture
• Pay Jesse
• Ask Jesse if he can work any magic to compensate for new STUPID stuff inflicted by latest WordPress “update”
• Mix new bottle of tile/glass cleaner for N-E-S-CL
• Meet associate editor at fave restaurant for (probably monumentally expensive) dinner to celebrate her latest amazing achievement
• Contact BlueHost; cancel everything there and demand money back

All of which leaves us with a question: WHY are there always more things to do than there are hours in the day to do them??????