DIARY OF A HOMEOWNER
As some of you know, I’m an ex-New Yorker (a Manhattan-ite to be
more specific) translation: renter. Oh, lots of New Yorkers own glorious
brownstones, large and tiny co-ops, even lofts, but most of the NYers living in
the naked city rent. I had a great 2 bed/2 bath apartment between First and
Sutton (for those who are City-wise)
with a galley kitchen with a window (that alone made the apartment worth its
weight in lox and bagels), and if I
hung out that window I could see the 59th
Street Bridge.
When something broke in my apartment, the live-in super
fixed it. When I left town the doormen locked my mail and packages in the “package”
room. They carried my “B” bags (Bendel, Bonwit, Bergdorf and Bloomie’s) to the
elevator and helped me out of cabs when I came home. When I signed a new lease,
the super had my apartment painted. And no matter how late I got home, there
was a doorman to welcome me.
All these services and more were included in the rent.
Granted it was a high rent (it was East Side
after all), but then I had no other maintenance expenses or fees. If the
air-conditioner broke and couldn’t be repaired, the building bought me a new
one. If a pipe burst in a bathroom, the building hired the plumber. And, if an
over-indulgent, spoiled teenage boy in the high rent high rise across the
street used the hanging plant in my 8th floor living room picture
window as target practice, fracturing the glass, the building replaced it (true
story).
When my husband and I first moved to Los Angeles for television-movie-fame and
fortune, we continued to rent. First, movie-tv star Harry Hamlin’s cottage in Laurel
Canyon… then a larger rustic “cabin,” also in Laurel Canyon – all the while
whistling Joni Mitchell’s “Ladies Of The Canyon” (well, I did – though my long,
ironed straight hair and love beads were long gone). Who knew you could
practically live in the woods and be five minutes from Hollywood? Not this Manhattan-ite.
As our fame and fortune grew (well, in our friends’ and
family’s minds, anyway), the charm of the Canyon began to fade… though our “hyphenate” landlords (famous movie-tv
star, then “famous adjacent” tv producer-director) paid for all home repairs
and gardeners… they couldn’t fix the
howling of coyotes at night or the agonizing screams of their kills… the
possums and/or raccoons sleeping on top of our car or the snakes that loved
living in the back stone wall of our garage dugout or on the hill behind
us. Snakes!!! Rattlesnakes to be exact!!! I’m sorry. I’m from New York City - we don’t do snakes…
especially rattlers. I can deal with coyotes and possums, even rats… but not
snakes!
It was definitely time to leave the Canyon… so, when our
accountant told us we really needed to “buy” something, it was like a sign from
God. We turned to the Long Island of L.A. – the
Valley - and bought our “modest,”
over-priced, pre-war cottage-bungalow (even the houses in L.A. are hyphenates)
on a quaint and quiet street
in the flats of Studio City… walking distance from Ventura Blvd., the Valley’s Northern Blvd (for
you ex-Long Islanders).
Over the years, as our ‘hood slowly changed around us and
McMansions sprouted out of the earth like poisonous mushrooms replacing those
charming cottage-bungalows, we hired gardeners and pool men, learned to turn
off the water to the house and found the circuit breakers. We decorated, then redecorated,
then redecorated again and again (there was a reason I was an on-air HGTV
design consultant).
We remodeled, built built-ins...
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| living room |
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| library |
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| dining room |
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| kitchen |
installed decks...
resurfaced the pool...
bought new appliances when the old ones died ...
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| kitchen |
We paid property taxes, which doubled. We bought homeowners’
insurance (which also doubled), flood insurance and earthquake insurance.
We tried growing tomatoes that ivy rats feasted on, but had
modest success with plants and herbs.
We hosted Christmas parties, pool parties and barbeques, and
never bought a lemon as our requisite lemon tree has fruit all year round. But
lemons were the only thing we didn’t have to pay for.
Now that we’re of a certain age – that age in the tv/movie
business where you become invisible (unless you’re Steven Spielberg or Meryl
Streep) and work slowly disappears, it’s time to consider renting again. Maybe
in Studio City. Maybe in Ojai. Maybe somewhere up
north. The thought of no property tax, no homeowner insurance, no home
maintenance costs (except our housekeeper) has won us over. So, of course, I
redesigned and redecorated once again... this time to sell.
Now if I could only
find a house rental with a doorman.
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Take a further tour of our house:
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| living room |
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| living room |
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| my office |
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| kitchen |
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| dining room |
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| master bedroom |
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| master bath |
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| library |
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| guest room |
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| guest bath |
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| hall bath |
