am I a real Californian now?

Someone accused me of being a "real Californian" now. That person's nose will heal somewhat less quickly than my fist.

The reason for their insult is that part of our large backyard makeover includes installation of an in-ground spa. That's "hot tub" to you on the east coast, but a true "hot tub" is actually one of those redwood tubs you think of when you envision naked people in Marin on a big deck overlooking the Pacific Ocean at sunset with glasses of wine in their hands. But that's not us. (And don't pretend you don't envision naked people. I know you do.)

For one thing, we're not in Marin and you'd have to be in a damned tall building to see the ocean from our town. In fact, I don't think you can see it from the top of the mountain because the Oakland hills are too tall. For another, it's unlikely we'll spend much naked time in the spa because we have no fence, so we have about thirty feet of clear, unfettered exposure to the street. Plus, we're about two hundred yards from the local elementary school. So that's pretty much out, at least until we get some sort of barrier up.

But no, I'll never be a true Californian. My heart will always be where my home was when I was little, and I don't think that's terribly uncommon. I've lived in this state approximately half my life, yet I still feel more at home in Seattle than I do here, and I only lived in Seattle one year. Hell, I felt more at home in Santa Fe, and I spent only three days there. But "home" will always be in New England.

Anyway, the point is, we have this new spa, and the installation was completed Saturday. The boys jumped right in, but I'm waiting until the patio is finished at the end of the week. It'll take a long time to pay it all off, but at least I'll be relaxed when I write the checks each month.