Every so often, I start a blog post and don’t finish it.  I save them as drafts — because I plan to get back to them.

Mostly, I don’t finish them because I don’t have more than a few sentences to say about a topic or my thoughts on the topic never gel.

Since cleaning up clutter also extends to virtual hard drives — here are some the my aborted thoughts:

From September 12, 2004:  My best friend is b lack.

Ah, it’s a phrase we know well.  Before (or after) someone says or does something discriminatory — they attempt to deflect by saying their best friend is black.  I never want to be that friend they refer to.

From September 24, 2004: Conspiracy of Silence.

Right before I sold my last house, I found out my neighbors had always known that the people living next door to me were crazy, drug dealing, lunatics.  They somehow thought if they didn’t mention it to me — I wouldn’t notice — though the guys standing out side with guns  - posturing, was a clue.  Fortunately (or unfortunately), when  we sold the house — they were all standing outside — playing music from the trunk of their car, and smoking dope — so the new owners can’t say they were uninformed.

From October 20, 2004: Those who know better.

Below is what I wrote when I made the emotional decision to sell my last house, and buy our third house — the first in a ‘white’ neighborhood.  To summarize, I grew up believing that the decimation of black neighborhoods was integration.  I strongly believed the abandonment of traditionally black neighborhoods by black professionals had (among other things like poverty and crack cocaine) led to their demise.  I felt profoundly guilty for maximizing my investment in California real estate by leaving West Adams.  That guilt was partially alleviated by a wise friend last year.  She cut to the chase and said I shouldn’t worry about those people because they weren’t thinking about me.  And she was right.   Here’s what I wrote then:

Many people have asked why I would leave my lovely renovated house for the unknown. It’s because now, I know better.

When people ask you what you really think, they probably don’t want to hear the answer. For once, however, I’m going to write what I really think. In the interest, of self interest, I’ll not publish these pieces until I move from West Adams to wherever.

Why did I move here. As anyone who knows me knows, I’ve always wanted to live in California. To me California represents promise, hope, and who can resist living in a place with vacation like temperatures all year round. When I first came to California at 16, I couldn’t believe people were slogging it out on the east coast — I had west coast dreams.

So when the opportunity came, to move here, I ran, didn’t walk, to get here. The first hurdle was looking for a house. I see myself as edgy, hip, cool, so you know I was insulted when family members among others asked, are you going to live in Los Angeles. Yes, of course, I replied, sure that a thinly veiled racial slur had come my way.

Looking for houses in L.A. can be daunting. They’re exceedingly expensive and generally in bad shape. My dream was to live in Santa Monica or Westwood, places I had visited on vacation. When I found out that people were paying $500,000 for two bedroom fixers, I was stumped.

So, I decided to look in predominately black neighborhoods — and after reading an article in the Los Angeles Times, I changed my course. And after looking for a bit, there they were, large homes, on relatively quiet streets. So I bought one.

Yes, I was a ‘grandma fixer.’ Nothing really had been done, ever. And what had been done was hideous, a fire danger, a water hazard — you name it. So in the name of fire safety, and qualifying for homeowner’s insurance, I fixed it. I fixed the sewer. I fixed the plumbing. I fixed the electricity. I fixed the water damage, the termite damage, etc. I looked at it as an investment.

So, when I got tired of living in a grimy kitchen and with the thirty five year old shag carpet, I fixed it. I looked at it as an investment.

Now, living in the ‘city’ can get tiring. And with only one life to live, I’m done. I started wondering about my choice when I joined Junior League and the Junior Chamber of Commerce and not one of thousands of members shared my zip code. I looked around as my friends bought homes and condos and no one even considered my area. Then, I started thinking . . . . hmmmm. Sure, everyone said, ‘oh, this is such a cute neighborhood.’ Sure, they marveled at the large, stately homes. Yet, we were the only ones here.

I started to sense trouble when my neighbors revealed problems they hadn’t wanted to share for fear of scaring me away.

So, here I am. Tired of people who have lived here for fifty years who have nothing invested in the neighborhood. Tired of receiving poor services. I’m ready to move on and fortunately I can afford it.

Trouble is, I don’t know if it’s worth it. Funny, how real estate agents think I can’t sell it. It all remains to be seen.

February 28, 2005: Disenfranchised?

When I wrote this, I was pissed because LA County was making voting at my new address extremely difficult.  Needless to say, I worked it out.  Here’s what I wrote then:

I’m feeling disenfranchised as we head toward the March 8th Los Angeles mayoral primary election.

For a number of reasons, I have changed my status to that of permanent absentee voter.  Ah, the pleasures of voting at home.

But it looks like, I won’t be able to vote in the March 8th election because I can’t process a change of address with the Los Angeles County Registrar.

Despite mailing, faxing, and filling out endless forms, they don’t want to let me vote in my new district.

April 17, 2005: Shoe Shopping.

Mama needs a new pair of shoes.  Actually, mama and papa needed a new pair of shoes.  So, off to the local mall we went.  I was surprised that Macy’s has turned into a store more like Target than the ‘upscale’ department store I remember, but as always I digress.

The story.  I went shopping for shoes and found that Macy’s and other department stores had some seriously archaic shoe commission notions.  In Nordstrom, I had to lie and say no one was helping me to get different people to get me shoes.  Their policy only lets one person help you.  And once that person gets you, no one else will help you.  I didn’t buy any shoes there.  More savvy, Adam picked out some shoes at Macy’s and we split up and got shoes from a few different folks.  We checked out — then the salespeople got into a fight over who had helped us first — and tried to rope us in.  We just wanted shoes, and left them to work it out.

October 19, 2005: Could hear a pin.

Does anyone remember when Sprint’s advertising campaign for it’s fiber optic long distance service stated, ‘you could hear a pin drop?’

I think about this commercial all the time, these days, when I get those awful cell phone calls.  I’m sitting at home, and the phone rings.  I hear static, and possibly nothing at all.  Then the phone rings again, and the caller always says, "Oh I dropped the call."

Then some patchy conversation happens.  Mostly me saying, "What? What!"

Bottom line.  I’m tired of horrible phone conversations from people who refuse to use a land line.

– So that’s it.  I’ve cleaned out my virtual blog holding pen.

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