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The housing market in Wisconsin is bonkers right now. No, seriously, it’s bonkers. We are seeing houses that sold in fall of last year going for 200% what they sold for just 9 months ago. We found a house that sold three months ago now back on the market, no changes, no improvements, asking 45% more — can you imagine making an investment with a 45% return that is legal?

And the worst part is that the asking price? In a regular real estate market, most of the time the asking price is the top price — meaning they’re starting out with a number that they would LOVE to see. It’s optimistic. However, right now? The asking price is the opening bid — and houses that go on the market on a Friday have an announcement that you need to get your best offer in because they’ll be making a decision on Tuesday and there are no second chances.

We’ve now been outbid on four different houses in rapid succession. Each one we offered asking price plus closing costs. Each one had several competing offers and ours was typically the lowest, often by more than 10%. Each time has been an excruciating mental exercise that falls flat on its face.

The chagrin is that we know this is a real estate bubble — we KNOW that it’s going to pop, so all of those houses are going to be rapidly deflating back to their more usual Green Bay pricing. A friend who works in the industry said that all of his clients corporations were freeing up cash reserves, preparing to make a killing when the bottom falls out in the third and fourth quarter. Another friend’s financial advisor told her to rent something for a few months, or even house sit, until the market flips, because it will, and it will be legendary.

All of these realities are intellectual — we know there’s nothing we can do, and we know that, as expensive as it is to live in Las Vegas, it is financially smarter than paying even ten grand more for a house than had we waited just a bit longer. And the numbers we’re crunching — it’s not just ten grand. More like a hundred grand.

As with all things, your bank account rarely shouts louder than your heart. Knowing we’ve been able to GTFO really since April when it became clear that I no longer physically had to be in Vegas? It hurts. It stings. It’s like a scorpion zap to the brain. And of course, with the pandemic, it’s not even like we can ENJOY what Vegas has to offer. There are no seafood towers at Bouchon. There are no fun ethnic markets to explore. There are no weird little desert towns to check out on the weekends. There is just the inside of this house and our tiny postage stamp back patio and bit of gravel that subs in for a yard.

And the worst part? Everyone wants us to move back to Wisconsin. “This is why you need to move back to Wisconsin,” they say, and point out whatever reason that Vegas is a human hellscape. Text messages. Marco Polos. Emails. Chats. Facebook messages. My mother’s annual phone call for my birthday started with “Happy birthday! When are you moving back?”

Friends, we know. WE KNOW.

And it feels like I’m constantly rebuffing friendly helpful suggestions, but the truth is, we’ve thought of them already. Yes, we’ve looked at houses thirty miles away — it’s the same problem. Yes, we’ve looked into buying a house “for now” and selling it later or becoming a landlord in the future — it’s still the same problem of overpriced housing on a smaller scale. Yes, we’ve looked into renting a house for now. Not only are there very few places available right now (because landlords are seeing the market on fire and are putting their investment properties ON THE MARKET) but what’s left are shithole houses that aren’t what we need or even can live with, and again it comes down to making a stupid spend with our cash — for instance, most don’t allow pets, or only allow cats or only two pets. Well, we have three pets, and for those who allow three pets, those landlords are currently asking a $2K “fee” for pets (no, not a deposit, a FEE to have your pet walk through the door, regardless of whether they shed or anything else) plus additional rent on top of that, none of which you ever get back. Yes, we’ve looked into buying vacation property and living with it for now (that was the house on the riverfront that we got outbid on) then using it as a second home later. Anything you can suggest, we have thought about it, done the mental labor and research, and it doesn’t work. IT DOESN’T WORK.

I know that these suggestions come from a good place of trying to help — please understand that I have explored EVERYTHING. You know me, right? You know that if there’s an obstacle, I’ve already come up with like seventeen potential strategies to get around that obstacle? Trust me when I say, we literally have explored every option. We’re smart people. We’re clever. We aren’t afraid to throw money at a problem if the probably is worth the cost of admission. And this problem is absolutely making us both physically sick. Making jokes about this move or prodding us to work faster is not funny. It’s honestly really stressful.

The expectation is that it’s not happening until the end of the year. So unless you know of a secret midcentury modern house that isn’t going on the MLS and a sweet original owner just wants it to go to a nice couple who won’t cut down the acres of hundred year old oaks and maples, please ask me about anything other than when we’re moving back. But when we know, you’ll be the first to know, I promise. I promise.

---

I started teaching a remote section last week — it’s kind of nice because my name was put on the section kind of late, for complicated academia reasons, and as such, the class is only at about 80%, which doesn’t seem like a huge underfill, but every class I’ve taught in the last three years has been full to the brim, with students begging to get in above enrollment caps. In fact, I typically have one unofficial auditor in the wings too.

I’ve been recording video lectures for them and putting together a lot of recordings for them to download and listen to while driving to work, exercising, folding laundry or whatever. I have no idea if it’s valuable to them, because they never talk to me or react other than doing their assignments. Hopefully that will change this week, as I recorded this week’s lecture and, while encouraging them to not do a research paper on a serious, scholarly subject but rather do something that is nerdy and fun to argue, I revealed something I’ve never shared publiclly.

Here’s the thing: English 102 research papers barely count for anything. It’s teaching you how to write a research paper, how to build and support an argument and how to do citations using academic genre and rhetoric conventions. It can be kind of dry stuff. But sure, you could write about something super impressive-sounding and try to cure the ills of the planet — like tackling income inequality or pollution, but hey, you think you can do that in under 5000 words? BE MY GUEST. I’d wager that you can’t, though, and that will weaken the paper. So, fine, maybe you narrow it down — maybe you look at the income disparity between the CEO of a specific hotel chain and its janitorial staff. Maybe you argue a way to reduce garbage on a college campus through installing hydration stations and eliminating plastic water bottles. Cool. Cool. Also, zzzzzzzzzz boring.

I mean, if you’re going to spend your entire rest of your college career writing that serious stuff, why not write something fun in this class that only matters because it’s teaching you the form? Why not argue that Ross and Rachael really weren’t on a break? Why not build the case that Tony Soprano didn’t die in the series finale? What about an entire paper about how Rose was underserved and misrepresented in the most recent Star Wars saga? Or prove that food that is cut in triangles tastes better than food cut into squares? Or that cats are the best pet? SOMETHING ELSE! SOMETHING FUN!

Also, even at 80% capacity, I don’t think I have it in me to slog through 20 papers about whether face masks are effective barriers against COVID-19.

So in the course of my adlib lecture, I talked about how my own major is English with an emphasis in American literature after 1950 and narratology, but I also really like real estate. And I like local history. And I also really like true crime as it relates to that local history. So if I were to spend four weeks researching that, it wouldn’t even be a chore. In fact, I revealed, I have done exactly that — and have spent hundreds of hours building a murder map of Green Bay, detailing the location, year and homicide details of every murder I can find, going back to the city’s first documented murder in 1871 (which incidentally happened on the very block where I used to live during my senior year in high school, when I met Esteban).

My murder map secret is out. Here you go. Enjoy.

Saturday was the day I was supposed to get hooded.

(That’s a weird verb, right? Hooded? It sounds very violent or maybe racist, but really it’s the thing they do for PhDs — I guess it’s very Merlin-y? )

Our original plans were to have family in from out of town — a thing that I have been planning and plotting with my sister for literally years now. The entire thing was overwrought — I didn’t want a million people staying with us and also my family — as does everyone’s family — generally brings a lot of nonphysical baggage. I am still carrying some bitterness that my mother couldn’t be arsed to come to my graduation ceremony when I got my masters, and that was only two hours away, so I was flummoxed by a series of vertical emotional peaks and valleys about the new parameters of what excuses or requirements she would maintain for my graduation when it was 1800 miles away.

When I got into the program originally — a pretty big deal to get a full ride scholarship and job in a PhD program — she blew it off and purposefully kept saying “moving to Arizona or wherever” and then when we put the house on the market, she announced that I was not really serious, and then when we gave away our living room furniture a week before we left, she said “So you’re still going to move?” and then the night before the moving truck arrived she said with a straight face “I thought you were just making this all up to get attention.” Dear Reader, you may remember that this was also the line when I got accepted and funding to go to college in the first place as an 18-year-old, except that time my entire family believed her.

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I challenged her on it, without seeming to react, by saying “Oh? Why did you think that?” but inside I was thinking “Oh here we fucking go.” And that has been a good mantra for dealing with a family member with a serious personality disorder — oh here we fucking go. The flipside to the negging is that somehow she seemed to think that we would be flying her out for my graduation — apparently if I had wanted an audience with her for my last graduation, I should have booked a limo to make it interesting for her. Or maybe she thinks that “fully funded” means that I have been granted an AmEx black card for the interim. She kept talking about how she “gets” to go to Las Vegas now, but of course, nothing about how that was going to happen. And for normal people, the assumption is that she would pull out her savings and book a ticket, but that’s not how she works — and my sister began managing her (my sister performs the lion’s share of Mother Maintenance, because she is the Golden Child, whereas I am the Scapegoat or Competition in recovery parlance) and making plans, reminding her that she needed to save money for tickets for her, her partner and maybe my brother if he planned on going. Then she agreed to pay for our mom’s hotel room — because it wouldn’t matter if her partner and my brother went along, they could all share a hotel room. Then when it got closer, she was going to pay for her flight too, but not the partner and our brother’s flights, and then apparently our mother started in on how it wasn’t fair to them that she “got to go” and they didn’t and how she wanted to “find a way” for them to go along too, and the entire thing was handled off stage expertly by my sister because honestly, I was so stressed in the first part of the year for my comps and my dissertation that I just couldn’t take part in the drama and the exasperation, other than to occasionally offer my sister pre-packed retorts and arguments to pop our mother’s various dependencies about how and why and when our mother would allow herself to be hosted, with the inclusion of her flying monkeys other family members.

(Heh. Lawyered.)

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So instead, on Saturday, Esteban and I hung out at home (because that’s what everyone has to do to stay safe now, nothing new to see, move along move along.) Since we wanted to do something a little special, we smoked a brisket in the backyard, and Esteban also opened the day with homemade biscuits and turkey sausage gravy (which is one of my favorite things — his biscuits are ridonk delicious). He continued the feast day with flourless brownies, two loaves of bread, and the mother of all big deals, Colicchio’s Parker House rolls, which are one of my favorite indulgent baked items. Esteban is loathe to make them because they don’t have a satisfying rise, make an incredibly stingy amount and are super fussy, taking a terribly long time to come together, but they are weirdly sour, ultra fine crumb and perfection both out of the oven and the next day slathered with some peanut butter and I love them to bits.

We spent the day tending the grill and then finally ate around 8 pm because the brisket took a month of Sundays to cook. I had offered my friend Amanda some brisket but warned her that it would be late, but she dutifully drove across town to do a cover-of-darkness social distancing pickup of a huge pile of brisket, a fresh loaf of bread and some homemade sauerkraut to boot. She reported that she and her husband ate far more brisket than they should have before bed and regretted nothing. Girl, same.

On Sunday, Esteban and I continued our habit of doing the NYTimes Sunday Crossword Puzzle together on the sofa while drinking coffee, although I think my anxiety started ramping up and I needed to get away from it for a while. He had his distance D&D and I started packing a few things to burn off some nervous energy. It was exceptionally hot on Sunday, so I couldn’t take the dogs outside from long stretches, which is usually my favorite thing to do when I’m feeling overwhelmed, so instead, I glowered and did a series of mounting doom scenarios, which as it turns out doesn’t work great as a stress management technique.

The other element of Sunday is that an agent sent a response to my full manuscript. While she did not yet extend an offer of representation, the feedback was exhaustive and thoughtful and she said she enjoyed it but also that a novel about a pandemic is going to be a tough proposition right now for obvious reasons. Ugh. A bit disheartening on top of a dismal offering of houses on the market in Wisconsin and the bait and switch of what should have been a huge celebration weekend coming to a wet fizzle and plop.

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This week Esteban was supposed to be in China but of course, that didn’t happen, so the Chinese company hosting the event decided to have an online affair instead. Great! Except all the events are happening in the wee dark hours of the morning — and apparently the company spends a lot of time barely hiding its anger at the U.S. government (to be fair, there are more than just Americans on these calls, but still, read the room) so Esteban has been managing his artificial jet lag while also dealing with his normal job demands that don’t stop just because he has an event. All in all, he can’t really complain because, as he said, he’d do this every time if it meant that he didn’t have to fly to China and back.

Today, I had a WebEx call with the few TAs who have been invited to teach sections this summer. I’m glad I asked for a section since my Big Tech Giant project seems to have ghosted and this is the only guaranteed income I have lined up for the time being. It was nice to see the faces of people from school.

It was even nice to see the annoying ones.

vpn下Who was the most annoying coworker you’ve had to deal with? What made them so annoying?

This week is a momentous week in the cycle of the Bix Casita — switching from hot espresso drinks to cold coffee concentrate drinks. By rights we should have switched sooner, as the mercury has been creeping upward in the Vegas valley and we’ve already seen many days with highs in the 90s and it even hit 100 once, but we had made a substantial order of espresso beans when we bunkered down for the pandemic, and they are too oily to use for cold brew, so we’ve been just making hot coffee to use them up.

Once the last espresso shot had been pulled, Esteban made some of that Dalgona coffee that’s been a darling of the quarantine. He brought it to me proudly and I took one taste and absolutely died from the harshness. It looked gorgeous and the texture was amazing, but holy shit, so bitter. I tried another sip, working up my courage and nope. Nope. Nopetty nope. I hated to disappoint him, and he insisted that I go onto the internet and announce that I don’t actually like coffee — which I did, because honestly? There has never been any doubt of that fact.

But now it’s cold brew season and I couldn’t be happier. I love cold brew season so much — the cold extract is so much smoother and less bitter on my palate. I actually don’t like coffee very much, and in fact, most of my coffee situations are 95% Not Coffee and only a splash of actual coffee. Basically I like caffeinated milk shakes with a coffee aroma.

Our cold brew efforts are dead simple easy — here’s how we do it. Take a pound of coffee grounds, soak them at least 12 hours (we do this in the evening so that it’s ready for the morning), and then filter or drain them. That method creates a concentrated cold brew extraction (about the same ratio of an espresso shot) which you can then add water to for cold coffee, or you could create iced lattes by adding milk.

Folks in Louisiana have been doing their cold brew concentrate extractions in half gallon Mason jars for years, and you could do that too, doing the soak in a mason jar, and then affixing a cheap coffee filter with the Mason ring screw top, then let gravity do the draining.

If you don’t want to deal with that mess or just like a neater solution, there are plenty of commercial options available. We tried the Takeya pitcher first — it comes with its own filter and is absolutely the most elegant solution because when it’s done extracting, you just pull the coffee ground chamber out and it becomes its own vessel. However, it was imperfect — you can’t make new coffee while you’re also drinking coffee unless you decant it, which defeats the purpose. Also, we drink more coffee than this thing can make which meant we were constantly waiting for another extraction with zero coffee for our morning cups, so we went bigger and got a Filtron system. This was so great that when we lost the plug for the bottom during a move, we ended up buying a second system (and then only too late realized that you could buy replacement plugs), so now we have more production than we can possibly outdrink, as well as a second carafe.

We add chicory to the cold extraction because I really love the flavor of chicory in my cold brew. It just adds this extra something that is so fantastic, a depth of flavor that is absolutely delightful. We also reuse the grounds for a second round immediately after draining — refilling the water and letting it sit for 24 hours that time, and draining again for more concentrate.

We have a complete bar of coffee syrups to add to our morning blends — all sugar free, because that’s our business (TM Tabitha Brown) — that range from Almond Roca to Salted Caramel to White Chocolate to Peanut Butter. With cold brew, I tend to mix it with a caramel protein shake rather than milk because not only does it have fewer carbs than skim milk and serve as a filling and efficient replacement for breakfast, it tastes fecking delicious and hides all evidence of coffee from my persnickety tongue. However, I’ve also used flax, oat and coconut milks here as well. If I was feeling extra decadent, I top it with a little bit of creamer. I used to do fat free half and half, but then I discovered that Nut Pods creamer is so flipping delicious that I use that instead.

#bixquestions: What is your summer morning routine? How do you take your coffee? What is your morning deal breaker?

Yesterday was a surprisingly busy day and I uncharacteristically slept late (9 am!) which of course was far too hot to bring the doggoes for their morning walkabouts. Anything over 75 degrees is really too warm for these smush faces to exercise in, even while wearing their auxiliary cooling vests under their harnesses. Which was fine, honestly, because I also had to teach my last class of the semester (and also the last of my graduate fellowship — damn) and I had some prep work to get done before the class zoom opened at 11:30 am.

Class was stellar and somewhat chaotic — I tried something new with the class which was breaking them into small groups to workshop their flash fiction stories. Because everything in my class is essentially “Do it if you feel like it” in response to the state of the world, only eight of the sixteen students submitted work. I had figured fifteen minutes of discussion for each workshop piece (augmented by the opening remarks they had already done on the discussion boards ahead of the workshop), and with eight pieces and an hour to talk about them, it worked out best to split the class in half and do four and four. In theory, that meant eight students per workshop, but in actuality, with several students just unable to attend right now for a variety of reasons, it worked out to more like six and six. I had assigned their groups based on whose work was being discussed, who typically shows up in Post Quarantine Life and who is a really robust contributor.

I had devised a way to break the class into small groups with technology — Zoom won’t let you have two meetings at once, but I set up a Google Meet and posted the link in the chat window and sent one group over there. The idea was that I would be on camera and on mute in both groups but they would lead their own workshop. Thankfully I had two students with really solid leadership skills in both groups (and every one of these authors are super interested and invested) to manage it. What I didn’t consider fully was that while I could mute myself on both calls, I couldn’t mute one call while still hearing another call, so I couldn’t pop back and forth between the windows, I could just endure two, three and sometimes four people talking at once. I kept idiotically removing one ear bud as though the sound from one group was coming from the left side and the sound from the other group was on the right side — that obviously didn’t work, and yet, I kept finding myself doing it. I don’t know, it did seem to help, the same way that it helps to turn down the car radio when you’re trying to figure out where you are.

We have one more get together next week, during our finals talk, where we will clear up some loose ends, listen to each other perform their work (and I might even read one of my pieces), and do pet show and tell.

After that, I did some work on my freelance project for Tech Giant Website. It was weird to be back in the groove, thinking about deliverables and measurable qualifiers after three years out of the game. In some ways, it was like remembering how to speak a language you haven’t heard in years. I can imagine this three years feeling like a dream if I dive wholeheartedly back into tech journalism — did it even happen, was I ever here? It’s also amazing how much bravado I have about this subject, and perhaps that speaks to the culture of tech itself — it response to confidence and bullshit. But also, I guess it comes down to the fact that I a) know I can deliver what I promise, even if I have to bleed for it and b) I actually don’t care very much about the project as a whole, so it somehow removes my own internal anxiety and fear of failure from the equation.

Imagine how much we could get done if we didn’t care if we failed? Sometimes I think that’s the secret to some of the tech bros — they’ve been praised so much for the infinitesimal successes their whole lives and have gotten so accustomed to absorbing the successes of others as their own success that it doesn’t even faze them if they fall flat on their faces.

Man, writing that out makes me realize how much a driving force in my life has been the avoidance of shame.

Once I got that Tech Giant proposal done, I researched a few agents, sent out a query, and then hopped onto a quick video kibitz with my bestie Michael. I jumped off that chat to grab dinner that Esteban had whipped up — pollock, steamed lemon asparagus and Brazilian tapioca cheese bread puffs — and then after dinner had another call with my gaggle of Las Vegas lady friends that we call The Coven. That was delightful and we made many eggplant and taco jokes, but after about 90 minutes, I felt the last of my social spoons, made my adieus, and had some quiet time reading for the rest of the evening, followed by a deep dive in YouTube looking for songs I loved in the 90s, until it was 11:30 pm and I realized that the latte I had during my 11:30 am class was biting me in the ass, so I tucked the dogs for their last potty break of the night and then went off to bed.

We did spot another house that came on the market yesterday, one we’re both quasi excited about. Unfortunately, our minions in Green Bay can’t get in to walk around it until Monday, and given the current swing of the housing market, it might be snapped up quickly, so we’ll see. It’s an imperfect house, to be honest — it lacks a lot of the things that we loved about our last house, like a wooded lot with lots of property, and a four season sun room, or even a third stall in the garage, but it is pinging pretty hard, so I’m trying to keep my emotional distance from it and recognizing how much of my excitement is probably linked to my desire to GTFO of Vegas.

Despite that desire to leave, the state of Nevada is lifting a bunch of COVID restrictions tomorrow, but your Intrepid Girl Reporter is still staying the fuck home, thank you very much. And if you can, you should too.

My students are so amazing, every single day they just stun and humble me to the depths of my soul and I can’t believe how lucky I have been to get to talk to them as my “work” (it’s not work).

Today, was part two of my informal “here’s the truth about publishing” talk — the first day was all about how to submit to literary journals, because that’s what I know the best, but then on the second day, I opened it up to writing nonfiction stuff (which I also know a lot about but that’s not the point of a fiction workshop) and writing and submitting novels. And before I got started, I asked whether they wanted to get together during finals week, which is next week. Originally I hadn’t scheduled a class during finals week because typically I’m losing my mind that week, the students are frazzled and need some time to decompress, and also, I really thought we’d have people in town for graduation and also be really busy packing to relocate back to Wisconsin.

Plans. Such hubris.

So I asked them how they wanted to do things — we could just have this week be the last week of class or we could definitely meet one more time next week during our assigned finals slot. Many of them have other classes with real finals so we really couldn’t just declare a four hour Zoom party without excluding them — we were stuck in the weird timeslot that the university reserves based on when your class meets usually.

And one student piped up and said “What I care about most is that I have taken so many workshops, here and also through other organizations, and this is the best workshop by far. I want it to keep going as long as possible and is there a way we can keep doing class over the summer?” And in my Zoom account, I watched all of their earnest faces nod eagerly.

My heart!

The challenge will be not actually crying during our final official class.

---

I had a bit of a down brain over the last several days. Most of my frustration is around the housing market and also the fear of the pandemic in the pressure of “reopening the country.”

I kept thinking about the phrase “head shock” and how you can boil a frog to death by simply increasing the heat a little bit at a time. I kept doom scrolling. I’m using past tense as though these things aren’t going to continue happening, but let’s be real — they will.

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I ordered stamps from the USPS about a month ago and I was weirdly really looking forward to them. Gwen Ifill! Muppets! Dragons! I got an email finally saying they were shipping in early April, so I thought it would arrive soon.

And it didn’t.

And it didn’t some more.

And then Esteban got the mail one day and I was sure that he must have thrown out my stamps accidentally so then I had to dig in the recycling bin but I didn’t see them and the bin was pretty empty so it was hard to get in there, plus dirty and gross, so I didn’t keep digging but then what if they were actually there? What if I had missed them?

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But the thing that finally broke me last night is this: I love sumo oranges. Like, LOVE them love them. I literally start checking out Whole Foods in November and December, since Whole Foods is the first place they show up and I want to have as many sumo oranges for as long as I possibly can before they’re gone. They’re only around for a few months and the season is almost over, but our grocery stores kept stocking them, so I keep ordering them in our pick up order.

So when I ordered five sumo oranges, it was with a hope that they’d still have a few in stock. At two bucks an orange, it’s a little luxury that I allow myself once a week, and I figure that I’m not going to Starbucks at all right now, so this is a cheap replacement for so many overpriced lattes.

So last night, I broke into the new batch of oranges and then noticed — fuck. There was one sumo orange and four Not!Sumo oranges in there. Our grocery store hasn’t been the greatest with picking things for our order — we get “whoopsies” a lot. Of course, sumo oranges are probably the most expensive orange, so not only did they rob me of my happiest snack, but they then overcharged me for bullshit generic oranges. Grumbling, I took two of the Not!Sumos to the cutting board to prep an afternoon snack before workshop and AAAAAAAAAH the Not!Sumos were the worst thing ever — Blood oranges. To me, blood oranges taste so sour that they might as well be grapefruit. I was screwed out of my afternoon snack so I went to workshop and just pouted for the first half of workshop. Then I checked Amazon Fresh and they had sumos, so I whipped up a super quick order full of some random bullshit to justify the order, tipped the delivery person ten bucks and set it to arrive between 9-11 pm that night, which was the only time slot available.

It was impetuous and stupid and while I’m weirdly embarrassed about having the minor (completely internal) temper tantrum, it also felt very empowering to correct the problem right then. Because otherwise it would have nagged and niggled and eaten at my brain, just like the stamps order, until it got totally blown out of proportion.

And the only person who suffers is me.

Mischief managed.

And these sumos are still worth every penny.