Neither my sister nor her husband are in shape to build such a cabin.  A contractor must be involved.  Odds are I wouldn’t know their contractor personally.  But I asked anyway.

“He’s Amish.”

Mr. Tim wrote this piece last week, discussing the Amish. The timing of my conversation couldn’t have been better.  The cabin was too well constructed for someone to have done it by hand.  Oh sure you could argue the ancient pyramids were too well constructed without power tools so it is feasible.  But my counterpoint is the Egyptians had Aliens to help them.  My sister and her brother do not.

So the questions poured forth.  Is it the whole Amish community helping?  How does he get from his farm to their house?  How do they call if there is a problem?   How did they find him in the first place?  Does he have a beard and resemble  Weird Al?

Certainly no gaffes could be said about his work.  The cabin itself was gorgeous.  Set upon a basement, the two story four bedroom “house” had incredible views of the land around it.  The near wrap-around decks provided plenty of outdoor seating.  Yes it bothers me to not have photos to share with the class.

When my sister announced a September finish, logic dictated power tools had to be in use.  And they were.  Amish can use power tools; they just can’t own them.  My sister also seemed quite proud of the fact that their Amish contractor was charging a 1/3 of what other contractors were charging.  So far he had kept with that quote.  Payments have been distributed, based on certain projects being completed.

She mentioned something I thought was rather funny.  “Don’t be fooled Cliff.  Those Amish got money.”

If the guy is charging 1/3 of what others are charging, I fail to see how that could possibly be.  Then the light bulb went on.  No overhead.  The new Mercedes S-Class doesn’t even exist in a culture of buggies.  The sense of fashion hasn’t changed in decades.  Credit cards are a tool of the devil.  What real expenses do they face?

Not many.

For having the Amish contractor, his greatest drawback happens to be the same saving grace.  Since he doesn’t have a car, he needs a ride to work everyday.  Yes it is a pain to pick him up every day.  But at least he shows up and works all day.

My mom convinced me to treat myself to a special dinner.  Contrary to popular belief, a special dinner is not held in some frou frou French restaurant.  My favorite is all about simplicity.  It’s all about raw, natural taste.

It’s about sushi.  Don’t confuse sushi for anything tempura style - like shrimp or the infamous “crunchy roll”.  Sushi is raw, real, intimate and “el naturale”.

My chef was Aki, the owner and “old crusty” style sushi chef.  English was limited to a few phrases.  A few Japanese phrases decorate my language bucket.  But only a few.

“Magura“, I ordered.  Simple enough.  Simple tuna.

Sake starts to make the room spin.  ”Spicy Tuna Roll“.  Suddenly my inner voice spoke.  ”Why not just order a Big Mac.  C’mon, it’s a special night.  Let’s get funky!”

“Cancel the spicy roll . . . I want omakase.”

Aki smiles ear to ear.  ”Sure?”

“Hai”

To say “omakase” is the greatest honor a customer can bestow upon a sushi chef.  Essentially the customer is saying that their entire dining experience is solely in the hands of a master chef.  Almost like climbing into a roller coaster, not knowing what lies around the next corner but you know it’s going to be good.

Not understanding anything the chef said as he placed the next delectable treat, ordering it again had become impossible.  But it didn’t matter.  My taste buds were flipping upside down.  Sake washed it all down.

“You very brave” the Japanese woman said, seated next to me.

“I very drunk.  More sake!”

Taking the omakase path to sushi has opened some real doors, real possibilities.  Having the sushi chef continually place his best, his premium in front of you without having to continually ask for it is an experience which cannot be replaced.

Yeah, sometimes it’s fun just to step out into the wind.

Nearly 10 years has passed since my full time flying experiences really began.  Switching airlines, frequent flyer mileage, red-eye flights, lost baggage . . . Yet my greatest anxiety when flying is not flying itself but rather the weather conditions which can prevent flying.

One such instance occurred nearly 8 years ago.  My connecting flight from Detroit was in Cincinnati and then direct to the City of Angels.  We managed to land in Cincinnati but no more flights were had that day.  The entire airport was shut down, due to Old Man Winter.  This meant hotel and delivery pizza.

As can be imagined, zombies crawled all over the morning airport.  Dozens of flights had been cancelled, hundreds of people wandering aimlessly.  Since zombies don’t shower, the smell emanating from the airport made high school locker rooms smell like a garden spring day.  

My objective: Los Angeles.  

Standing in line behind a lady who had obviously done some hard time at the airport.  She had the worse case of bedhead I had ever seen.  Pleading with the ticketing agent, the ladys goal was Southern California.  Same as mine.

The ticketing agent confirmed the gravity of the situation.  Every flight for that day was in an “over sold” condition (ie more tickets sold than seats on a plane).  Along with the “over sold” state, hundreds upon hundreds of airport zombies needed to be back to LA.  Each flight was 30 deep with standbys.  Every flight back to California was the same story.  San Diego or San Francisco.  

Exasperated the lady turned and walked away.

On a fluke, I asked “What about flights to Vegas?”  At the worst I could always rent a car once in Vegas and drive the five hours to LA.

“Sure I can book you to Las Vegas.”

I think sometimes people become so focused on the objective that they don’t stop and think that another path to the objective may be a bit easier or a bit faster.  If your model isn’t working, time to throw it out and create a new one.

The medicine cocktail my doctor gave me pretty much screwed up my head.  I stopped taking the medication days ago but periodically feel a flash-back.  He told me it normally takes 7 days for this medicine to leave the human body.  When I take the medication, I can feel it within 20 to 30 minutes.  But to get rid of it takes 7 days?

I am not a pill-popper.  It has literally been years since prescription medication entered my mouth.  Oh yes, I succumb to the marketing of Theraflu and sometimes Nyquil to provide me with some sleeping assistance.  But only when a HazMat Level 5 flu-virus invades my body.

Tuesday night was a medicine relapse.  Upon entering my sweatbox home, immediately I knew trouble was lurking.  At first I thought it was malaria, with all the chills and hot flashes.  Crushing headaches, slight fever and loss of appetite.  The exact same reaction as to when I watch Roachel Ray.

Maybe I was experiencing detoxification.

My prescriptions were large enough for my bathroom to be reclassified as a pharmacy.  The street value of the valium, vicodin and mibotin remaining could easily make my mortgage payments for the next few months.  This is LA after all; 90% of the population is on something.

Fortunately three trips to the chiropractor has lifted all my back pain.  Some people pooh-pooh chiropractors, describing them as nothing more than witch-doctors.  My guy doesn’t wear white face paint, so the witch-doctor analogy is not true.  But a few adjustments, and enough “snap crackle pops” from my spine, and I’m back to normal.

This weekend is a traveling weekend.  It’s time for the annual family reunion.  Hopefully the rest of my ‘detox’ will take place in the exotic state of Michigan.  Monday my flight returns and then the work begins on prepping Property#1 for the new tenants arrival.

No blog for Monday.

Have a great weekend!

Months ago, a detailed analysis of my budgetary affairs was performed.  Based on several months of expenses, confidence was high that maybe for once my budget would be spot on.

It was then the realization hit: I was in over my head.

OK.  The situation was not bad.  My situation will not render me into another bankruptcy statistic.

A few months has since passed.  And each month, bills are getting paid whether its on autopilot or by my hand.  And each month, I keep coming out ahead.  It is an odd experience.  In the past, whenever my bank account surged it was the result of a forgotten bill.  Electricity still pulses through my house.  Hot water dances on my head every morning.  My blog isn’t facing neglect.

Sure one could argue the phone bill has been cut, along with my gasoline consumption.  Americans are driving less.  Guess what?  I’m one of them.  By driving less, I am spending less on gas now with gas at $4.50/gallon than a year ago when gas was $3.50 a gallon.

What has put my budget squarely on the ground is the Fed.  Their rate cuts reduced my HELOCs dramatically.

In the end, the situation is far less worse than I had previously calculated.  My ultra-conservative numbers actually worked in my favor.  But as usual, when my income starts to come out ahead that is usually a sign something unexpected lurks around the next corner.

With the extra cash: let the bread-crumb savings plan sweep it up.

**Parental Note**

Mom, I am eating.  Please don’t send me an email, asking me if I’m eating.  I’m eating quite well and often.  While my potato salad consumption is 1/100th of you and dad, I make up for it in other ways.  Trust me on that account.