Suzy Says

Today you get to walk home with me, only without all that annoying physical effort. There will even be visual aids.

I walk home up Columbus, through North Beach, the Italian neighborhood. Past Beat era icons City Lights bookstore (celebrating its 50th year) and Vesuvio’s, and then past the strip clubs (for some reason, there are a lot of them in North Beach, though they are not noticeably Italian), including what’s left of the Condor.

The Condor has the distinction of being America’s first topless bar, when Carol Doda danced on the bar in mod designer Rudy Gernreich’s topless bathing suit in 1964. The Condor used to have a wonderful neon sign of a nude woman with flashing red nipples, which sadly disappeared after the club was sold and it became the boring restaurant it is now (the new owners thought it was rude!). The sign looked particularly charming in the fog. I miss it.

Turn left on Vallejo* and you’ll see why I say I walk home up it. The hill is so steep that the sidewalk gives up in despair and becomes a stairway. You can’t tell, but this is only the first block of four or so that are stairs (the rest are hidden in the trees). But it’s worth the hike. Halfway up, it looks like this, and then like this, and at the top, this.

If I’m not taking pictures for you (it is, however, fun to play tourist in your own town), I can do all the stairs without stopping, which is very gratifying. Past the multi-million dollar houses and it’s all downhill to Chez Suzy from there.

*Named for General Vallejo, one of the early settlers of Northern California. The guy who answers the phone at my pizza place always corrects my pronunciation of “Vallejo” (Va-lay-o) by giving it the full Spanish treatment: “Ba-yay-ho”. It just wouldn’t feel right if he didn’t.

I might need a therapist to recover from my therapists. If so, it’s going to be a woman, and a straight one.

Before you start yelling homophobe at me, I would remind you that I live in what may well be the gayest city in the world, and ask you to read my (mis)adventures in therapy first. If you still think I’m gay-averse after that, let me have it. I promise not to say, “some of my best friends are gay.” Deal?

Therapist One chose the week before I was slated to go to London for the first time after Dad’s death (not counting the trip immediately after his death), when he knew I was scheduled to clear out Dad’s things and visit his friends and generally be immersed in the horror of being Dadless in Dad’s house, to break up with me on the phone because he had a crush on me. Shouldn’t he have told me in person, at least, and not on the phone? And couldn’t he have held it in for just one more week and told me after I got back? Unbelievable. I was so shocked that I didn’t say much while he was on the phone, and then it seemed stupid to call him back and rant about it, so that was it. PS: Guy is married and has kids.

After a couple of months, I overcame my native slothfulness enough to find another therapist. Last week, I informed Therapist Two that my benefits run out at the end of the month. He took the opportunity to hug me and tell me that I should fire him as my therapist (well, he’s right about that, anyway) and he’d take me out to drink champagne and we could be “friends”. In the course of the hug, his fingers touched my back (the actual skin! Ick). I was horrified and fled. PS: Guy is married and, yeah, has kids.

A couple of days later, he called me on my cell phone and said, “I just wanted to make sure you weren’t too freaked out by what happened last time I saw you.” We still have our standing appointment this week, and I am planning to confront him at it, so I said, “We’ll talk about it when I see you. I have to go now.” There was no way I was letting him off the hook or excusing him or anything like that. And it just shows he knows what he did was wrong.

The thing that kills me is that my first reaction was, “Is there something about me that makes this kind of thing happen?” I can’t believe that I was blaming myself for the actions of these two guys, who are: medical professionals and know most of my horrible secrets, thoughts, and feelings. My trainer thinks these guys must have skipped all the ethics classes in their 10+ years at school, and the whole fiasco is an exercise in ego and power. I think she’ll be my therapist from now on.

So my trainer told me that she made the mistake of asking her boyfriend – they recently moved in together – how many women he had slept with. She was horrified by the total, which included 13 girls before he graduated from high school. I don’t think I know anybody who got that much action in high school, and I found that the most remarkable part of the revelation, though clearly she didn’t.

I said that it was a long time ago, before he knew her, and that all the people he had met and things he had done made him the person he is today, the person she loves, which made her feel a little better. But inside I was thinking, “Thirteen?!”

It made me realize that there is no good answer to that question. If the number is low, the guy is a loser, and if it’s too high, he’s a dog and possibly a walking lab experiment.

It also made me realize yet another fundamental difference between men and women. We always want to know about their romantic and sexual pasts, and not just for our health. We have a Pandora style curiosity that we just can’t help, sometimes with similar consequences, though on a lesser scale, witness my trainer. She would have been much better off not knowing, but had to ask. I have done the same thing with comparable results, but I’m sorry to say would probably ask that question again, even though you’d think I’d know better by now.

If you do ask, rest assured that the guy will not ask you the same question. As much as we want to know, they don’t want to know. They don’t want to think about you with any other guy, even if it was years ago and way before you met them. In the back of their minds, I think they all want really experienced virgins. And if they did ask you, you couldn’t tell them anyway. I personally have no idea what the number is, though I’m pretty sure I didn’t sleep with 13 guys in high school. An informal survey of my friends reveals that men do know what the number is, and women don’t. Some of the guys said that they had actually made a list at one time or another, which I immediately found icky, though I’m not sure exactly why.

I guess the lesson here (if there is one) is: don’t ask, don’t tell. If you can help it.

It seems appropriate to get a reminder of my long-lost father on the Day of the Dead.

The Peregrine Fund sent me an advance copy of their new book, “Return of the Peregrine: A North American Saga of Teamwork and Tenacity”, which tells the story of how the peregrine falcon was rescued from the Endangered Species List.

The book is arranged chronologically, and is beautifully written, researched, and illustrated. It’s a fascinating read for scientists and non-scientists alike. I am honored that my father was included in this labor of love, and I know he would have been very pleased. The chapter on his contribution – figuring out how to measure the level of DDT in the eggshells of peregrine falcons – includes his own account of how he thought of it, which I had never read before, and the brief bio (how I still hate seeing 1931-2001 after his name!) mentions in passing that he published more than 250 scientific papers, which was news to me, too. I knew there had been a lot, but not that many!

So it was another small gift, like the stories and anecdotes his friends and colleagues have shared with me – a way of knowing my beloved father and friend a little better, even though he is no longer here (except in my heart, blood, and memories).

Dr. Cade, the head of the Peregrine Fund, is part of one of my favorite Halloween memories (OK, I’m a day late on this one!). When my brother was four years old, Dr. Cade threw a Halloween party at his house, which was an especially appropriate venue, because it was a Victorian house at the top of a hill, and more importantly, had its own graveyard. I’m not sure if it was the Cade family’s graveyard or the previous owners of the house, but it made a pretty big impression on the seven year old Me. In those days, we lived in rural upstate New York, since my father was working at Cornell, and I later learned that it was not all that unusual for rural families in the 19th century to have their own family graveyards.

Anyway, after the party, the parents were to each take a batch of kids into the town to trick-or-treat. The rule in my family was that you had to be five years old to go trick-or-treating, but there was no way my brother was going to wait another long year to go, especially since his two annoying older sisters got to go. So he sneaked into another family’s car when the time came, and by the time my parents figured it out, it was too late. Even then my brother knew it was easier to ask for forgiveness than permission.

He approached the first house, still not completely convinced that saying three words would result in candy (a rare commodity in our house). Along with the other kids, he said the magic words, and along with them, received free candy. He raced down the driveway shouting joyfully, “It works! It works!”

On my way home, I saw this sign on a bus stop and found it pretty damn funny. The little arrow pointing to the poor, parka’d victim of the blizzard says “You are NOT here”.

I realize that those of you who live where there is actual weather, real seasons, and full-frontal blizzards with temperatures below zero on both scales will not find this as amusing as I do, but as usual, I was unable to restrain myself. If nothing else, it’s a clever advertising slogan, right?

PS I have no idea why the picture is so very azure. Will blame it on the twilight I now have to endure on the way home, thanks to the time change. Why do we put up with it?!

Happy birthday to the amazing Candi!

It would take a much better writer than I am to describe this remarkable woman. I will just say the following about her:

She is one of my best friends. In fact, she is pretty much a sister to me. She is always there for me, in good times and bad, with advice, a word of wisdom, laughter, or just listening. She always knows what to say, and (sometimes more importantly) what not to say. She is a tower of strength with really great nails (it’s true!). She is a loyal and trustworthy friend, which is a rarity in this world. Her friendship is one of the greatest gifts in my life.

She is one of the smartest and funniest people I know. Her view of the world, opinions, and her way of expressing herself are unique. Pure Candi, and there’s no-one else like her and there never will be. She is unforgettable.

If you haven’t already sent her a present, or a card, or an email, shame on you. Go & do it now. Shouldn’t today be a national holiday anyway?

I’m beginning to think that the whole point of this year has been to cure me of my fear of boredom (which is Number Two on my personal fear hit parade, right after death, the eternal Number One). Or at least to wear me down to the point where I handle it better.

Those of you who have been fortunate enough not to have experienced the long illness of a loved one, with or without an emphasis on terminal, will think that what I’m about to say is heartless and callous (though really, you shouldn’t be surprised by that by now), but it’s one of those little-known grown-up secrets you only learn through experience: it can be really boring. There are crises, and you deal with them, but a lot of it is sitting around and waiting, kind of like air travel. Waiting for doctors to talk to you (not that they ever know anything; or if they do, they sure as hell ain’t telling). Waiting for test results. Sitting with the sick person. Waiting for sick person to wake up. Various grossnesses. Lather, rinse, repeat.

The month I spent helping to take care of my mother this summer was probably the most boring of my life. I only left the house twice that I remember (other than running in the mornings): once to go to the store (where I caught up on my Giants’ scores on the radio) and once to go with my sister to the lighthouse where she maintains the aquarium. That was it. The rest of it was mostly taking care of Mom & household chores. It was really weird to be somewhere that’s usually a haven of fun and happiness and have it be a nightmare of boredom or ickiness (much like it was to be at Dad’s house right after he died).

Then there’s the hell job, where there seems to be very little to do, though the people I work with flit around the office telling everyone how busy they are and how they came in over the weekend and so on. After three weeks of this, I seem to be much better at handling the boredom. At least, I have stopped contemplating going to the top of the Pyramid and flinging myself off, and reading a recent “New Yorker” article about suicides off the Golden Gate Bridge didn’t give me any ideas. My attitude has shifted gradually from “How am I going to get through another day of this?” to “If they want to pay me that much for sitting around, fine.”

Arriving at the DMV one Saturday, armed with reading materials and the expectation of sitting around for possibly hours, I looked at the line stretching around the building 5 minutes after opening time with equanimity. After all, I had things to read, and I’d finally have time to write to my stepmother. My virtual virtue was rewarded by the discovery that the line to replace title and registration, which was what I needed to do, was a separate and positively petite one, and I was out of there in 20 minutes.

At this rate, I may be able to go to Thailand after all. I had a postcard yesterday from the lovely Claudia, who accompanied my niece Cat and me to Amsterdam last year. Last heard of working in Indonesia (she has a penchant for the third world), according to the postcard, she is currently sitting on a beach in Thailand, drinking Bacardi. She says the postcard, which is gorgeous, doesn’t do it justice. My friend Alice has been trying to get me to go with her for years, but I always balked at the 21+ hours required to get there. Now I’m thinking, “That doesn’t sound so bad. I can do that.”

Boredom might drop off the charts yet.

I find this weird: new boss has four, count ’em, 4, pictures of his kids in his office, but none at all of his wife.

I also find this weird: while his daughter has the ordinary-to-overly popular name of Chloe, his son is named Ruggles. Undoubtedly it’s somebody’s last name (Maiden name? Kiss-up to rich relative? You decide), but it seems to me to be a name for a dog. For some reason, a small, scruffy, terrier-type dog springs to mind.

Not only do we have Mom’s cat Twice with us, we also have Mom herself, though hopefully not for the extended period of time Twice has been with us, or that Mom has been with my sister Megan (four months going on forever). Mom’s “visit” with Meg is actually the reason she is visiting us. After four months of having Mom in the living room of Megan’s 500 square foot house, Megan felt that she and Mom needed a vacation from each other. So she sent Mom to stay with John & me in the city for 10 days or so (a limited time offer, only).

They arrived yesterday, and I was almost home when I saw my brother about half a block ahead of me. No mistaking that platinum blonde hair and that distinctive gait (something between sailor and country boy). I thought he’d been to Peet’s or something (though in retrospect, this is unlikely at 5:30 in the afternoon), and when I asked him, he said that they had forgotten to bring their set of my keys. They had also neglected to bring my cell number or John’s, so they’d been waiting in the car for four hours! My brother was actually returning to the car after calling us on a payphone to see if we were home yet.

Typical of our family.

After a joyous greeting from my brother’s faithful companion Jed the Wonder Dog (who just had her birthday – we never say which one, because we refuse to think of her getting older), we hauled all Mom’s stuff up all those stairs, including the very heavy oxygen tank and the less heavy portable oxygen tanks, which really are.

I hadn’t seen Mom for 6 weeks or so, when I came home after being with her at my sister’s place this summer for more than a month. All the doctors had informed us that she was dying and only had days left. Not only did she miraculously recover, she has put on weight and is so much better it’s hard to believe she is as sick as she is (cancer throughout her bones and in her lungs). Yes, she still needs oxygen, but only at night, and is on a lot of morphine, but she’s also able to walk around and do things for herself now. No-one understands why she’s better, but she is, so we’re just going to enjoy the good period as long as it lasts.

Loyal readers with good memories may recall John’s hurried trip to Petaluma in the middle of June to pick up my mother’s cat while Mom was visiting my sister and brother in the country. At the time, we thought Mom’s visit was just that, a visit, and she would eventually go home and we could return her cat to her.

As usual, we were wrong, and Mom is now permanently living with Megan for what remains of her life, and Mom’s cat is now permanently living with us, making us severely outnumbered by what our friend Mike, with an apt and delightful turn of phrase, calls The Feline Five.

Now, not only is this far too many cats (John & I disagree on the ideal number, which makes it a good thing we didn’t have children, because reaching a compromise on how many would be impossible, if our views on cats are anything to go by. I think the right number of cats is around 2, and he thinks it’s more like 12.), but the original four absolutely hate Twice* and it’s like the Middle East chez nous, with peace between the warring parties approximately as likely in Middle East West as in the original Middle East.

I mean, Twice has lived with us for 4 months and it’s still a non-stop hissing fest. The original four just keep harassing her, chasing her around and hissing and generally being the worst possible hostesses. I feel really bad for Twice, because she is very shy and affectionate and has no claws, unlike all our girls, so her only weapons are hissing and running away. She must feel like a hunted gazelle on one of those nature documentaries.

I don’t understand it, either, because all the other cats get along with each other. They’re always playing together, snuggling together, and sleeping together. They are their own little family. If things get weird, they stick together.

The only time we’ve ever had problems integrating a new cat into the family was when we brought Cleo home, since she was an adult and everyone else came in as kittens and figured out their own pecking order. But Cleo and our late, lamented Jo fought for a good month before things settled down. Eventually, though, they worked it out and all was serene.

But four months and counting? Maybe we should invite Jimmy Carter over and see what he can do.

*All of my mother’s pets, which we have had to re-home or keep ourselves, have retarded names, without exception. Besides Twice, there was a cat named Li’l Bit, and her dogs are Schatzi, Digger, and Bear. Yes, Bear is a very common dog name, but in this case, it stands for Baroness Von Hershee. I’m not kidding. Really. I guess I’m lucky I got named Susan.

It appears that in addition to missing some key girl lessons along the way (how to keep my bra straps up and successfully apply make-up in a moving vehicle, for example), I have also missed out on some key grown-up lessons, which may explain why I don’t feel like one, even at my advanced age. I suspect I may have pretty much skipped all the grown-up classes. Kind of like I did in high school. In both cases, I was too busy having fun.

Since I have started my new joblette (we’re only dating, not living together), it has been brought forcibly to my attention that I do not know how to cope with working 8 to 5.

Now, the classic thing everyone says is “9 to 5”, but it’s 8 to 5 here (is it 9 to 5 anywhere? Enquiring minds want to know). It’s hard to fit everything in when you have to spend so much time there.

For example, I used to get to the gym around 3:30 pm, finish by 5:00 pm, and have time to go home and get cleaned up before John came home and it was time to make dinner. Now, if I go after work, I can’t get there before 5:30 pm, when it’s a zoo anyway, and John is already home. So I’d have to be at the gym until nearly 7:00 pm, then go home, clean up, and make dinner, which would of necessity be served at some positively European hour, and of necessity followed by close to instant sleep.

Nope.

So far, I’ve been getting up around 5:00 am and going straight to the gym, which barely gives me time for coffee, toast, and all the grooming necessary before heading out the door at 7:30 am to the cruel working world. But to get 8 hours’ sleep, I’d have to go to bed at 9:00 pm. And I’m still working more hours than I sleep.

And that’s not even taking into account the zillion & one errands that have to be run (laundry, shopping, paying bills, post office, dry cleaner’s, vet, dentist, etc.), running your household, and minor details like spending time with friends & family, reading, emailing, talking on the phone, and blogging.

What am I missing here? How does everyone else do it?

The first time I went to Paris, I was 17 years old and unhampered by parents or other family. You can imagine the kind of things I did. But I didn’t go up the Eiffel Tower. In 15 further years of visiting that wonderful city, I still didn’t. It took John’s first visit to Paris (as an adult) to make me do it.

And when I finally did, I was so appalled by the swaying and creaking that I just stayed on the first level. I freaked out as unobtrusively as possible while John, who had been deprived of going to the top as a child, merrily went up with the camera and had a great time.

Now that I’m working high up in the Transamerica Pyramid, I haven’t noticed the swaying (if any; I hope not), but I am constantly noticing the constant creaking. Disturbing.

New boss G keeps telling me that he thinks he’s seen me somewhere before, which instantly makes me feel that I must have been doing something disreputable when he did (otherwise, why would he remember it? Do men remember nice girls being good?). It’s like when you get in trouble as a kid, and you mentally skim through all the bad things you have recently done, and then scan through all the things they might have actually caught you doing. I’m pretty sure I haven’t done anything too disgraceful lately, but maybe he saw me during my wicked past and it will come back to haunt me.

He’s a nice, easy-going guy who seems to have a pretty good sense of humor. I didn’t see him for the first couple of days on the job, but both days, he called me from the airport between planes to chat about nothing, which seems kind of strange. If he wants to pay me to talk about his life, it’s fine with me. After all he is the boss.

There does seem to be something about me that invites confidences, even from total strangers. People sitting next to me on planes tell me their problems. Obviously friends and family do, but so do my trainer, co-workers, and even readers of this blog. Once when I was getting a Pap test, the nurse practitioner who was doing it told me her boyfriend problems. Throughout the whole test. It did help to take my mind off the hideous procedure, though, and I certainly hoped she dumped his ass like used surgical gloves.

It makes me wonder if I shouldn’t have my very own radio talk show, since I seem to have a talent for talking to people about their problems, or about nothing, come to that, so there would be no dead air. I wouldn’t have to dress up or anything, because it’s radio and no-one could see me. Maybe there really is a dream job, even for me. The main points would be:

1. Not 8 am to 5 pm. Either earlier, or four 10 hour days so I could have an extra day off a week. I know a couple of people who do this and they love it. I mean, you’re already there for 9 hours anyway, usually, so what’s the difference? Get it the hell over with.

2. No dressing up, especially the tyranny of nylons.

3. Co-workers that are easy to get along with.

4. Really busy, so the time goes by, and challenging, so my brain doesn’t completely rot.

5. Within walking distance of where I live.

Is that too much to ask?

I got the classic wolf whistle today. So retro and delightful!

Ex-boyfriends. I think there should be a planet they get sent to so you never have to see them again. Though if you do have to run into them, it should be exactly the way it happened to my good friend M last weekend.

Many years ago, when we were young and foolish, M was madly in love with a guy who looked quite a lot like Bono. Many girls found D irresistible in spite of (or possibly because of, in the case of those chics who love the bad boys) his treating them like crap and generally being an arrogant, cheating asshole from hell.

Now M is not, and never has been, a girl to take crap from anyone, ever, male or female, so her taking of D’s crap, especially for an extended period of time, was both mystifying and horrifying to her many friends. We all begged her to see reason, but to no avail. Eventually, though, he went back to his ex-girlfriend and that broke the spell. I’m sorry to say it took M years to get over this guy, but we’ve all done the same thing at one time or another. I personally wasted a year of my life on a psycho alcoholic freak who stalked me after we broke up (He went back to his ex-girlfriend, too, come to think of it. And in both cases, the exes were plain, dull girls. Maybe some guys just can’t take the smart beauties.).

Anyway, when M ran into her ex, she was wearing a pink satin minidress and signing copies of her book. So she was looking fabulous and being successful and fêted. What could be better? His career isn’t going very well, he’s aging horribly and no longer looks like Bono at all, and grudgingly has a baby. Of the baby, he quickly informed M that the mother was not his wife, and added that only 30% of children really know who their fathers are (where did he come up with that little gem of information?). Lovely. He could barely hold up his end of the conversation, and M asked me if he had always been that stupid. I said, “Honey, we were all telling you that for years!” Then she asked me if he had always been so short. I think she’s over him.

Awright, this one’s for you, Les. You’re probably the only person on the planet more interested in Suzy News than Schwarzenegger News today!

Like I said, to me a job is just a job. That’s my philosophy, and I’m sticking to it (for now).

I seem to have a commitment problem. Sorry, guys, but that’s not your exclusive province. Come to think of it, in my dating past, it was always the guys who got way too serious too fast. But I digress. Anyway, I agreed to do this job for a month, and if I like it, I’ll stay. It’s in a new field and I’m not sure if it’s what I want to do, so the test drive seemed like a good idea. It is in dating, too. Working and dating seem to be oddly similar in some ways, especially when you think about how an interview is basically a date. Makes sense, though, when you think that basically in both cases, the other person is auditioning to spend much of your [waking] time with you.

OK, I’ll stop digressing and give you some dirt before you despair completely of finding anything out ever.

It’s essentially the same mathy-money kind of job, but in a different, though still mathy-money field. The office is on one entire floor of the landmark Transamerica Pyramid*, and let me tell you, the views are stunning (check out the pix), as is the security system.

Once you breach the walls, the office is beautiful (the flat-screen plasma TV in the waiting room, discreetly fastened to the wall and permanently on CNN, is to die for) and the kitchen is better stocked than mine: in addition to the usual things, there is an espresso machine, spring water, juice, soda, fresh fruit, granola bars, pretzels, potato chips, sandwich makings (three different kinds of bread!)…you name it. This is an entirely new thing on me after {mumble} years of working.

Oh, yeah, and we get Monday off for Columbus Day – another first!

Everyone seems really nice, and I have been told by long-term employees that this is true, which would make a positively thrilling change from the temperamental nightmares I had to deal with at my old job.

So far, it’s mostly the learning curve which is a little daunting in its Marilyn-ness. That, and having to work 8 to 5. But that’s another story.

*Legend has it that a pyramid was the landmark for the skyline of the lost city of Atlantis, which vanished into the sea. Some people believe that San Francisco having its own pyramid is a sign that it will also vanish into the sea one day.

Since my beloved Giants were so horrifyingly and ignominiously defeated in the very first round of the World Series playoffs*, I no longer need to sit around the house watching baseball all day (when I’m not shopping, that is).

So what the hell. Might as well start working again tomorrow.

In order to be fit for public viewing, though, I’ve spent most of the day getting pretty again. Watching the playoffs doesn’t require much in the way of grooming, and after I realized that the cats didn’t pay any more attention to me if I wore make-up or accessorized, I just stopped bothering. Really, if there’s any creature alive who is more self-absorbed than I am, it’s any given cat.

So as I write this, I am dyeing my hair (multi-tasking: new employer, take note), and have already:

1. Had a massage to deal with pre-job stress;

2. Had my eyebrows waxed so when I raise them in disdain, as so often happens, they will look perfect;

3. Had my nails done. My toenails are now metallic violet (though this will be a secret from new employer, like my pretty lingerie, and will make me feel good in the same secret luxurious way), but my fingernails are sheer and natural and elegant in (I hope) a professional manner. I’m a Gemini – what can I tell you?

So now all I gotta do is figure out how to deal with the 8 to 5 grind again, and how to fit the gym into it. Stay tuned.

*Can I just say how much I hate Juan Encarnacion? And Josh Beckett is right behind him in Suzy world.

I went to see the allergist. All I needed was a new prescription for nose spray (to keep dust allergy in check), so we ended up talking about stuff which had absolutely nothing to do with any form of medicine (since I’m boringly healthy): the first show in 30 years for the sculptor Lee Bontecou; why Italy is so great; his upcoming trip to his native Montreal, etc. I wonder if it’s a relief not to have to talk about medical crap for a change?

After that, I stopped in to see a friend who works across the street from the allergist, and we went and had cappucinos, all civilized-like. Then I shopped my way home. I picked up some charming unnecessaries, like a couple of silver toe rings and a subtly sparkly top, along with less charming necessities, like something for dinner.

After I got home, I sat on the roof and answered emails and admired the view of the Golden Gate Bridge. Right now, it’s just about cocktail o’clock (I’m thinking Cosmopolitan. I’m feeling pink). Talk about the perfect lady of leisure day. Though perhaps shopping isn’t the best pastime for the nouveau pauvre. I can never help myself, though. Not that I really want to. I never do.

A lot of people seem to think that my being surplus to requirements at my former job means that I can now find the job of my dreams. I can never make these people understand that I do not in fact have a dream job. Not now, not ever.

I have no particular talents, or at least, not ones that would generate a steady income on an ongoing basis. I hasten to add that I am not saying this in order to be contradicted (I hate that at all times) and told that I am being too modest and am in fact wonderfully gifted and fabulously talented. I know I’m not, and it doesn’t bother me at all. Having aesthetically unpleasing legs, for example, does bother me. Also being so damn old. But there is nothing to be done about either of these unpleasing facts of life, so I try not to worry about them, since that would cause wrinkles, which are equally unpleasing, if not more so.

My view on working is essentially this: it’s something you have to do in order to pay the bills and fund your real life, including vacations. The main thing is to find a job where they pay you enough to make it a fair trade for 9 hours of your time, five days a week. I don’t look to my job for emotional fulfillment. I think that’s what your real life is for. After all, they call it your job because it’s not your life.

Obviously, you should try and find something that you don’t actually hate, since work in this country does take up most of one’s waking hours, most of the time. But I don’t think it’s necessary to love it. Do the very best you can do while you’re at work, then get the hell out of there. But it must be great to have a job you do actually love, like my sister, who is an EMT, or these folks (the only one I truly envy is, not surprisingly, the wine taster).

I don’t usually remember my dreams. When I do, they’re often so demented and strange that I have developed a theory to explain this while excusing myself from insanity. Once you go to sleep, your brain is off work, so it goes out to play. Hence the weird dreams.

I do remember having a dream about a fire last night, and it reminded me of a real fire when I was a girl.

We lived in the country, and our nearest neighbors were farmers. It was in the summer, and it was still light outside, so I really didn’t want to go to bed. To that end, I kept asking my Dad for various things: to be tucked in, a glass of water, etc. When I ran out of ideas, Dad had long ago run out of patience. I got out of bed and went to sit in my window seat, which looked over the neighbor’s fields. I noticed a strange glow in the sky, and I called out to Dad to tell him. He came running up the stairs, absolutely furious, and looked out of my window. He said “Oh my God” and ran out of the house, followed by his faithful dog Ginger.

Dad discovered that there was a creek between our house and the neighbor’s by running through it and ruining his pants. Swearing, he arrived to find that the barn was on fire. He and the neighbor managed to rescue all the animals in the barn before it collapsed in a blaze. The firemen arrived and put it out, and the fire didn’t spread to the house.

Naturally, all this excitement excused us from bed. My brother came downstairs wrapped in a blanket and got the cookie jar (which contained Oreos with mint filling – I don’t think they make this varietal now), and we went and sat on the front steps, eating cookies and watching the glow and sparks of the fire. From time to time, my brother said, “I’m scared”, but he certainly didn’t seem to be, even at the time, and if he was, it didn’t slow his consumption of cookies. It’s funny to think that he is now a country fireman himself.

I ended up wearing this jacket, this skirt, and these shoes to the interviews. So it wasn’t exactly a suit, but it was formal enough (I hope) and I still felt stylish (always important). I must have looked OK, because I ran into a friend who told me I looked “fantastic” in a slightly surprised tone, as if he hadn’t known I could look quite that nice. I have to admit that I was slightly surprised myself by the improvement effected by make-up. I haven’t worn any or bothered with my hair much since becoming job-free, so I had sort of forgotten that I could actually look good. I was reminded of my little sister Megan watching me get ready for a date when I was in high school. I was about 17, so she would have been 8. She watched me for a while and then she said seriously, “Suzy, you’re so beautiful. But you’re more beautiful when you’re all colored in.” I think most of us are.

Anyway, the interviews went well. One was with an agency who has several jobs open in my field, which surprised me even more than my appearance had that morning, since all I had heard was how bad the job market was. But they said that someone with my skills and experience wouldn’t have a problem getting a job, and in fact, could essentially pick and choose to find something I really like, which was both flattering and encouraging.

And how’s this for weird? The agency is located not only in the building I used to work in, but in the very same suite our group had for my first year at the firm (after that, we had to move downstairs to join the general population).

The second interview was at a huge firm which has their own, brand-new building and really intense security. I had to check in at the front desk, show them my driver’s license, and get a temporary pass. I then had to show the pass to another security guard at a turnstile by the elevators, and when I finally got upstairs, you guessed it: I had to be let in. Employees would have to use their passes to get through the door. Amazing.

I’m not sure what to think about this job. There are a lot of pros and cons:

Con: It’s in an iffy neighborhood.
Pro: It’s a beautiful, brand-new building and very secure.

Con: They require a 10 hour day, starting insanely early. I’m not kidding. You have to be there by 4:30 am. Yes, yes. Or possibly, oh no. Did you even know they had a 4:30 in the morning as well as in the afternoon?
Pro: They pay for your cab to make sure you can get there on time. This also helps to deal with the iffiness of the neighborhood.

They would pay for me to get my Series 7 license, which would enable me to make trades. That would be a good skill to have and could potentially make me more money. Also, you can’t get one without being sponsored by a firm. But I don’t know if I could really face the earliness, which would require going to bed before most third graders, or the 50 hour work week. On the other hand, they have a brand-new, state of the art gym right in the building, which can only be used by employees. So not only would it be super easy to go the gym every day, it wouldn’t be open to the general public, so potentially less icky and crowded.

Lots of pros and cons.