My mother celebrated – if that’s the right word – her 73rd birthday in the hospital on Monday. When I called to wish her a happy birthday, she cheerfully said, “Well, I was here for Christmas and New Year’s, so I figured I’d just keep going.” (Pause) “I’m not going for Mother’s Day, though.” You have to admire that girl’s spirit. We did our best to make things festive: My sis tied helium balloons to her bed, and brought her the gifts from all her kids, who all phoned her, too, from near and far. No date set for release, but let’s all hope it’s before Mother’s Day.
Remember the piano that suddenly appeared outside the door of our building, leading to the fluid and fascinating use of the “f” word, and many other epithets, courtesy (or discourtesy of) the building manager? This morning, amid much clanging and pounding, the building manager and assorted deconstruction cohorts put the poor thing to rest. By the time I peeked out, there was nothing left but the brass interior. And soon, even that vanished, leaving me to wonder about the family the piano first belonged to: how proud they must have been to finally get it; the happy evenings spent round it, singing and playing, in the halcyon pre-TV world (not to mention the arguments and tears spent over the same keyboards by unwilling children forced to take piano lessons). What brought this once-beautiful item to being a prank problem that couldn’t be solved for months? Even so, the mystery of whose piano it was and how it got there remains.
More computer problems. I’m beginning to think that I’m one of those people who can’t have them, like those folks whose magnetic field, or whatever, makes it impossible for them to wear watches. The problem this time is with my Airport, proving once and for all that Airports are just not Suzy-friendly. The Fix It Guy is scheduled to arrive in a few minutes. He was here last week for almost two hours, fixing other things. Computer problems are almost as pricey, and far less fun, than a serious drug habit. Also, Fix It Guy must think that either I’m the stupidest girl in the world or that I have a crush on him. Or maybe both.
I suspect Mr. Mouse was partying in my absence, in the time-honored manner of kids when their parents are away. He hadn’t quite finished hiding all the tell-tale (tell-tail?) signs, since I surprised him actually in the garbage bag. I’m afraid I did yell, but hastily fastened up the bag and threw it outside in horror, where I was further horrified by the sight of huge raccoon tracks (I think; anyway, not dog or cat) in the mud right outside my door. Nature. I’m telling you.