It certainly seems to be about time we brightened things up around here. Though you all know I’m not a big fan of Nature, I can always be persuaded by the pretty, shallow thing that I am. So here are some photos of pretty things I recently saw:

The beach at MacKerricher State Park.

A sassy squirrel, at home in the Park.

Baby harbor seals chilling on the rocks (they are the white blobs. Really. I swear!). They were unbelievably cute.

Canna lilies in my sister’s garden.

Casablanca lilies (white house lilies?) in her garden.

A white rose in the afternoon sun in her garden.

The following is a public service announcement, brought to you by Miss Suzy:

If you ever see a car ahead of you with Colorado license plates 651 BZZ, do yourself a favor and hit the gas. Pedal to the metal! Pass him with the speed of Superman, or fleeting youth! I’m begging you! If you don’t, you will have to gaze at his unappealing ass until one of you reaches your destination or commits suicide or murder (choose the appropriate crime).

My good and kind sister Beth drove me to Santa Rosa to catch the bus back to the city. OK, she also had to exchange her rental car in Santa Rosa, but still. She got my portion of niceness as well as her own, and is a better driver. She also had to put up with me expressing my feelings about Mr. Colorado, who stubbornly refused to let us pass him for 65 interminable miles. I tried to convince her to honk at him, to bring to his attention the error of his ways in ignoring not only the turnouts (the road was two lanes, so to pass, someone has to get outta the way), but the signs stating that the State of California orders you to use the turnouts and has provided them for this very purpose.

However, Beth felt this was rude and unnecessary, despite having a Suzy right next to her who was incandescent with impotent rage (I think we can all agree that’s the worst kind) and yelling things like, “651 BZZ, buzz off!” accompanied with illustrative hand gestures. Why she was more concerned about consequences from someone who was in a whole other car and apparently oblivious to anything going on in the outside world than an enraged sister only inches away, I do not know. Anyway, we and our fellow unfortunate travellers were a convoy of misery right up until the end of the road. Unbelievable. Oh, and did I mention that just for fun, wherever we could pass him, he speeded up just enough that we couldn’t?

I’m telling you, if you see him, get away as fast as you can. You have been warned.

On the bus, I was entertained by:

1. The couple sitting ahead of me. Whatever the girl said, the guy responded with “For real.” Now, “for real” can apparently be a question, agreement with a previous statement, or an expression of surprise. For real. Examples:

   “That girl ain’t no damn good. I don’t know why your brother is still going out with her.”
   “For real.” (Resigned to brother’s bad taste in girlfriends)

   “So I stole his car, drained all the gas out of it, an’ left the keys in the ignition. Then I tol’ him where to get it. He didn’t mess with me no more.”
   “For real?” (Questioning; possibly reflecting that bad taste in girlfriends may run in the family)

   “You got that class on Fridays, right?”
   “For real.” (Agreement; should be taking a class in how to pick a girlfriend)

2. Two guys comparing their sentences at San Quentin (for real!!!) and exchanging tips on how to pass drug tests while still taking drugs. One of the guys had finished an eight year sentence two days earlier; the other had been out for a while. They compared personalities of the guards, including one called Butter Bean and another one:

   Guy One: “He a Nazi, man!”
   Guy Two (nodding vehemently): “A black Nazi!”

   Talk turned to drug testing. Guy One hadn’t had to do his yet, but Guy Two had one every week:

   Guy Two: “Here’s what I do, I take niacin and lots of B3.”
   Guy One: “B12?”
   Guy Two: “No, it’s gotta be B3. Makes you hot, your face gets all red, but it gets everything outta your system.”
   Guy One: “I heard drinking lots of water works. Or Gatorade.”
   Guy Two: “That shit don’ work. Gotta be the B3.”

For real.

Thanks for your kind words and thoughts, everyone. My family and I really appreciate it. Sending you love & hugs right back!

Faithful readers may remember that today marks the fourth anniversary of my father’s death. I’m happy to report that these freshly minted orphans were actually able to laugh, sharing some of the sillier memories of Dad:

1. How he always woke us up for school, snapping open the blinds and merrily carolling, “Wakey, wakey, rise and shine!” Not surprisingly, we often did not rise, and we never shone, though it was pretty much impossible not to wake(y). If we did not rise soon enough for Dad, the covers would be yanked back, admitting the cold morning air, while Dad said “up, up, up!” like a drill sergeant, each “up” accompanied by a hand clap. More effective than any alarm clock.

2. How he never did learn to change a tire. My brother used to work as a cook, and Dad actually called him while he was at work and told him he needed him to come and change his tire. My brother was caught between the chef, who had big, sharp knives, and Dad, who informed my brother that he put him on the planet and he could take him off it, too. He went and changed the tire.

3. How I saw pictures of myself as a really little baby and was horrified by how ugly I was. I was, too. I had a giant, blocky head and a pig nose and the general effect was something like one of the Whos from How the Grinch Stole Christmas. I told Dad how appalled I was by my babyhood hideousness, and he said, “Yes, I felt quite sorry for you.” Dad always said what he thought, even when he shouldn’t.
   

Mom & Dad, we miss you, but we have each other and our memories, and we’ll be OK.

It’s a warm summer afternoon. A breeze ruffles the leaves on the tree outside the open window, and the flowers bow their heads gracefully. The scent of freshly cut grass drifts in.

A girl - a woman, really, but since she’s the youngest in the family, she’ll always be a girl - sits at her mother’s bedside. The hospital bed is raised up so that her mother is sitting. She is painfully thin and drawn, the battle scars of her long and valiant fight against cancer. In contrast, her youngest daughter is strong and flushed with youth, her bright hair shining in the sun.

But her mother looks better than she has in days, even weeks. She is bright and alert and smiling. The daughter is reading to her mother from The Phantom Tollbooth, which was a favorite of her childhood. Mother even jokes about the story, and they laugh together, the old voice and the young voice mingling together with shared joy.

When the daughter is ready to leave that evening, the mother says to the nurse, “I’d like to fly!” The nurse, who knows and loves her, says, “You do? Well, I’ll get you some ativan.” Mother says happily, “I want to hang glide!”

The nurse goes out to get the medication. A doctor, who has overheard the conversation, says, “Let’s give her the full dose and really let her fly.” He, too, has become fond of her, as has most of the staff during her long stay at the hospital.

The nurse gives the mother the medication and asks, “Are you flying now, honey?”

Mother says, “I’m flying! I’m flying!”

Those were her last words.

I hope she is flying.

We love you, Mom. Always and forever. And just as we once shared a body and a soul, we will never be separated.

Found this on Alison’sblog (she is literally one of Utah’s finest treasures), and couldn’t resist, narcissist that I am. Much of what came up was quite naughty (Google clearly knows me a little too well), but here are some of the more amusing, accurate, and less naughty results:

suzy is gorgeous

suzy is fictional

suzy is a well written movie that takes place during the war in 1914

suzy is nice

suzy is knowledgeable and sincere

suzy is currently touring colleges and universities throughout the us and canada

suzy is one of our finest

suzy is me

suzy is innocently bathed in the warm blue tones of luciano tovoli’s glorious cinematography

suzy is the last person to see her alive

suzy is a lifeguard on the world famous north shore of oahu where she has lived and surfed for the last ten years

suzy is complaining

suzy is clearly lying about her original story

suzy is alive and well

suzy is ready for a new home

suzy is set for a night out with her girl friends at the new italian restaurant just opened in town

suzy is now offering her range of fabulous handbags online

suzy is adorable

suzy is playing with another picture book idea

suzy is a great talent

suzy is my given name

suzy is my idol luv ya

suzy is curious

suzy is on place 61 on the airplaycharts in japan

suzy is actually available

suzy is the best

suzy is presumed murdered and has been declared dead

suzy is our drug and alcohol specialist

suzy is motoring along the freeway

suzy is just as close to the perfect country music artist as you can get

suzy is the little convertible that can really zip

suzy is trying to figure out ways to pay for a vacation while i’m trying to figure out how to pay for my own funeral

suzy is

suzy is off

Now is the summer of our discontent….

A construction worker, talking on a payphone (how retro is that?):

“And that’s why this city drives me crazy. Honest to God!”

Two guys on bikes:

Guy One: “That’s the kind of bullshit I’ve had to work with here.”
Guy Two: “it’s all bullshit here.”

Maybe I should move.

I already have two summer-related stupidity injuries (Calamity Suzy did not stay in Florida):

• A scrape on my left elbow. This was due to breezily informing a friend and hammock owner that I knew all about getting into and out of these summery contraptions. I may have gone so far as to boast that I had “skills”. The hammock promptly dumped me on the ground in a graceless heap to prove that I was just as wrong as I could be. That’s the “mock” part of the hammock. Yes, it mocked me for being such a ham.
  
• A burn on the fingers of my right hand, incurred while attempting remove skewers of shrimp from my barbecue unassisted. I discovered that you really shouldn’t hold onto the barbecue with your bare hands (or fingers). Kids, don’t try this at home.