Suzy Says

It was an unusually embarrassing day for our heroine, whose aliases include “Calamity Suzy” due to her amazing talent for being accident prone. Not to mention that in addition to the usual fights against gravity (boobs’n’butt), she ends up wearing part of every meal. Her eating style is probably comparable to Mike’s beautiful daughter Marina (though far less charming). I hasten to add that despite being a messy eater, our heroine does know what fork to use. The food just might not stay on it.

The day started out reasonably enough, with a cup of black coffee and a completely perfect peach, but deteriorated rapidly. I went to water the flowers so kindly planted by (but not maintained by) the Mystery Gardener. While walking out the door, I managed to trip and fall forward, smashing the pitcher of water and falling onto my side. My shoes had fled inside, and I lay there winded for a moment, hoping that no-one would see me. They would be all too likely to jump to the wrong conclusion based on the contents of my recycling box, against which I was gracelessly arranged.

When I was finally able to get up and breathe again and wash off the blood, I went to the doctor. Not because of the watering incident, but because of my oh-so-tenuous mental health. I burst into tears in her office. She increased my dose of happy pills.

I thought it would be too embarrassing to be seen on public transit, weeping and sniffling, so I treated my beat-up body and psyche to a cab ride home. Waiting at a red light, a loiterer on the street corner winked at me. I smiled politely. He said, “Meet you at the next traffic light, baby!” I just shook my head and looked away. Then he started knocking on the window of the cab, saying, “You can’t even look at me now? Aaaah, you’re blushing!” Which was true. This was the longest red light in the world. The cab driver was supremely unaware or superbly uninterested, since he appeared not to notice a thing. He has probably seen far more interesting things in his career.

I finally got home and decided to have a nice long bath, complete with a Lush bath bomb. I ran the tub, applied the bath bomb, which fizzed deliciously, and went to get my silly, fluffy novel and a glass of wine, which I set on the edge of the tub. While leaning forward to turn off the taps, I managed to slip on an errant piece of cinnamon from the bath bomb and knocked the entire glass of wine into the bath. The glass didn’t break, but I sat there thinking of an old commercial: “You’re soaking in it!”

“When you die, they let you off the hook.”
— Bob Dylan

I’ve been having some random thoughts since my mother died, of varying degrees of weirdness and self-involvement. In fact, I’m self-involved enough to tell you what they are:

1. The tragedy of 9/11 happened only days after I returned home to California from London after my father’s death*. The disaster of Hurricane Katrina occurred days after I returned home from dealing with my mother’s death*. In both cases, I watched the news and just cried, feeling the grief of those who had lost their loved ones along with my own.

2. In both cases, I went home and watched Six Feet Under, which seems even to me to be an odd TV choice, but maybe it has its own peculiar logic. Or not.

3. I’m finding my family’s diminishing life expectancy a little disturbing. My great-grandparents, all four of them, lived into their 90’s. My grandparents, who all died within one calendar year, were all in their 80’s. My father barely made it to 70, and Mom was only 73. Does this mean I only have 20 years left? If so, I better start having fun right now.

*Why do we say “someone’s death” like they possess it somehow, that death belongs to the dead person? Clearly, it’s very much the other way around.

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.

It’s my grandmother’s birthday today. My American grandmother, I always say (my other grandmother was English). But we called her Nana. Everyone in town called her The Lady. She never left the house without her shoes and handbag matching. When she died, we found a box, carefully tied with a ribbon, holding the clothing she wanted to be buried in, from the dress right down to the underwear (including a girdle!) and stockings and shoes.

That’s the kind of woman she was.

She was born 104 years ago on a farm in New York State. Her father didn’t want her to go to high school; he said it was as much use to educate a girl as a female cat. Nana didn’t listen to him. She ran away to her Aunt Louella’s house in town – Aunt Louella had shocked the town some years before by getting married in a fuchsia wedding dress – and got a job in a candy store. The store owner wisely allowed the help to eat as much candy as they wanted, since they got good and sick of it quickly and never depleted the stock.

Nana bobbed her hair, as scandalous at the time as Aunt Louella’s wedding dress had been. She not only went to high school, she went to teacher’s college. Her marks were all in the 80’s and 90’s, and she was so proud of her final exam results that she kept them and showed them to me, when she was an old lady and I was a young girl.

She became a teacher and taught in the town high school. She married my grandfather, who became the high school principal. They were devoted to each other for more than half a century. When my grandmother died, my grandfather followed her within a few months. Pneumonia, they said. But it was a broken heart.

I made one of Dad’s recipes for dinner last night. It was Egyptian fish. I love how his recipes always say things like “garnish with coriander” – as if I ever would! The thing is, he *would* (and did) – even if he were dining alone.

Apparently, I need to start eating yogurt. My trainer claims it speeds up your metabolism (mine may well be dead, or at least moribund), boosts your immune system, and basically performs miracles, other than granting wishes (my first wish would be not to have to eat yogurt). But it’s milk. Spoiled milk. And she says you have to get it with… ~shudder~ …”live bacterial cultures”, so it’s germy spoiled milk. Live! Rude! Germs! I’m going to have to come up with some way of disguising it enough that I can fool myself into eating it. Good luck with that.

The other thing that’s supposed to be so wonderful for you is tofu. That right there is desperation food*, I tell you what. I can never *believe* all those people who are like, “Well, if you take tofu and marinate it and grill it and…it’s actually OK”. Basically, what they mean is, “If you remove every tofu-like quality, you might be able to choke it down.” On the other hand, it’s supposed to be good for your heart, and with all the strokes in the family, that can’t be bad.

Honestly, sometimes I just want to say screw it and eat and drink whatever I want and weigh 200 pounds and the hell with it. Problem is, am too vain and want to look good in clothes again before it’s too late.

*Something you eat when there’s nothing else to eat, or cannibalism is your only other option. Especially if potential victim of potential cannibalism is particularly unattractive.

Well, the good will toward the Howler has left the building as suddenly as it came. She escaped through the window again, only this time, she attacked Rita the Wonder Dog, who was on her way home with her owner after spending the weekend with me. It was a brief, yet terrifying encounter. No-one was hurt, and I hope Upstairs Guy is suitably embarrassed. They have caused an astonishing amount of trouble in the short time they have lived here. Talk about getting off on the wrong foot (or paw)!

My sister had an unpleasant experience of her own this weekend. While swimming at the river, someone stole her wallet out of the trunk of her car. No-one locks their car doors there in the depths of the country, but she figured, why tempt people more than necessary, so she put the wallet in the trunk. One of the other swimmers left, and then came back to tell my sister and the other swimmers that her car had had its windshield smashed.

I would have gone up right away to see if my car had been interfered with, but Megan figured, it is what it is, and finished her swim before returning to the parking lot. There was a whopping six dollars in the wallet, and now she has to replace her ambulance driver’s license along with her regular one, and all the other stuff. The worst thing was she carried around a little something I sent with her for encouragement as she nursed Dad through his last illness, and now it’s gone forever.

On the other hand, she’s getting this adorable replacement wallet. Nothing like shopping to cheer a girl up.

And just when I’d pretty much lost all faith in both human- and dog-nature, my friend Charlie returned from a trip to Venice with an adorable handbag for my collection and two shotglasses (Venetian glass!). He knows me too well. Cheered me right up, shallow Suzy that I am.

Hmmm, the last entry has vanished without a trace. I think it must have run away from home, since it’s been 24 hours and I haven’t received a ransom demand from the blognappers. If so, it didn’t leave a note – a tribute to my terrible parenting skills, no doubt.

Following is a recreation of the missing entry. If you see the original anywhere, tell it to come home, or at least send me an email.

—————————————–

Yesterday was one of those days when it seemed the phone would never stop ringing and people kept knocking on my door.

The first visitor was looking for someone else. This happens a lot. My apartment is the only one on the ground floor in the courtyard of the building, so they just stop in and ask. The surprising thing is that they rarely, if ever, know the apartment number, whether they’re a delivery person or just a person. I find this mysterious. Why wouldn’t you get the apartment number before you go? So they usually have to call from Chez Me, so it’s a little like living in a very big phone booth.

The second one was much more exciting. It was a guy from HBO who wanted to film in the courtyard for an upcoming show called “BAD” (“Boxing After Dark”). They wanted to film the boxer running through the passageway and into the courtyard. I found this ridiculously exciting, as if I myself were going to be on TV. This is also mysterious, because there are movies and TV shows being filmed constantly around here, so you’d think I’d be blas&eacute(e), but no. So I introduced him to the building manager so he could get official permission. Maybe I can get a walk-on part, seeing as I was so helpful and all. Wouldn’t that be cool?!

The third one was a guy who was working on the building behind me. He and his fellow workers had witnessed the Howling Dog of the Baskervilles jump out of the window upstairs and then jump over the fence to where they were working. Fortunately, she was unhurt and they lured her with sandwiches to where they could check her collar. She was collarless, but since they had seen her desperate escape and heard her habitual howling (yes, over the construction noise), they knew she lived in my building. They sent one guy to try and find her owners while the others kept the dog from running into the street or otherwise getting into even more trouble. Of course, he tried my door first, and you bet I knew to whom she belonged! I went with him to get her and I have to say, it’s quite a challenge to get a very large dog whose name is unknown to you and who has the spirit (and possibly craziness) to jump out a second storey window to follow you home (especially with no convenient carrying handle). Note to dog owners: even if you don’t let your dog out unattended, get a collar with the dog’s name and your phone number on it. You just never know.

So the Howler and I spent a happy afternoon together. She is a beautiful Malamute and always seemed to be smiling and wagging her tail. She drank lots of water and sat with me companionably as if she’d known me her whole life. She didn’t howl once – it must be boredom that led her to howl and make her dramatic escape – and the thing is, I really got fond of her in the short time I spent with her. I even felt guilty for all the bad things I said and thought about her. I now firmly blame her bad parenting, like a psychiatrist. However, we’ll see if this warm, fuzzy feeling persists during the next howling binge.

Random Wit:

A guy wearing a t-shirt with the slogan “Rehab is for Quitters” – outside a rehab center.

A construction site with the usual warning of “Post No Bills” on the surrounding walls, with, unusually, the stencilled faces of Bill Clinton, Bill Murray, and Bill Cosby beneath the warning.

Mom is still in the hospital, but it seems that the current crisis is past. My teeny, tiny reserves of niceness had long been exhausted, and my pitiful pleas for a niceness transplant were unsuccessful, so I decided I had done all I could do up there (mostly all I did was the least possible, and then complained about it so much that it seemed like I was doing a lot. This technique works quite well in most office settings, too.).

The relief of getting home didn’t last long. I made the unwelcome discovery that in my absence, a guy moved in upstairs who plays bad electric guitar very loudly for hours at a time, and moves furniture very incompetently, testing the laws of gravity to their limits at 2 am. All that’s missing is a colicky baby. I miss the pot-growing jazz bassist who used to live upstairs. True, his grow room did leak into the living room occasionally, and he sometimes wandered around in the courtyard late at night talking to himself with great animation, but never kept me up at night or inconvenienced me in any way, which is really all I require of neighbors.

I tend to be pro-dog, but the ones that belong to Upstairs Guy are, not surprisingly, as unlikeable as he is. They bark at all hours, and one of them howls at the top of his voice like a wolf baying at the moon. Creepy and annoying and apparently there’s an endless supply of howling and barking. I’m beginning to think that Jed, my brother’s Wonder Dog, my friend Phil’s dog Rita, the sassy Kelly’s charming Jazz & Ocho (bonus: they’re a barkless breed!), and the fabulous Candi’s outrageously charismatic Cheeto are the only non-annoying dogs on the planet.

In Which Suzy Learns Why a Hospital is Not Like a Spa:

• People go to spas voluntarily. No-one really wants to go to the hospital (reasons to follow).

• Spas smell like herbs and soothing aromatherapy products. Hospitals smell like hospital food.

• Hospital food tastes (and looks) as good as it smells. Filling, but not delicious. Spa food is generally cunningly arranged greens with a fat free, yet fancy dressing. Delicious, but not filling. Common ground: nearly impossible to convince staff to give you booze with or without food. And in the hospital, it could only help.

• Hospitals make you wear that very unattractive clothing item, apparently made of inferior quality sheets, which reveals the derri&egravere, no matter how attractive or unattractive. It remains a mystery to me why they feel this side of you is the good side – or at least, the side to be on display. Spas give you fluffy robes which pretty much conceal all. Common ground: when staff is doing things to you, whether in the spa or &agrave l’h&ocircpital, modesty is thrown to the winds.

• Spas make you slimmer. Hospitals are svelte-defying when you drive there and then sit there all day, watching your mother sleep, making awkward conversation, or watching tv. The most cardio I get is looking for a nurse or feeding Mom about a million of those high school cafeteria sized tubs of vanilla ice cream. Needless to say, spas are big on cardio, but not on ice cream. Also, diving into comfort food and comfort wine after escaping the Big House for the day doesn’t downsize a girl, however down she may be.

• Spas are tv-free, though not otherwise free. Hospitals, at least when you’re on Medicaid and Medi-Cal, are.

• They call you a patient when you’re in the hospital because you have to be. You’re always awaiting some kind of ministration. Your spa visit is on your schedule.

• You can easily get your nails done at a spa. At Mom’s hospital, they claimed to have a visiting manicurist on Tuesdays, but when we tried to actually get her to visit, no-one knew her name or phone number, rendering our efforts null and void.

• Spas tend to make your skin look better. I now sport a collection of stress-related(read: hospital visitation-induced) zits that would be the despair of any high school student. Big, honking, painful ones, too. They undeniably give me that youthful air, though.

When you call 911 in or near my sister’s little town, you’ll get her (and sometimes my brother) if she’s on duty. She, on the other hand, has no idea what she’s going to get. A couple of recent examples:

1. Arrive at scene to find a man wildly attacking his couch with a machete. Back away slowly, call Sheriff’s Office, and make a run for it. Discuss how call could have been made. Find out later that Machete Man’s friend saw the beginning stages of furniture murder and called 911, then had the wisdom to beat it (though he definitely seems to have bad taste in friends).

2. Arrive at tiny hillbilly shack (cue “Deliverance” theme here) after long and gruelling drive in the pitch dark, with trees and shrubbery scraping the sides of the ambulance as you drive slowly down a dirt track. Wonder if there really is a shack anywhere in the vicinity. See light shining out of open door of shack. Go in, calling out, “Hello? Ambulance! Hellloooo!” No response. Start looking through shack, reasoning that if the lights are on and the door is open and someone has called 911, there should be someone on the premises.

   There is, but it’s an old dead guy, clad only in diapers with his dentures beside him.

   Now, dead men not only don’t tell tales, they don’t make phone calls, either. The mystery of who called is solved by the arrival of the deceased’s extremely drunk niece, whose breath is so horrifyingly flammable that EMT’s and paramedics alike immediately move to the other side of the room in self defense. (A little-known skill of emergency personnel is knowing exactly what form of booze is causing the bad breath in question. My sis tells me she always knows if it’s beer, wine, whiskey, etc.) Call the morgue (ambulances don’t pick up those who are already dead) and get away as fast as possible.

Even when they’re off-duty, they’re on duty. A couple of my sister’s co-workers spotted a couple of overly optimistic tourists getting ready to set out on the Pacific in an inflatable raft. They pointed out to these hopeful folks that the wind and waves were so high that the commercial fishermen wouldn’t venture out. But they went out anyway, resulting in a cliff rescue, courtesy of my brother and his fellow volunteer firemen. Incredibly, they went out again the next day, and even more incredibly, nothing happened. And I was going to bet on them for the Darwin Award this year.

I don’t think I’ve watched as much teevee in the past 20 years as I have in the past couple of weeks. My Mom always has the tv on (ironically, since my parents would hardly let us watch any tv when we were kids) in the hospital, even though she’s asleep half the time. It seems rude to read, so I just watch tv with her, whether she’s awake or not.

The result of this is that I’ve really gotten into ER, about a million years after the rest of the world. There I am, just doors away from a real ER*, watching it on tv (back-to-back episodes at 10 and 11!). My sister, who works in a real ER, just rented the first season on DVD, and when we’re done at the real hospital, we go home and watch the tv one together. Is that weird?

One thing I definitely know is weird is pet food commercials. The makers of these gross-out fests seem to be laboring under the delusion that dogs and cats shop for their own food. No self-respecting cat I ever met would deign to do such a mundane errand, and dogs never know what’s good for them, so the people end up doing the buying.

News for pet food purveyors: We ain’t gonna eat the food. So close-ups of gelatinous brown chunks don’t make us want to buy them. It makes us want to blow them. Got it?

*There’s some debate in my sister’s hospital about renaming the Emergency Room the Emergency Department, since it’s more than one room and everything else is a department. And the ER staff I’ve seen here are nowhere near as cute as the ones on tv. Go figure.

Warning: Extreme puppy cuteness….you have been warned….click at your own risk….

Rumor had it that one of the nurses at the hospital had puppies at her house. Five week old Labradors, to be precise. Now, we all know that rumors can be ugly things, but this one turned out not only to be true, but there wasn’t a trace of ugliness about it. See for yourself:

Exhibit A; and

Exhibit B.

Here they are, being nursed by their mama (when she got tired of it, she stood up, and they rolled around like little fuzzy balls).

And here they are, getting ready to pile up for a nap.

Happiness truly is, as Charles Schultz so famously remarked, a warm puppy. Or seven.

How to be very, very unpopular:

Sleep in Mom’s trailer.

Wake up early, yanked out of sleep by the prospect of visiting the trailer’s official resident in the hospital (I have now spent enough time there to recognize the nurses by their voices – no visual aids required).

Go to bathroom at sister’s house across the yard.

When exiting bathroom, scare the friend who stayed over last night and was on her way into the bathroom, unaware that anyone else was awake.

Friend says there is coffee in sister’s house. Already made. Just sitting there seductively.

Given the looming hospital visit and the unbeatable allure of caffeine to the uncaffeinated, go in house.

Entrance announced by three large barking dogs.

Barking wakes up sister, who is famously unable to get back to sleep after she’s woken up.

Sister comes downstairs and asks, “When you almost never get up before 10 in the morning, why did you have to pick the morning of the day I’m starting three 12 hour night shifts to get up early?” (Note: she’s an Emergency Medical Technician, so it’s not like she’s just going to the office to play with paper and pens.)

I say something about coffee. She’s so scary I’m afraid to answer what was almost certainly a rhetorical question. I also don’t think it’s a good idea to say that I pretty much get up by 8 most mornings.

She points out that there’s coffee in the trailer.

“But not already made,” I tell her.

She looks at me with great disgust and says, “You know better than to come in the house.”

Now I do. And you do, too.

It’s not only a small world, it’s positively minuscule:

The World Famous Hamburger Ranch and Pasta Farm really is. You may not believe it, but there is irrefutable proof: the walls of the restaurant are covered with postcards from visitors from all over the world. What induces people from Holland and Venezuela to visit the little town of Cloverdale, California, I have no idea, but they do. And when they do, they eat at the World Famous Hamburger Ranch and Pasta Farm, just like me.

On my last visit, I noticed a postcard with an English stamp on it. On closer inspection, the postcard proved to have been written by none other than my sister Beth, who lives in England.

Later the same day, when checking into my motel near the hospital, the clerk, on learning my last name, asked me if Jonathan was related to me. Now, in my brother’s younger, wilder days, I wouldn’t necessarily want to admit the truth, but now that he’s a respectable pillar of the community, I’m pretty fearless about the general public knowing he’s my brother.

So I fessed up, and then asked her if she knew him as a firefighter or a teacher, and she said, “Neither – I’m his dental hygenist.”