Suzy Says

I got a ride to the hospital with my brother-in-law this morning. Riding with him is like an amusement park ride, as you are tossed around his truck while he careens around curves at high speed. It almost (but not quite) eliminated the need for caffeine. We stopped off in Mendocino to get caffeine, where I discovered that I had no money at all, not even change, so he had to buy me an espresso, too.

I must be running out of brain cells. Yesterday I kept trying to open the car trunk with my house key. It took me three tries to figure out what was wrong. Now, if I could only get a brain transplant…

I went to the Safeway after they carted my mother off to chemotherapy and got a) money; 2) the latest In Style magazine. I confess that I bought an embroidered skirt with tiny mirrors on it in Berkeley last week, but I promise I’m not turning into a hippie.

My sister Beth is on her way back to England this morning. We sent her on her way with a merry little earthquake as an after-dinner treat. I have to say you feel the earthquakes more in a little house in the country than you do in an apartment in the city. It’s quieter, however: more shake, less rumble. Beth found it a little unnerving, though personally I’m more disturbed by the Giants’ seemingly unending losing streak. At least the Yankees are doing badly, too. Maybe neither of them will make it to the playoffs this year.

As the night turned to another bright day, heralded by the seagulls and sea lions and the anxious voice of the foghorns, I wondered if Jonathan or Beth was lying awake, too, and thought of Megan, who was working yet another long night. I wondered if our mother was sleeping her narcotic sleep, or battling her fear and pain. I thought of the long, strange journey that had brought us together yet again under the California stars. Our paths started together, diverged – sometimes by thousands of miles – but we always come back together.

I had been warned of the hazards of country driving, including how cows have to be scared straight by cattle grating in order to keep them in order. However, they never seem to be on the road. They are spectacularly unadventurous, and merely watch you with no particular interest as you drive by. Now, if you were a bale of hay, or a salt lick….

Live cows, however bored, are much, much better than dead deer. I came around a curve (the roads up here are curvier than Sophia Loren and Marilyn Monroe) and saw a dead fawn right in my way. It was too late, and too dangerous, to try and avoid it, so I actually drove right over the poor thing, squeaking with horror. I will never forget that horrible bump. I drove for a while with my hand over my mouth like the girly girl I am.

My fawn fright was nothing compared to my sister Beth’s early-morning brush with the Reaper, who was probably on his way to the hospital, too, to see if he could finally persuade Mom to come with him (he didn’t, as usual). Beth was driving across a bridge which is more than 100 feet above the river, and infamous among the locals after a logging truck jacknifed and went straight over the edge – and the driver survived*.

Anyway, Beth became aware that the idiot behind her was trying to pass her. The idiot was not aware that a logging truck was bearing down on his side of the road, so Beth, showing remarkable calm and judgment, braked hard enough to let the idiot pass her and the truck and live another day. The logging truck driver, undoubtedly recalling the infamous accident, was gesturing and swearing as he passed my sister. So both of my sisters were life savers that day, and only one of them needed coffee.

*My brother was one of the firefighters who rescued the driver. He said he’s never heard anyone scream like that. The community rallied around the driver, and little pails were set up at various stores to collect money to help with his hospital bills. Some guy actually got caught stealing from the collection pail at the Gas’n’Grub, and was arrested. Who says small town life is boring?

This bright, sunny Sunday afternoon, the church bells are ringing out. I wonder whether they are calling out for worship, a wedding, a funeral? A beginning? An end? A comfort? Hope? There’s something about a Sunday afternoon that’s always a little melancholy, invoking thoughts of homework still undone, the week-end at its end, the duties in the week ahead.

I think of my mother, still battling the disease that will eventually win – and there is no winner when it’s your own body that’s attacking and killing you. I think of my sister and brother, who have borne this almost unconscionable burden for more than two years now: watching the woman whose body gave them life destroy itself. This in the wake of our beloved father’s death. It is truly amazing what the human spirit can overcome. I love and admire my siblings more than I can ever say. They are nothing but courage and love.

I think my mother is surviving by a combination of stubbornness and fear of death. I do. I feel the echo in myself. I’ve always been afraid of death. I’m afraid of my impending orphanhood, much as I wish for my mother to be released from her pain and fear. I don’t want to think about the present or the future, with all the fear and uncertainty. I want to remember the past, when I had my parents and my grandparents, and it seemed that nothing could go wrong.

On the other hand, there were a flock of birthdays to celebrate, not just Mine (Megan’s on May 25; Mine on June 4; Erica’s on June 5; Caleb’s on June 3). So Meg threw a big barbecue for us, starring fabulous grilled veggie kabobs, grilled shrimp, turkey burgers, and two works of art disguised as cake, made by the multi-talented Erica.

This is Megan’s cake. Called “Key Lime Trauma”, it features an ambulance going to the rescue of an overturned car. Fortunately, this time the blood is chocolate. The blue-flecked meringue is the ocean. For those of you who don’t know, Meg’s an EMT.

My cake, however, was a glorious chocolate mocha dream, covered with buttercream and roses. The rose in the middle is called Sweet Jessica….

…But this is the real Sweet Jessica, Erica’s daughter and greatest work of art.

And this is as maternal as you’ll ever see Me.

I really need to do a better job with my birthdays. Recently, they have gone from bad to worse:

The One After Dad Died
My first birthday after Dad died was also my 40th birthday, a landmark birthday for most girls. Farewell, lovely youth! Hello, getting older and older. Dad and I had planned to go to Italy together so I could be in Pompeii and Herculaneum on my birthday, thus being surrounded by things that were older than Me. Instead, I stayed home and rode the bummer.

The One in the Hospital
Last year, I spent my birthday in the hospital, with a friend who needed particularly nasty and invasive tests, a ride home, and room service while recovering. Though I was truly glad to be able to help, it was not at all festive.

The One with the Hospital and Too Much Driving
This year, Mom had taken a turn for the worse just days before my birthday, so we all flew to her bedside (literally, in the case of my sister Beth, who lives in England). But she swerved out of it with the enthusiasm of a kid who finally gets to borrow the car for the night. She was comatose the first few days I was here, but now has recovered to the point that she is demanding to be taken shopping. While I can certainly understand this, it isn’t practical when you’re unable to stand or walk, need intravenous morphine or dilaudid every 2 or 3 hours, and have a catheter, along with broken ribs from the sheer force of the cancer at work. She also has tumors in her brain and liver. The Reaper calls her “The One Who Got Away”.

After spending the morning with Mom, I got to drive 3 hours to Santa Rosa, wait 2 hours in the blazing sun for the movers to bring more stuff to Mom’s storage (which took all of 10 minutes), and then got to drive the 3 hours back. Not at all festive, and quite exhausting.

I think the answer is to stop having (or noticing) my birthdays. Maybe I won’t get any older. I’m certainly not any wiser.

I am once again fortunate enough to have my friend Phil’s dog Rita, aka the Queen of the Dog Park (I am unfailingly asked if she’s Phil’s Rita whenever I take her to the park. It’s like accompanying a celebrity) for a couple of days. Being a dog aunt is as great as being an ordinary aunt. You can play with them, have a great time, and then give them back to their regularly scheduled guardians. You can take credit for them if they reflect well on you, or blame the parents/guardians if they don’t. All the fun, none of the responsibility, unlike most things in a grown-up’s life. Sorry, kids, but it’s almost all responsibility and hardly any fun. So don’t be in a hurry to get here.

So I was used to having a dog around these days, but I still got the canine surprise of my life yesterday. I had left the front door open so the spring breeze could waft in (Rita is so well trained that she will not sneak out), and it wasn’t the only thing. Suddenly, I found a 130 pound rottweiler on my lap. Both Rita and I were astonished. One minute, it was just Rita and me; the next, a giant dog is licking my face with glee. It was Fidel, the huge, silly two year old rottweiler who lives in my building and sounds like the Hound of the Baskervilles when he barks.

The two dogs started playing together just as Fidel’s guardian came to my rescue…with Fidel’s brother Che (on a leash). That’s a lot of dog for one day. And some serious canine cardio.

At yoga class today, we were in warrior pose when the teacher asked me what warrior I was. I said, “Winston Churchill.”

He stared at me blankly – I guess a fat old guy with champagne in one hand and a cigar in the other isn’t his idea of a role model – and then walked away, saying, “Mine’s Xena.”

Other than the four-tier dark chocolate fountain, which was girl-nip (I don’t think they would have been more excited by, or lined up as long for, Sex God du Jour – is it still suddenly single Brad Pitt? Or am I, as usual, behind the times and it’s someone else entirely?), the best thing at the party was all the waiters circulating with trays of delicacies. Not only were they always giving you shrimp and wine, they took away the empties and then brought you a fresh supply. Wouldn’t it be great to have that at your house? In the morning, they could circulate with croissants and fruit, then change to lunch things and dinner things, and of course, late-night snacks.

The only thing that would be better than that would be living at a very grand hotel. Eloise had the right idea (hmmm. Just noticed that I bear a startling resemblance to Eloise, what with the unruly, stick-straight hair and the pillowy tummy), and was lucky enough to live at the glorious Plaza before it closed. It is now being made into a travesty of itself, with all the rooms with the best views being made into condos, with the rest being hotel rooms available to the po’ folks who can’t afford the condos (or object to them on very solid philosophical and aesthetic grounds).

There are definite advantages to living in a hotel, number one being room service, which is one of my favorite things in the world. No dishes, ever, and if your plumbing acts up, just call the front desk. Daily maid service! On-site gym! Valet parking! They’ll take away your laundry and bring it back, all nice and clean and actually ironed.

And don’t forget the chocolate on the pillow at night.

What Not to Wear for Dogs

I recently attended a fancy-ass fashion show* where dogs were not only accessories, but accessorized. I seriously think their guardians should be fined or even incarcerated for the fashion crimes and indignities inflicted upon these helpless pups.

I caught one dog, who was understandably trying to make a quick get away and, less understandably, wearing Versace. I felt a pang of regret on handing his leash to his semi-celebrity owner. Who knows what else she’d make him wear?

Other shocking sights:

A huge male dog with silver “pawlish” (yes, they spell it that way) on his claws and rhinestone bracelets on his front paws. Did I mention this was a boy dog? Who knew dogs wore drag?

A tiny black poodle with fuschia fur on her head.

A very large black poodle with most of her fur shaved down, except puffs around feet, tail, and head. Silvery heart-shaped stencils (temporary tattoos for dogs) adorned her derri&egravere. Her head hair was being blow-dried and back-combed and was eventually adorned with a rhinestone tiara with, you guessed it, hearts on it. At this point, I have to admit that some of my ridicule is tinged with envy, since I’ve always wanted a tiara. And I kind of like the idea of sparkly temporary tattoos. But on Me, not dogs.

A very small dog who could hardly move for all the ghetto gold he was sporting around his neck. Some of the necklaces brushed the floor.

A dog in yellow rain boots with a matching slicker and hat.

And the final entry in this walk of shame: No fewer than three outfits worn by human models showed their price tags, and there were two cases of fishnet stay ups that were not staying up.

When did fishnets come back in style? I guess it’s no worse than the poncho thing, though I once heard a woman at Macy’s saying to her friend with great vehemence, “I’d like to kill the guy who invented ponchos.” This fashion show would probably have been the end of her.

*If you’re wondering how the likes of me got invited to a do where there was not only an ice sculpture, but a fountain of dark chocolate – yes, a four layered fountain with fruit to dip in it – I can only say I have friends in high places! Well, one, anyway!

Finally, the plumbing knows who’s boss – Me!

Using my superhuman powers of persuasion, I convinced a friend to plunge away the commode-based ickiness (leaving my ignorance intact). Using my superhuman powers of whining, I finally got the building manager to get a plumber. After all, it’s only been 10 days of showering at the gym (though, as motives go for working out, having no hot water at home is pretty much unbeatable). He fixed it in less than an hour. There must be some mathematical formula for how long you wait for, say, a plumber or the car fix-it guy to show up (an interminably long time) versus how long it takes them to fix whatever it is (a breathtakingly tiny amount of time).

Having hot water seems to have woken up my long-dormant domestic side (actually, it was officially declared dead after being in a coma for so long), since I immediately started performing unnatural acts in the kitchen, like washing the dishes(!) and somehow ending up on a cooking binge.

It all started out innocently enough by deciding to make salsa. I made it, but discovered that I had been far too enthusiastic in my tomato buying, leaving me, like so many cooks before me, with Too Many Tomatoes. I roasted them in the oven with cloves of garlic, olive oil, freshly ground pepper, and thyme until they were soft and then squashed them all up (sans skin). Instant pasta sauce! Then I realized that the cilantro and scallions and limes I had left over from making the salsa could also be used for a Thai salad with the addition of sugar, red pepper flakes, mint (which I happened to have), and fish sauce, so I did that, too.

Quite an achievement for a girl with an unrivalled collection of take out and delivery menus, n’est-ce pas? What with the gardened windowboxes and all, they might start calling me Suzy Homemaker. I’ve been called worse things. I think.

The plumbing is ganging up on me. While the hot water refuses to flow, the toilet is overflowing. I have a plunger, but no idea how to use it. My plunging experience so far has been limited to swimming pools and necklines. I’m going to have to prevail on the nearest available boy to rescue me from my very icky distress.

Which reminds me: my fabulous niece had what may well be a million dollar idea:

“So boys have their uses. Like most things, there’s a time and place. They should have something like Dial-a-Man. Imagine the ad:

For when those gross spiders get stuck in your tub, for those stubborn jars that won’t open or for when the washing machine breaks. If you have ever thought to yourself “I could sure use a guy right about now”, then this brand-new service is for you! We have men available in a variety of sizes, colors, shapes and outfits on call 24 hours day! Nothing is too big, too tough or too yucky for our boys! Call now!”

If only I could. Any volunteers?

I know what you’re thinking, but even I’m not a bad enough daughter to have forgotten Mother’s Day. I sent Mom a card and two CD’s which actually arrived ahead of time (unlike some people, and you know who you are), so yay Me. Unfortunately, Mom did not achieve her goal of staying out of the hospital for Mother’s Day, and I’ve had a hard time reaching her. She’s either asleep and unable to answer the phone, or awake and too tired to talk for long, so I’m mostly relying on updates from my brother and sister. I have to admit that I’m a little more worried this time around, though for no concrete reason, so I might be going to the country sooner rather than later. I’m already camping anyway, what with the non-functioning plumbiing and all, so I might as well go all the way.

Yesterday, it was marigolds. Orange and variegated orange and red. Should I set a trap for the Secret Gardener? They probably don’t make Hav-A-Hearts that big, so I’d probably end up with a giant net &agrave la Gilligan’s Island with a screaming do-gooder inside who has instaneously turned into a do-badder. The curiosity is killing me, like the proverbial cat.

Still no hot water. The fact that my English grandfather used to have a cold bath every morning with the window open (and lived to be well into his 80’s) is not at all comforting. Neither is showering at the gym, especially after seeing that Seinfeld episode where George pees in the shower at the gym. Like I wasn’t already horrified by stepping into the damp, already used cubicle, trying not to think about bacteria and foreign hairs. Like showers weren’t already bad enough. I am longing for a warm, luscious, Lush-filled bath, the complete antithesis of my grandfather’s.

I’d even like to do the dishes…without having to boil water first. This is getting to be too much like camping. The only camp I’m even remotely interested in is the campy Batman kind. They really raised the camp ante on an episode I recently saw, with Julie Newmar (totally the best Catwoman) and famed stripper Gypsy Rose Lee (with all her clothes on, as a newspaper reporter), in the same episode.

After spending all that time in Florida, I belatedly learned that the only stripper school in the whole USA is located in Clearwater, just a short drive from where I was staying. Alas, and dang.

The Miss Exotic World pageant is being held on my birthday. How Suzy is that? Since I didn’t celebrate my birthday last year, I think I should celebrate it twice as much this year. Only 30 shopping days left! Think sparkly!

None of the usual suspects admitted to being the Midnight Gardener, but his/her addiction seems to be, if you’ll pardon the pun, growing (as they so often do – just ask any devotee of say, serial killing, internet porn or eBay). The hydrangeas and lavender (French, as it turns out on closer inspection – oooh, l&agrave l&agrave!) have now been joined by red and pink geraniums. What’s next? I can hardly wait. I so rarely experience random acts of beauty.

On the other hand, there’s no hot water. At all. The building manager claims that it will be fixed tomorrow…or the next day. I actually had to shower at the gym. With all those other people. And then I had to take the bus to the doctor. That’s way too much public exposure (seems to be Monday punday around here) in one day. I’m going to hide in the house now and see if I can catch the Midnight Gardener. Maybe it will be roses this time!

Well, well.

At some point during my {so far ineffective} beauty sleep last night, someone put pots of hydrangeas and lavender in my window box. Taking pity on Me and my black thumb? Or the empty window box, now that Spring has {supposedly} sprung? Oooh, maybe it was a secret admirer!

Things I want to hear:

“You can have a body double in real life. Forever.”

“We have to go. We’re late for the stylist.”

“Dolce & Gabbana got back together just for you. Check out the layouts.”

“You are now a multimillionaire. Tax free.”

“Oh my God! Look what they say about you on Page Six!”

“What should I do with all these boxes from Harry Winston, Tiffany, and Prada? And why won’t this Tom Ford guy stop babbbling about “Suzy is my muse. I must speak to her NOW and show her the latest designs.” Should I throw him out?”

While ambling some errands yesterday (more like practicing my old lady walk, since I kind of overdid the fluff removal the past couple of days), I saw an abandoned glove on the sidewalk. Sleek, dark leather fingers curled toward the sky as if in supplication.

I was immediately reminded of an incident from my now-distant youth:

My father and I were going somewhere in England by train (the destination, I’m afraid, is lost in the mists of time). In those days, there were still corridors in the carriages, and you opened and closed the carriage doors by reaching through the open window of the door and turning the handle.

Just as the train pulled out, a very pretty young lady leaped on board and collapsed into the seat opposite ours. She settled her handbag on her lap, with a glove — and then she looked out the window. There was the glove’s mate on the platform. She flung open the window and gaily tossed the other glove to the platform to join its mate, clearly thinking that whoever found the pair would get some use out of them, whereas the one she had was no good to her at all. She then settled back in her seat, eyes bright and cheeks aglow. The spontaneity and charm of that gesture remains with me still.

Yesterday turned out to be one of those days that seeing Dad’s writing reduced me to a puddle of tears. It’s been almost four years since he died, but there are still days like that when grief jumps out of its lurking place, both surprising and surprisingly intense. Suddenly, you feel as horrible as you did when it first happened.

I was planning to make one of his recipes for dinner, and this one happened to be included as part of one of his weekly letters. The letter was breezy, amusing, and poignant all at once, and whammo! There I was, sobbing over the shrimp.

Here’s the recipe, which I promise will not make you cry. In fact, it will have quite the opposite effect, being as it is, delicious. (Notes in parentheses are mine.)

Shrimp and Artichoke Salad

2 cloves garlic (I tend to use a little more)
2 teaspoons Dijon mustard (I like the seedy kind)
4 tablespoons red wine vinegar
1/2 cup olive oil
3 tablespoons shredded basil
1 red onion, thinly sliced (I find half an onion is enough for me)
12 ounces cooked, peeled shrimp
14 ounce can of artichoke hearts
Lettuce (I use mixed greens)

Coarsely chop the garlic and then crush to a pulp. Mix the garlic and mustard together to form a paste, then beat in the vinegar, and finally, the olive oil. Season with freshly ground pepper. Stir in the basil and onion and let stand at room temperature for half an hour, then stir in the shrimp and chill in the refrigerator for an hour or more. Drain the artichoke hearts and halve each one. Make a bed of lettuce, place the artichoke hearts on it, and spoon the shrimp mixture on top.

Well, well. My silly little blog turns 4 years old today. That’s a lot of nonsense*.

But more importantly: how long have you been blogging? And what inspired/inspires you to write?

*When I was a kid, my Dad used to shake us upside down while we screamed with delight, saying he was trying to get all the nonsense out. He never could. I’m still trying.

I’m finally released from Car Country. I set out to run some errands – when I say “run”, in my case, it’s really more like ambling, or moseying, or on a good day, strutting – and after about five blocks, I realized I was looking for a taxi. Which is…a car. And…driving. After all that complaining about the cars and the driving. Not to mention the fact that the Frightening Florida Fluff is approaching crisis levels. If I want to be Svelte Suzy again any time soon, I better start strolling those errands. And lots of ’em.

Confidential to Ben: Your idea of restoring my hair color to its original mouse has been vetoed by the Committee. First, it was determined that it would be far too expensive and require too much research to discern exactly what that color is. Even assuming that the natural coloring of the Great Speckled Suzy could be ascertained, it may well be impossible to reproduce it. Finally, the cost of therapy when I see a) What the color is; and 2) How much grey hair there is will be prohibitive and prolonged. So unless you inherit millions, become a rock star, or win the lottery, you will have to put up with your old auntie in her artificial state. That goes for the rest of you, too.

I’m also determined never to have blue poodle hair, either, no matter how old I get.

Brunch be Damned (aka Brunch of the Damned): A couple of friends came over for brunch today. I was planning to make Eggs Florentine, because I’m a big, fat showoff. Everything was going perfectly until, for the first time in my life, my Hollandaise sauce separated before my eyes. One moment, glossy, yellow perfection; the next, a curdled, separated mass of grossness. One moment, a fabulous cook; the next, a humliated culinary failure who can’t have a temper tantrum on account of company. They claimed not to mind, but I’m sensing anecdotes here, and possibly snickering.

Cross “cooking” off the list of things Suzy can do. That leaves shopping, and knowing what wine to serve. Oooh, good idea! Time to banish that care, as the great Thomas Jefferson would say. Go get a glass and join me. The toasts are on you.

Random notes:

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.