Suzy Says

While walking Miss Rita this morning, I noticed my neighbor’s appropriately named morning glories, exhibiting their vivid beauty in all its, well, glory. I told her how beautiful they are, and she agreed. “They give such joy to the neighborhood,” she said.

I couldn’t have put it better myself. And now they’re giving joy to you, too!

Dennis makes his mark.

I took the kittens to the vet for the first time this week. Knowing them to be trouble cleverly disguised as cuteness (their unsurprising and uncreative nicknames are Dennis the Menace and June Bug), I anticipated a Ramona-style Great Big Noisy Fuss.

Instead, they acted like Hallmark card kittens. They didn’t make a peep all the way to the vet’s, though they did wiggle around in surprise when a truck roared past. On arrival, when I was filling out the paperwork, they cuddled in their carrier with complete unconcern, apparently feeling that no comment was called for.

When the vet took them out of the carrier, she actually oohed and aahed over their beauty. She was even more impressed by how calm and relaxed they were. June in particular did a spectacular imitation of Frieda’s “boneless cat” Faron, melting in the vet’s arms. Neither shot nor temperature taking nor de-worming pill ruffled their unflappable cool. While the vet tended to one, the other wandered around the exam table, sniffing curiously and prospecting for treats (which they found). Dennis curled up happily in the scales, possibly because he weighs less than June. Isn’t that always the way?

Recently, the witty Alison asked people to tell her if they’d like to be interviewed. Little did she realize that she’d end up asking more questions than Larry King. I was lucky enough to be one of the lucky interviewees.

Now, if you’d like to be lucky enough to have me interview you, you have to follow the rules listed below:

Interview rules:

1. Leave me a comment saying ?Interview me.? (In my case, it’s send an email to speakall@earthlink.net. See question 2.)

2. I will respond by emailing you five questions. I get to pick the questions.

3. You will update your blog with a post containing your the answers to the questions.

4. You will include this explanation and an offer to interview someone else in the same post.

5. When others comment asking to be interviewed, you will ask them five questions.

Now, without further ado, Les Cinq Questions d’Alison (as answered by Suzy):

1. When I found your blog some three years ago, its name was “C’est La Bombe.” It’s still in your URL. Why did you call it that?

   Actually, I didn’t. My soon-to-be-ex* husband bought me the domain name and surprised me with it in 2001. It turned out later that it was incorrect French, but by then I’d already had it for a couple of years. Also it seemed an unfortunate monicker after 9/11. I’ve been wanting to change it and redesign it for some time, but lack the necessary skills. I’d like to rename it “Bad Hostess”. Because I am. In so many ways.

2. You once told me that a proliferation of spam made you turn off your comments. Do you envisage turning on comments at some point?

   Not unless I get a brain transplant or meet someone who can explain how those word verification thingies work. I never learned to program a VCR (remember those?) and can barely work the coffee maker. Probably your average five year old could do it in approximately five minutes. I am the tech tardiest of them all.

3. Michael Stipe or Bono?

   Hmmm…a sexually ambiguous bald guy or a self-righteous one who calls himself “Good Voice” in Latin. Let’s call it a draw.

4. Are you totally in love with your new kitties or what?

   “Obsessed” might be more accurate.

5. I think you’ve gone through a few changes since I’ve been reading you. How is life these days?

   Always changing.

Great questions, Ali! Thanks! Everyone else: it’s your turn. Email me, baby!

*Why isn’t there a word for when your divorce is in process, but not yet official? More than separated, less than divorced? Like “being engaged” and “fianc?(e)” for when your marriage is in process, but not yet official? Given the proliferation of divorce these days, it seems like a glaring linguistic oversight.

Dear Miss Manners,

Help! The politeness is out of control!

When my neighbor went to New York on business*, I took care of her cat and kittens. It’s hard to find a nicer task than playing with kittens, and I was glad to help out, especially since two of the kittens were going to be mine when they were ready to leave their mother.

Eventually, the day came to pick up my kittens. I brought my neighbor a gift to thank her for all the care and love she had given my kittens – all the kittens, really. She gave them a great start in life, and I was grateful. She also refused to let any of the adopting families help with the food bills, so I thought a nice gift was in order.

I gave her this lovely tea set and a pretty thank you card. She seemed to be delighted. Two days later, she turned up with a bottle of wine and a thank you card, thanking me for my “too generous” thank you gift and card. Yikes. Do I need to thank her for thanking me for thanking her? How can I break the cycle of politeness?

Politely yours,

Suzy

*She was staying at the Soho Grand when Kirsten Dunst was robbed, but she had nothing to do with it. I swear! Otherwise, I’d have the Balenciaga bag and she’d have the Marc Jacobs, instead of our usual Chico bags.

Gratuitous kitten photo which has nothing to do with this post.

I wonder if Rita is getting senile, or is possibly protesting the recent arrival of the kittens to her Queendom and is letting me know that she objects.

Lately, she’s taken to peering in the bathroom door and staring at me when I’m in there peeing. When I leave, she leaves. Show’s over. But weird. Who ever heard of a Peeping Rita?

The past couple of days, she has barked in her sleep, waking both of us up. I don’t know who’s more surprised. But I know who has a harder time getting back to sleep, and it ain’t Miz Rita, whose peepers close almost immediately afterwards.

Rita may not be the only senile old lady around here. Twice in the past few days I have left her outside and not noticed until:

1. Rita whined and scratched at the door, which is dog for “Let me in” (sometimes it means “Let me out”, though – you have to take each situation individually;
2. The building dentists knocked loudly at the door. By the time I got to the door, Rita was standing there looking up at me. I thought the old dog had learned a new trick. But no.

I’m almost as good a parent as Britney.

For those who are wondering who the building dentists are, they arrive at a very early hour and then start drilling out the old bricks and filling in new ones, much like dentists do with teeth if you let them. At least dentists don’t make house calls. The BD’s have replaced quite a few century old bricks, including the wall under the stairs which lead to the main building. It was not reassuring to hear them call out from the inside that they hoped the ceiling wouldn’t cave in.

So far, so good.

Update: When I was making dinner last night (pecan-crusted sole with citrus salsa, lemon-herb risotto, and asparagus), there was a frantic pounding on the door. Rita was getting under my feet in the traditional manner when I cook, so I knew it wasn’t her or the building dentists.

It was Charlie, who dashed into the house when I opened the door and ran to the bathroom. I didn’t like to follow him, not being a Peeping Rita kind of girl, but he came racing out with a pail of water, gasping, “Fire!” and sped outside.

Turned out one of the building dentist tarps was on fire right outside my door. Charlie soaked it down, leaving a smoldering pile of plastic and cloth (burning plastic smells really gross) and a freaked out girl. Have no idea how the fire started, but am very glad it’s ended. And if you can’t be rescued by the incendiary Denis Leary, your nice neighbor is the next best thing.

Everything was fine in Rita’s Queendom. She had trained the people pretty well. They didn’t take her out quite as often as she’d like, but with age comes wisdom, so Rita knew that this is what happens when you’ve been living with someone for a while. Other than that, though, she loved her comfortable bed, her routine, and all that attention.

Those days are over.

For some reason, two – two! – obnoxious little furballs have entered the previously peaceful Queendom. They are crazy bananaheads, in Rita’s opinion, and completely unnecessary. For some reason, the people actually seem to like them and coo over them as if they were cute or something. Also, they stink the place up with their food and the results of the food. They don’t go outside, like normal beings.

Honestly!

As if the invasion wasn’t bad enough, that blasted neighbor dog with his obvious Napoleon complex saw fit to attack Rita while she was out for a stroll. She stopped to greet him in the usual polite butt-sniffing way, and he bit her nose! Really hard! There was blood involved. The Girl was horrified and applied gooey stuff to the wound. Rita tried to lick it off, but some of it stayed on, and at least it helped to temporarily mask the kittenstink. Now Rita and the Girl will have matching rakish scars. The Girl is already telling people that Rita had a nose job.

Rita is not amused.

The new kittens, of course, have provided an excellent excuse for shopping. They require many accessories and necessities, so in preparation for their imminent arrival, I decided to go and pick up a few things.

My aversion to public transit being a matter of public knowledge, I took a cab to the store. I gave the driver the intersection I wanted. He unaccountably drove me to the bus station, which is approximately two blocks from my actual destination. When he stopped, I pointed out that he had not in fact arrived at the requested location. He asked, “You no wan’ bus station?” I said no, I didn’t, though I kept the following thoughts to myself:

1. You might want to consider actually taking passengers to the place they asked for; and
2. Do I look like someone who wants to go to the bus station? It’s a horrifying thought. Also, I had no luggage other than a gorgeous handbag I bought in New York in a moment of weakness. I’m insulted all over again on behalf of the bag.

The horror of the bus station insult faded as I entered the store, list in hand, so I felt efficient instead of indulgent. As usual, I noticed several must-haves (and some wanna-haves) while in the course of getting the necessities of kitty life, so by the time I left the store I was burdened down like someone who takes the bus.

On exiting the store, I discovered that there was a mysterious and annoying parade in progress, making traffic worse than usual. I decided to drag my purchases a couple of blocks away – not to the bus station – to the next major street, in the hopes of catching a cab that wouldn’t immediately be trapped in the parade standstill.

You’d think this was a good strategy, but on arriving at Major Street and dropping my packages to rub some feeling back into my hands, the following happened:

1. There were no cabs.
2. A kilt wearing busker set up about three feet from me and started piercing my ears with his bagpipes. I know Queen Victoria was awakened in this manner every day, but I’m not regal enough to stand it. After about five minutes, I was ready to ask him how much he’d take to cease and desist and why on earth he felt the need to inflict the kilt thing on an unsuspecting public.

Instead, I loaded up my packages and fled at a positively queenly pace to the next Major Street, where I collapsed into the first cab I saw. I’m not above being girlishly helpless when it suits me, so I managed to persuade the driver to help carry the packages to my front door. Now, if I could teach Rita to open the door, I’d be all set.

June (top), Dennis (bottom) and Phil (middle) get cozy.

Astute readers may have noticed the “agreed to adopt two kittens” part of this entry. I have to admit that I’ve been cheating on my blog with Facebook. It’s so much easier for the lazy like me to just post a line or two, maybe a couple of photos, than to compose paragraphs and paragraphs and then think of a title. So I have become that reviled, mid-life crisis cliche, cheating on the old with the newer and younger, but unwilling to give up either.

Which is why pictures of the kittens are on Facebook, but haven’t been here until now. And I saved the explanation for here, since it will take more than a bon mot and a picture.

Long, long ago, about a couple of months ago, my kind-hearted neighbor rescued a pregnant cat. The cat, named Quince and cared for lovingly by Patricia, considerately gave birth on Patricia’s tax return on July 2*.

Although tiny, and barely more than a kitten herself (we estimated her to be less than a year old, and she is too thin, although not too rich), Quince gave the world seven, count ’em, seven gorgeous, healthy kittens. A former farmer who lives in my building tells me that this is an unusually large litter for a first try (and believe me, her last – the vet appointment is already made), and that it’s unusual for all the kittens to survive.

But survive they did. Patricia is keeping Quince, to whom she has become very attached, and all the kittens are spoken for. I fell in love with June and Dennis (above), and will bring them home for good in a few days. Patricia is letting the kittens leave gradually, so it’s easier on both their mothers. Two, Otis and Phoebe, have already gone to their permanent homes.

Fortunately for me, Patricia is in New York on business for a few days, so I get to feed and play with them twice a day until she gets back. Patricia has a lovely, secluded back yard, and it’s delightful to take a cup of coffee and watch the kittens play in the flowers with their mother, or doze in the sun, all snuggled up together.

*This happens to be the birthday of a certain lovely Cat, so it’s clearly a good day for cats to be born.

Well, venturing from the house really didn’t pay off for me.

1. I took Rita for quick tour of the alleyway (yes, that alleyway) before running (and falling) some errands. No fiesta evidence, but the following: yoga pants; sports bra; hoody, abandoned, as if someone petite had just stepped out of them (and walked away in her panties?!). No body, just the clothes. Go figure. I can’t. Neither can Rita.
2. A guy with a heavy Scots accent asked me where the nearest coffee shop was. Outside a Starbucks. His accent was so strong I had to ask him to repeat it. Which of us looks dumber* in this particular anecdote?
3. A Jamaican cab driver earnestly asked me if I spoke Polish. I don’t know what about me exactly broadcasts “Get your Polish translations here” or why this guy was in such dire of need of same, but there you have it.
4. On walking into a store – or attempting to do so – I stumbled and fell, embarrassing Self and breaking a nail. It’s always the innocent who suffer.
5. A visibly (across the shoulder and up the neck and onto the face) girl asked me if I knew where to buy a bathing suit. My immediate, unspoken response was “Do I look like someone who knows where to buy a bathing suit?” I look like someone who should be heavily sedated before even thinking of buying a bathing suit.

   I told this story to my fabulous friend K, who said we should invent a place where women could buy bathing suits and not want to kill themselves or the nearest supermodel. In our imaginary (but wildly successful) store, you’d get valium and a cocktail of your choice before even approaching the dressing room. The dressing room would be lit by candles, which we all know are the most flattering, as opposed to the hideous fluorescent bulbs favored by most department stores, which make one look like a cottage cheese avalanche. I think we might even go as far as those fun house mirrors which make you look really thin, as opposed to those completely un-fun mirrors in department stores which scar you for life. We’re thinking of calling it Suit Yourself. Investors, apply to me.

Well, that’s what happens when you leave the house.

*Years ago, one of my oldest friends was rooming with an Australian guy. I came over to visit my friend, who hadn’t gotten home yet. The roommate did his best to entertain me, but I was completely unequal to his accent. After a few rounds of “Excuse me?” and “Can you repeat that?” I subsided into agreeing with everything. Am convinced that as soon as I left, he told my friend that I was just about the stupidest person he’d ever met. “I aked her if she was a cannibal, and she said yes! She agreed to have 19 children with me! She thinks Ronald Reagan is a genius! Ronald McDonald, too!”

Happy birthday to Kathleen, who is truly one of Detroit’s treasures. Spending time with her is always the best thing about being there.

Kathleen and I met when we both worked at the Hell Corporation*, and meeting her was one of the very few good things to come out of a bad situation. Maybe every cloud really does have a silver lining (and for the gift minded, please note that Kathleen prefers silver, white gold or platinum). She was definitely my personal silver lining during those dark HC days.

She was smart enough to get out first, but we always stayed in touch, and get together as often as we can. She is one of those rare friends you could call at 2 am in tears and she’d get right in the car, no questions asked. And when she got there, she’d actually make you feel better.

She loves Iggy Pop (and wrote a review of his most recent Detroit show that is better than any music magazine you’d care to mention) as much as she loves the Symphony. She knits and knows pretty much everything there is to know about hockey. She is as beautiful as she is smart, and as funny, too. She is fiercely loyal and utterly tolerant. She knows what love is.

Hope you’re having a great day, girl!

*Like He Who Shall Not be named in the Harry Potter series, it shall not be named. But it knows who it is.

The wise and wonderful Kathleen may have solved the mystery of my recent cooking frenzy:

“I’m thinking that cooking for you is one way to honor your father since the anniversary of his death is approaching us. It makes you feel close to him all over again.”

The day is now here, so I thought I’d share one of Dad’s menu meals in his honor. I’d like to think of the good times we had, and we always loved to cook together.

Dad created “menu meals” for special occasions. He and Margaret always changed clothes for dinner, always had flowers and candles on the table, and always enjoyed coming together and sharing their days in the evening, both being so busy. But for menu meals, Dad would actually print up a little menu and put it at each place setting. Sometimes he’d even invent an occasion, such as the grandchildren leaving after a long visit. This particular menu is from Valentine’s Day, 1998.

The library has a wonderful system. You order your books on line, much like Amazon, only it’s free. When they arrive, you go and pick them up. Now, arrival times may be as delayed as they are at SFO* or Newark, but at least you can wait in the comfort of your own home instead of the discomfort of the airport. For example, I am currently 1,266 of 3,809 for the new Harry Potter. But on the bright side, I’m first in line for the new Sue Grafton, which doesn’t come out until December.

I took a vacation from the library, putting all the books I had requested on hold so I could do things like go to Cleveland, not blog, and agree to adopt two kittens. When I released the hounds, I discovered that I had gone to the head of quite a few lines, and I ended up getting about a dozen books at once.

Looks like I’ll be busy for a while.

*Speaking of SFO, how creepy is this?