Suzy Says

Much less fun (and harder to solve) than a Nancy Drew mystery. Though, like her, I have had a cute blue convertible and noticed that boys never do anything, so if there’s something to be done or a mystery to be solved, you’d better do it yourself. Stylishly.

You know how some people have something wrong with their magnetic field or something (those of you who are scientifically minded can let me know what I’m talking about here) and can’t wear watches? I think I’m like that with coffeemakers.

The curse started, as curses tend to do, long ago, and continues to this day. Those who are cursed (Me) have no warning, and it is sprung upon them in the early, uncaffeinated hours when they are least equipped to deal with it.

I thought the curse would go along with that coffeemaker, as I merrily tossed it into the trash, but no. It was passed onto its successor, a coffeemaker version of Fallen. The second one lulled me into a false sense of security for some time before going suddenly and stubbornly on strike in the French manner. Also ? la fran?aise, it would mysteriously start again, only to stop with no warning later on, sometimes while in the middle of working.

I hauled out my old French press, the one with the plastic ~shudder~ carafe because the cats’ romping keep breaking the glass one, making for some extremely hazardous waste.

I will just say here that I used to use one of these all the time, but my love has turned to hate.

I hate:

• Having to wait for the kettle to boil, then attempt to pour said water onto grounds without spilling or scalding Self (no easy task when you’re Calamity Suzy);
• Having to wait again for the coffee to strengthen sufficiently to jumpstart a cold and Grinch-sized heart;
• How there’s always a certain amount of sludge in the bottom of my coffee cup; and
• Having to scrape* out the grounds, but yet have enough left over to get into everything I wash and leave a sad ring-around-the sink in its wake.

I think I hate that most of all.

So I ordered another coffeemaker, a pretty red one, one that I could just throw in the coffee and water and the coffee would appear like magic. I took it out of its package, admired its cuteness, plugged it in, turned it on, and – nothing. The warming burner was cold to the touch, always a sign of deadosity, whether in people or appliances.

I called the company and they agreed to send me one that works and to have UPS pick up the body, which is waiting on the front porch and dreaming of speeding hearses.

In the meantime, I had to resort to the French press again. Although it worked this morning, the grounds-trapping screen holder was cracked, so when I pushed it down, it exploded all over Self and the kitchen floor and anything else that was in its way.

When I took out the screen part to rinse everything out, the plastic holding the screen onto the stem fell apart in my hands. So it’s yet another Oakland homicide**, though a purely involuntary one.

If the replacement coffeemaker doesn’t arrive today, I face a coffee-less birthday morning tomorrow. What could be more cursed than that?

*Sometimes this procedure gives me heretical thoughts about the bad old days when we were all unenlightened and just threw everything in the garbage. Things were so much easier and less stinky then. It really isn’t easy (or pretty) being green, which is why, you guessed it, I don’t enjoy it.

**Oakland: its not just for homicides anymore! Apparently, we also specialize in carjackings!

Well, my $20 may have been turned into crack, but it also turned back into $20. Neat trick, n’est-ce pas?

The guy who borrowed it finally turned up, paid me back, took his license, and told me he loved me again before leaving. That’s what they all say.

In other neighborhood news, a guy was murdered three blocks away from my house. It explains all those cop cars and crime scene tape I noticed when coming home from the Safeway the other day. Apparently being a gang informant isn’t the healthiest lifestyle choice.

Today I noticed that there’s a “Neighborhood Crime Watch” sign at that intersection. I guess the neighbors watch the crime being committed; in this case, Oakland’s 55th homicide of the year.

I felt very frivolous reading Vogue on the train as it passed through the industrial outskirts of Oakland on its way to the civilization of the city this week. Of course I had to get this issue, since it includes an article on the much-anticipated Sex and the City movie, now less than a week away*. Nice to know that they’re keeping up the tradition. The series’ seasons used to start on or near my birthday, and the movie is an early birthday present this year. Can’t wait to open it!

I caught Jacques P?pin’s show this morning, and it inspired me to recreate his shrimp casserole for dinner. I got all the elements at the farmers’ market, and am about to start marinating the shrimp. I just realized that I’m going to have to peel all that shrimp, which is both gross and time-consuming, two of my least-favorite things. I wish I had Jacques’ minions, or Jacques himself, to do that part. I also wish I could peel and chop garlic as quickly and easily as he does.

One of these days, I’m going to get cooking lessons. Or a chef/maid combo. I’d love to have Staff.

*Guess who has the countdown widget on her Facebook profile?

I’m pretty sure my $20 has been turned into crack.

It’s been hot’n’heinous lately. In a vain attempt to keep from melting/swooning/dying in my very own living room (if I must make a headline, I don’t want it to be as a cat snack), I had the both the front and back doors open to catch any stray breezes*. Since this is Oakland, I had both doors locked.

One sultry afternoon, I was trying to convince myself that the heat was an anomaly, it’s much worse where people have real weather, etc. when there was a pounding on the front door.

A tall, skinny, older African-American man stood there. Gasping slightly, he told me that he was my neighbor and needed $17.50 for a locksmith. His car keys were locked in his house and he needed to go and pick up his granddaughter. I asked him if he needed some water, but he said no. He offered me his driver’s license, which has an address on my street, and told me I could hold it until he brought the money back.

Caught off guard and slightly unnerved, I gave him $20. He gave me the license and ran down my steps, calling out, “I love you! I love you!”

I looked at the license. It expires in 2012, so it’s current, and the description and photo match the look of the guy. It’s been two or three days now, and I’m still mystified. It costs more than $20 to replace your license. Maybe it’s a scam and he has a bunch of fake ones he uses, or he stole it from someone else. Who knows?

Never a dull moment when you live in Oakland.

*The house appears to be set up for central heating and central air, but the central air doesn’t work. I called the landlord, who said vaguely that she had never used the central air, but if you open the front and back doors, you get “an awesome crossbreeze”. Thanks.

After complaining so bitterly about being delayed, I have a helluva nerve leaving you all in suspense for so long. All I can say is the Florida thing and the recent hellish heat wave robbed me of what little energy I had left. It was all I could do to keep up with work and whimper occasionally.

The plane left Tampa nearly three hours late. Once we neared Denver, the plane experienced an identity crisis: am I a plane? Am I a roller coaster? One of those horrifying rides you have to sign a waiver before getting on? The pilot blamed the boisterous bouncing on “microbursts”. I had never heard of them before, but as I considered my mortality, I thought they sounded like a new skin care product or maybe a laundry detergent (“Now with the power of microbursts!” “Cleans your skin with fruit extract microbursts!”).

The Denver airport was deserted, as I suspected. Took a cab to the Marriott, where the receptionist took one look at me and gave me a voucher for a free drink. Before she ran my credit card.

If I hadn’t just spent so much time in the staggering luxury of the Florida resort, this would have seemed like a pretty nice room to spend six hours in. Called Room Service and ordered a bottle of wine before the food. First things first. Tried to flip on TV for a much-needed re-run of something mindless. Didn’t work. Called my friend at the front desk.

Room Service brought the wrong wine. Eventually he returned with the right one and the TV repairman. By the time all this was straightened out and the bottle of wine empty, I had five hours to sleep before taking the shuttle back to the airport.

Looking out the window of the shuttle, I saw no signs of a mile high (or even half a mile high) city, just dead brown fields and dark grey sky. The Denver airport’s roof appeared to be made of a collection of weird white tents. The security line looked like those photos of people waiting for food in Communist Russia, right down to the hopeless expressions.

When I finally got through the metal detectors, it was more than half an hour later. The security guy gave me a hard time for putting my tiny Ziploc bag of toiletries on top of my iBook in the bin. I asked why, and he said it made it harder to scan. I pointed out that my completely opaque jacket was on top of my shoes, and that didn’t seem to be an issue.

This may have led to the ensuing bag search. He victoriously brandished my nearly empty tube of Tom’s of Maine all natural toothpaste and started explaining how many people make the mistake of not including their toothpaste in the Ziploc bag. I zipped up my bag and walked away in mid-speech, saying, “Throw it out. Just throw it out.” You’d have to be pretty creative and/or determined to blow up a plane with a teaspoon of baking soda toothpaste, but that’s just my opinion.

I never thought I’d be so happy to see Oakland.

Well, here I am at the Tampa (or as I’m beginning to think of it, Tampon) airport. Like Oakland, they don’t have a Red Carpet Club, but they do have WiFi.

I’ve already learned that my flight is delayed by over two hours, so I’ll miss my connecting flight in Denver, and eaten a vile, overpriced sandwich, so I might as well tell you all about it, what with all that time to kill.

This whole thing has been a fiasco from the get-go, so I don’t know why I’m surprised. I do know why I’m annoyed, though.

I got to the airport in good time for my flight, which should have left at 5:30 pm. The departures board showed the flight was delayed, but not by how long. I called United and learned it was two hours, hence the missing of the connecting flight.

I pointed out to the agent that this kind of thing is why airlines take your email address and cell phone number: presumably to notify you of such minor details. I just checked my email and I remain un-notified. I’ve been using my phone enough to know I don’t have a text or voicemail. And you’d think putting the new and worse departure time on the board would be possible with all this modern technology and everything.

Everything is sold out going to SF, Oakland, or San Jose from Denver tonight. Agent Genius suggested that I ask a United ticketing agent when I get there, at 9:35 tonight (or possibly later) and ask them to find me a hotel. I asked if the ticketing desks would still be open then, and guess what? They won’t. But I can flag any passing United person and ask them!

I decided to call someone who is actually in the US and whose first language is actually English to help me out: our assistant in Detroit. She booked me on a flight that leaves Denver at 8:25 am tomorrow and gets into Oakland at 10:02 am – only 12 hours after the time I was supposed to arrive – and reserved a room at the airport Marriott.

So all I have to do now is wait and hope that 7:30 really means 7:30.

Stay tuned (and wish me luck)!

The Oakland airport is much smaller and less crowded than SFO. This means you can breeze through security after the usual exotic dance routine. Once you do, though, you soon discover that there is no Red Carpet Club, so you have to sit sadly at the gate, where you are tortured by an endless loop of Muzak. The Muzak is punctuated by security announcements about abandoned luggage, which can be “inspected, searched [what’s the difference?], damaged, or removed”. I also wondered about the “damaged” part, whether that means blowing it up, or, say, kicking it around.

Yes, I had too much time to kill at the gate.

Once aboard, I was delighted to discover that I had an entire row to myself. I was less delighted to discover that the father of a small child sitting in front of me had decided to equip his son with a harmonica for the voyage. I imagine that I was not the only one.

As for the Denver to Tampa flight, I’m not sure which was worse: flying through a thunderstorm with all that lightning, or the screaming kids. Since the FAA is always making new rules to make air travel less comfortable, how about one to make it better? I have three options for the powers that be to choose from:

1. Build a soundproof room at the back of the plane to accommodate people travelling with children;
2. Enact a rule that children must be sedated, crated, and placed in cargo, along with the other pets (this could have a snappy title like “Sedate’n’Crate” for marketing purposes – it might really catch on); or
3. Equip flight attendants with tranquilizer darts like on Wild Kingdom.

Banning harmonicas goes without saying.

Being met by the chauffeur was as fabulous as I thought. After the horrors of the planes, it was heavenly to be ensconced in the cool quiet of the Town Car and sped through the dark, balmy night to the fancy resort.

On checking in, the front desk apologized profusely for the suite, whose balcony faces (gasp!) the lagoon, instead of the beach (as seen above). They are moving me to the beach suite later on today, but all I have to do is leave my bag and they?ll take care of it, so I can ?enjoy my day?. I could get used to this.

I went outside this morning to leave offerings for Grey Cat, and was astonished to see a hearse speeding down my street, its tires squealing as it went around the corner. A speeding hearse is a strange sight indeed.

About a week ago, I started leaving food and water under the porch for Grey Cat, a handsome stray who often suns himself on my garage roof. It occurred to me that he might be having a hard time finding water now that the winter rains are over and we might have to start rationing soon. And if I’m leaving water, why not food?

I wasn’t sure if he was the one emptying out the bowls, but this morning, I saw his tail slipping under the porch, and the kittens watched carefully. Eventually, he emerged and had a bath, which made me happy. I hope that eventually I can get close enough to pet him and maybe even get him to the vet for a check-up and spay/neuter. He can be my outside cat. I should think of a better name than Grey Cat, though.

I should also get packing for this Florida thing. I’m hoping to get by with carry-on, since I get to Tampa at 9 pm and then have an hour’s drive to the resort where the conference is being held. Apparently they are going to send a car for me, which is the most exciting part of the trip so far. I’ve always wanted to be one of those people who are met at the airport by a chauffeur holding a sign. I can pretend to be a movie star!

Yesterday, I printed out the agenda, and it is disturbingly full of cocktails and assorted social events. As you all know by now, I am by no means cocktail-averse, but I have never liked drinking with coworkers. I don’t know what’s worse: seeing your boss tipsy, or having him/her experience your alcohol (in)tolerance. At my old job, there was a guy who got so tanked at our yearly conference that he peed in the bar manager’s office, mistaking it for the bathroom. More than a decade later, I still remember this event, and I’m not the only one, since it came up every year at annual conference time.

So I think I’ll stick to soda water and avoid disgracing myself any further than I already will by not being an actual grown-up. If anyone asks me about it, I’ll get all tragic and murmur “rehab” and “recovery” and see how embarrassed they get.

I was drinking coffee this morning, minding my own business and slowly coming to the conclusion that it’s really waking up, not breaking up, that’s hard to do, when I heard a noise. I went to investigate, and both kittens cannoned into me en route. It soon became clear why they were running so fast: they were fleeing the scene of the crime.

They had torn the shade of the floor lamp in the living room in two. The bottom half pooled sadly on the floor, and the top half hung there dejectedly.

While inspecting the damage and wondering if I could get a new shade, or would have to invest in a whole new lamp, I noticed a guy going through my recycling. Not only was he investigating the contents of the recycling cart with the thoroughness of J. Edgar Hoover perusing JFK’s file, he was tossing the rejects on my driveway.

Stealing my recycling is one thing, but making a mess for me to clean up while doing it is something else. You know how I feel about cleaning up my own untidiness; cleaning up someone else’s is unconscionable.

I went outside and yelled at him to leave. He just stared at me. I made a shooing gesture and repeated my order to vacate the premises. He retreated a few feet, then stopped and stared again, inspiring an encore from me. He finally shuffled off to the corner, where he met up with a fellow thief/mess-maker, and pointed at me before they went to see if there were easier pickings somewhere else.

A few hours later, a woman appeared at my door and said she was there to provide elder services. I do have a birthday coming up next month, but I’m not that old. Not yet. I explained to her that I was the oldest person here and she must have the wrong address.

Maybe the recycling guy called her on me, like kids playing a prank on their neighbors by sending them lots of pizza.

I tried to open the comments again, but not surprisingly (given my complete and total lack of any kind of techperstise whatsoever), it didn’t work. I’ll have to call Movable Type and/or find some tech savvy kindergartener to fix it for me.

I can’t stand the thought of calling MT, because I’ve spent most of the day on the phone with faceless corporations, unmaking and remaking reservations to go to Florida against my will. Against my will, because it’s for a conference, and it’s on the other side of the country. Before you get all excited about the Florida thing, remember that I already have sun and ocean, and I’d have to travel 3,500 miles for more of the same. Plus uncomfortable work clothes and, you know, work.

The whole thing started when I foolishly booked my tickets on Expedia. The confirmation I received from them showed me leaving Oakland at 2 pm on May 4, and arriving in Tampa at 12:30 AM on May 4. Not humanly possible, I think most of us would agree, unless I have secret (even to me) powers over the space-time continuum. The reservation should have been leaving May 3, arriving 4. Given that the conference starts on May 4, there’s no way I would have booked the tickets to arrive the day after it starts. Clearly, the problem here is not my lack of techpertise, but a problem with Expedia’s system, which allows hapless travellers to reserve tickets that have him/her arriving 14 hours before s/he leaves.

Quite a trick.

Another good one is the choices you get.

1. Change ticket to the originally requested dates. This costs $150, plus a $30 Expedia-induced processing fee, plus the difference in fare, if there is any after all those fees. The value of the ticket is $295.
   
2. Get a “credit” for the ticket, which must be used within one year. Oh, and when you use it, there’s a $100 fee, or approximately one third the value of the ticket.

I selected option 2 as the marginally less painful of the two screwings offered. In both scenarios, Expedia/United have been paid for a service they failed to provide, because of their error. They each blame each other, by the way. And I get to pay $100 not to go to Florida.

Or so I thought.

I cancelled everything, and the guy actually giving the conference, a Fromage Grand in this tiny business world, called me personally and begged me to come. He even said he was a close personal friend of my boss, etc., etc. and agreed to pay all expenses. Even he could do nothing about the greedheads at Expedia and United, but presumably he also suffers from being only human. In return, I have to bring him a box of See’s chocolates, specifically, “the good ones”, Nuts & Chews. I have the nuts part covered.

Lilacs in my sister’s garden

Country walks always sound good until I actually go on one. I have noticed the same thing about herbal tea – well, pretty much all tea. It sounds delicious but is actually not. Unlike, say, an espresso. Or a glass of wine. So I like the idea of strolling through the primeval redwoods with the people I love most, but the reality is more like slipping and scrabbling through the dirt and fallen needles while complaining bitterly. And sweating. Ick.

Nature is gross. Shopping is so much better.

Actually, there was a little bit of fun shopping, at Tangents in Fort Bragg (which I usually refer to as “the cute store”), but it was mostly errands, like the Safeway. At the Safeway, I was horrified to note premixed cans of beer and Clamato juice. What the…

Not even a country slip’n’slide could make that seem like a good idea.

I stopped for gas in Boonville, and it was $4.14 a gallon. It was a mere $3.83 in Cloverdale, though, so guess where I filled up?

And of course, I had lunch at the Hamburger Ranch and Pasta Farm. Did you even have to ask?

When I got home, I discovered that I could not get into my house. The lock just kept turning around and around, but refused to unlock. I ended up climbing in one of the living room windows. I don’t know whether I should be relieved or disappointed that no-one called the ever-present po-lice on me. Hmmm.

I called the locksmith, who came over right away and changed the locks. He thought they were probably original, 85 years old, so no wonder they died. He suggested getting locks for the living room windows (you think?), which, on closer inspection, turned out to be the only room in the house that was lock-free. Not even a trace of ghosts of locks past on the four windows. Hmmm.

Getting window locks is now a matter of some urgency, since I’m going to Florida on Saturday for a conference. Now I know from personal experience that the windows can be climbed through with impunity, it makes me a little nervous.

Highway 128 through the redwoods

This is the pretty part of the (long) drive to my sister’s house. Most of it is 580 and 101, San Quentin and auto malls and other non-scenic things. As soon as you leave the Hamburger Ranch and Pasta Farm onto 128, things get a lot prettier. And a lot quieter.

So now you know where I’ll be later on today. Our family friend Paul is visiting from Florida – he let me stay with him for a couple of months a few winters ago, and get this: he still likes me – and we’re driving up together to spend a few days with my sister and my brother. There will be a few stops along the way, essential things like Trader Joe’s and Gowan’s farm stand, and probably the Hamburger Ranch, but sometime this afternoon we’ll be ensconced in my sister’s garden, smelling the lilacs and laughing. Rumor has it that she’s making some kind of fancy chicken dinner, too.

As you probably all know by now, the internet connection there is approximately the speed of a very lazy or comatose snail, so you’ll have to wait until my return to hear all about it. In the meantime, have fun, and if you get into trouble, blog all about it!

Well, here I am at the Oakland office, awaiting the furniture delivery men. I am beginning to suspect that someone tipped them off to the narrow, though lovely, marble staircase and they’re saving me for last. Or going to every day laborer depot in the city, looking for someone else to do the lugging.

In the meantime, I could be sorting the mail and prospecting for carpet, but I’d rather tell you about the play and the police. Before I do, I will just mention what I can see from the office window.

It’s only the second floor, so even though the windows actually open, there’s no point in jumping out of them. Now, that’s a safety feature! From my perch above Dicker and Dicker of Beverly Hills, I can see boarded up buildings, including the Fox Theater, which is undergoing renovations, and hear the endless peeping of the traffic signals. I may lose what little is left of my mind after another hour or two of that. There is a shopping cart guy across the street, making a fashion statement by wearing nothing but shorts, flip-flops (or possibly no shoes, it’s hard to tell) and three wool hats. He is having an animated conversation with either the cart contents or his imaginary friend. Directly under the window, a couple is having a heated verbal battle, which is threatening to become threatening.

Maybe the furniture guys took one look and fled.

On Saturday, I fled Oakland for the more salubrious shores of San Francisco to take in the west coast d?but of Dennis Lehane’s first play, Coronado. Based on his short story, the best description might be noir – live action film noir, as it were. If you’ve read or seen Mystic River or Gone, Baby, Gone, you’ll know what to expect, as Lehane explores the dark side of the human heart. It was performed in a small theater, and that made it more intense – I felt as if I were part of these people’s damaged, yet fascinating lives.

The drama didn’t end with the play. After I had finally battled my way onto the bridge (you know it’s going to be bad when the onramp is bumper to bumper) and off the freeway, I turned onto the street next to mine. There were two cop cars, one on each side of the road. I stopped for a cop to cross the road, and was relieved to be waved on. I was less relieved to note four cop cars on my street, including a canine unit. That’s a lot of cops for two blocks. I still don’t know what happened, but they were there for more than an hour.

As of today, I’ve been blogging for seven, count ’em, seven years. That makes my blog ancient in internet terms. Probably 80 or so. And it may well explain why I seem to have run out of things to write about lately. I often think about stopping – surely close to a decade of frivolous nonsense is enough for anyone – but then something happens and I think, “I have to blog about that”, or I get an email or phone call from someone who’s read it and wants me to know s/he has enjoyed it. You realize that just encourages me, right? So for better or worse, for sillier or shallower, I’ll keep blogging. At least for now.

Fortunately, the heat wavelette last weekend seemed to be a fluke, and/or was sent packing by the powers that be to places that are used to that kind of thing (Africa, for instance, though it’s possible Tarzan couldn’t have taken that kind of heat – at least inside, close to midnight), and we’re back to the standard weather of sunny skies and 60 to 70 degrees during the day. The weather we all pay top dollar to live here for.

I took a day off from the three hour tour last week to go and buy furniture for our Oakland office. The differences between our San Francisco office and our Oakland office pretty much embody the basic differences between those two cities. SF: pretty, impressive, easy to get to, in the middle of everything. Oakland: not. It’s probably only fair to warn you that there’s a post on the horizon in which I break my rule against comparing and contrasting and do just that to the two cities. Guess who wins?

So instead of clopping through BART and the streets of San Francisco, I drove the highways and byways of the East Bay, desperately seeking Staples and Office Depot. I bought a desk, a chair, and a filing cabinet to join the desk, chair and heaps of mail currently in place at the office. I’m hoping to actually – and I realize this is a radical, radical notion – get the mail sorted and put away one of these days. It might be nice to see what color the carpet is.

I arranged to have the furniture delivered tomorrow. Much like the cable company, they believe in picture windows of time. Sometime between 10 and 5. I split the time with my partner/boss, and somehow I got stuck with the early shift. I can use the time to open and sort the mail. I know, I know, you all wish you were me now. The usual.

The office is in a historic building downtown, about a block away from the splendid Paramount Theater. The ground floor has an outlet/outpost of Dicker & Dicker of Beverly Hills, though few places could be further from Beverly Hills than downtown Oakland. I’m almost positive that game shows when I was a kid used to have prizes of furs from Dicker & Dicker of Beverly Hills. However, I expect that the lack of an elevator will be more interesting to the delivery men, and I doubt that they will be impressed by the white marble stairs with their elaborate wrought-iron railings.

I picked the roses from a bush in my back yard yesterday. I soon discovered that Guns N’ Roses are 100% accurate and every rose does indeed have a thorn, and its whole point in life is to point it into you. I minimized the damage to Self by holding them carefully by the leaves. Here you see them looking perfectly innocent, in a vase made by my former neighbor, the swooningly handsome Aaron.

This morning, the cats were cutely sniffing the blooms, but by the time I grabbed the camera to document the adorability, June was trying to eat them. So I had to shoo them away, but I still found a lightly mangled bloom on the kitchen floor later.

They miss no opportunity to be naughty. I didn’t even realize a vase of flowers was an opportunity.

Besides arranging flowers, I did two loads of laundry* yesterday, and not much else, because it was hot (still 83 degrees in the house at 11:30 pm) and I was more slothful than usual after my busy week. Two full days of conferences is like a flashback to high school. I was sitting there in my uncomfortable clothes, listening to various Suit Guys drone on while my mind wandered. If I had to be at the Four Seasons, why wasn’t I in the spa? Or ensconced in a suite? When can I sneak out of here? Has my watch stopped completely? During lunch and recess, you had to chat animatedly with the popular kids. Fortunately my complete ignorance of golf excused me from having to go to a second location. We all know how dangerous that is.

On Friday, I had meetings at the office in the city (I think I went to the city 4 out of 5 days last week, and I’m beginning to think of it as the three hour tour. My rescue appears to be equally unlikely) and a date with Mr. Wayne Shorter at 8:00. With a little time to kill between appointments, I did some shopping until it was time for dinner.

I stopped into a fancy bookshop. I found a lovely birthday card for my sister, a couple of other cards, and was unable to resist the latest Us and People with headlines about Beyoncé’s secret wedding. When I took my haul up to the cash, the fashionable cashier looked at me with disdain, which I enjoyed like a secret wedding. I even asked her to put them in a bag, which she did with visible horror. I enjoyed that, too. It?s fun to be perverse sometimes.

Wayne Shorter is celebrating his 75th birthday this year, but you’d never know it. He is as amazing as you’d expect from a guy who played with Miles Davis and Art Blakey and co-founded Weather Report. This evening was the US d?but of a piece he wrote for the Imani Strings, and it was breathtaking. It’s been a real honor to have been in the presence of three legends in the short space of a week. I’m pretty sure this coming week will be a lot less eventful.

*I found three separate dollar bills, all curled up coke style, in the dryer. Somehow they seemed like extra money, or in nature of a tip.

The last few days have been too busy being fabulous for me to write. The polar opposite of my most recent post, in fact, so maybe these things balance out. In this case, in this week(end), dare I say it…I may have actually come out ahead.

I’ll present the evidence and you can decide.

Friday

Went to Sacramento to see Bruce Springsteen.

Apparently, music is my only reason to hit the state capital, since the last time I was there was with my fabulous sister to see the fabulous Blackalicious. That evening is one I will never forget, and so was this past Friday. At nearly three score years, Springsteen still has charm and charisma to burn, and burn it he does, giving 110% when he’s on stage. I can almost forgive him for being an hour late and not apologizing.

The crowd crowded into the Arco Arena was all ages. Right below me were two mothers with their teenage kids. One of the kids tapped my knee partway through and told me to tell him if his dancing got in the way. I’d be amazed if he were as old as 16. Two seats down was another teen talking on her cell, saying “When Mom and I went to see Eminem…” Given the fact that this day would have been my mother’s 76th birthday and that she gave me my love of music and was always, I now realize, listening to the cutting edge at the time, it was entirely appropriate.

Also a blast.

I’ve loved Springsteen since I was in high school, so finally seeing him live was really special for me.

Sunday

Saturday was a recovery from the long, late show and the long, traffic-challenged drive home. Friends from out of town had arrived on Thursday evening and were staying at an extremely posh hotel in the city, but after the horror of getting home, there was no way I was getting back in the car and facing yet more bumpers, even for them.

On Sunday, I had tickets to see yet another legend: Joe Sample. He was playing at the beautiful and intimate Herbst Theater. It was intimate in a good way: small-ish, beautiful room, but my knees didn’t touch the seats in front of me and I wasn’t in peril of having someone’s head in my lap the way I was at Arco Arena. It was just Mr. Sample and his piano and it was heavenly. He introduced each song with its history, putting it in context, and told amazing anecdotes of his long career (he must be nearly 70 and has been playng professionally since he was in his teens).

He took questions and answers from the crowd, many of which were children, since it was a matinee. It was wonderful to see these kids lining up to ask very, very good questions, and getting heart-felt and considered answers from a legend. I’m sure they’ll remember it and talk about it when they’re grown-up.

You’d think that would be enough for one day, but I collected my friends from Fancytown, explaining that the luxury part of their visit was now over, as we crossed the bridge to the Siberia side of the Bay.

They were delighted with my tiny house and my not so tiny kittens. They were tired of restaurant food, so we got dinner fixings at Farmer Joe’s and had a barbecue. It was a splendid evening of catching up and swapping stories and relaxing. They’re the kind of company that helps you make dinner and clean it up and are pretty much just like family.

What a day!

Monday

Woke up belatedly to find that friends had folded up the couch and all the bedding and were happily sipping tea and reading and playing with the cats. Left me alone while I made actually good coffee, woke up, talked to my boss, and generally accepted the horrible fact of being awake and waiting to fully caffeinate.

Once I was (relatively) awake and (relatively) dressed, we headed out to what was effectively brunch at Bette’s Oceanview Diner. I hadn’t been there for years, but it was as great as I remembered. Note to those who may visit sometime, anytime: there is no ocean view and never has been. Though the neighborhood has gotten on the fancy side. Fun shopping, too.

After that the fun was over, as I drove my friends to SFO to pick up their rental Prius and make their long way up the coast to Seattle. I was sad to say goodbye, but so happy and energized by their loving and positive presence.

It looks like a busy week: all day in the office tomorrow, a conference at the Four Seasons on Wednesday and Thursday, more meetings on Friday, followed by Wayne Shorter that evening.

It’s good to be busy, but it’s even better to be loved.

…all my troubles wouldn’t go away…

I had a really excellent day.

Got up for an early conference call which my boss had scheduled without a) checking with me first; 2) telling me what it was about. About ten minutes after I got up and was in the process of making bad coffee (why am I so bad at it after so many years of practice? Why?) he called me to say he couldn’t join the call, but here’s what it’s about. Fifteen minutes later, he called again to say we’d have to reschedule it. Oh, and could I cover for him at a conference in SF today? He couldn’t remember when he was supposed to be there (but it’s after 11 so if I got there at 10:30 it should be OK) or who he’s supposed to see there, so I get to go to the St Francis and ask for whoever is running whatever conference is on, and then tell them I’m replacing the person who is supposed to be meeting with someone whose name I don’t actually know.

All this after rush hour on BART. Yippee.

When I got to the hotel, I discovered it was the wrong hotel. Called my boss, got the right place. Went there. By this time, both my heels were blistered from the new shoes I had bought for work but foolishly hadn’t broken in before trailing all over town in them. Tried not to visibly limp to the registration desk, where they asked me if I was taking Boss’ place on the panel that afternoon and whether I brought a PowerPoint with me. Excused myself to call Boss. The naughty words were hanging invisibly over my head as I dialed. He told me he couldn’t do it and didn’t have anything he could email me so I could replace him. I explained this to the people running the show, and they were nice about it, but dang. Can’t imagine why he didn’t mention this minor fact when he asked me to replace him at the meeting.

Turns out it wasn’t one guy, it was four. And it was at noon so I had an hour and a half to kill. Went to Walgreen’s, got moleskin for my heels (hope it’s not made of real moles), went back to the hotel and managed to apply moleskin to both heels in a teeny-tiny cubicle in the ladies’ room (how does Superman change his clothes in a phone booth? How?), struggled back into evil, unforgiving nylons (who invented those horrible things anyway?), put on the shoes that caused the whole thing in the first place, and went to have breakfast.

Oddly, the meetings took place in one of the hotel rooms, which the person before me had locked, so I had to go back downstairs in my Little Mermaid shoes (the original version, in which it feels like she’s walking on knives with every step) and get the concierge to open it again. Spent the next hour doing weird speed dating meetings (15 mins each!) and explaining why Boss wasn’t there.

Good times.

I seem to have felt increasingly frivolous lately:

An Arsonist’s Guide to Writers’ Homes in New England, by Brock Clarke

It’s been a long time since I was as taken with a book as I was with this astonishing, witty novel. The last time was Jeanette Wall’s heart-rending, yet inspirational memoir, The Glass Castle, and before that (you guessed it), Alice Sebold’s The Lovely Bones. With a fresh, unique voice, Clarke gives us the unlikely story of a teenager who accidentally sets fire to Emily Dickinson’s house, killing a husband and wife in the process. He does his time, is released from jail, and starts a new life. But he can’t escape his past, especially when writers’ homes start going up in flames again.

A tragi-comic delight, from start to finish.

Bridge of Sighs, by Richard Russo

It’s been six years since Russo’s tour de force, Empire Falls (the mini-series was, unusually, as good as the book), so I was more than ready for one of Russo’s guided tours of small town New York State. In all fairness, I will disclose that I have a sentimental attachment to small town NY, having been brought up there (mostly) and to Russo’s poignant portraits of everyday, small town life. As with Jane Austen, it’s a small canvas, but painted with great richness.

Deluxe: How Luxury Lost Its Luster, by Dana Thomas

Thomas knows whereof she writes: she writes for the New York Times style magazine, that staple of my Sunday reading, and covered fashion for Newsweek in Paris for 12 years. This gives her access to the big guns of the big luxury houses, gets her behind the scenes at factories and offices, and gives us a peek into the secrets of the world’s most famous designers and brands. Sadly, luxury brands are now almost entirely owned by huge conglomerates, and few women wear couture. But for the very wealthy, true luxury is still available – at a price. And the rest of us can read all about it.

The Deep and Other Stories, by Mary Swan

I went looking for Ms. Swan’s latest book, The Boys in the Trees, but the library didn’t have it. They did have this earlier work, and by page 7 I was completely enchanted, in a different world. Graceful, lyrical, with characters popping in and out of stories. Unexpected. Moving.

I’m going to have to buy the new one.

The Little Lady Agency and the Prince, by Hester Browne

The third in a series of fizzy books about a well brought up London girl who opens an agency to help hapless men. Not in the traditional way, but helping them to buy stylish clothes, get good gifts for their girlfriends, improve their manners, break up gracefully, and other things that most men just can’t manage on their own.

When I was at the hotel waiting for my things to arrive, I ran out of books so I picked up the first in the series at the local Borders, and couldn’t wait to read the second one. Great escapism, lots of fun, like a champagne cocktail beside a Riviera pool.

I’ll Sleep When I’m Dead: The Dirty Life and Times of Warren Zevon, by Crystal Zevon

What with the excellent Californication (a must-see; just get past the silly title and even sillier first scene and it’ll charm the pants off you) constantly playing Zevon songs and/or referring to them, and at least two of the New York Times book critics choosing this book as one of their top ten of the year, I had to check it out. I couldn’t put it down. You don’t have to know anything about Warren Zevon (I didn’t) to be fascinated by this book. He knew everybody and did everything. As he put it himself, “I was Jim Morrison for a lot longer than he was”. Amazing.

The Spare Wife, by Alex Witchel

The title refers to the glamorous former model and current socialite Ponce Porter, who acts as a “spare wife” to both people in a couple, equally helpful to husband and wife without being threatening. Quite a feat, as is her being a pro bono lawyer who never gets up before noon.

Her perfect existence is threatened when a power-hungry assistant editor at a well-regarded magazine learns Ponce’s deepest and darkest secret and threatens to expose it. But Ponce won’t give up without a fight.

Set in the glittering high society of present-day New York, it’s all surface and no substance.

Gossip Girl, by Cecily von Ziegesar

Apparently her real name and pretty much her real life, since she grew up on the Upper East Side and went to a fancy private school, like the girls in the book. The drama! The drinking! The heartaches! The shopping! Frivolous fun, and I’ve already started downloading the TV series. What can I say? I’m the world’s oldest teenager.

Remember Me? by Sophie Kinsella

I can’t help myself, I’m a “Shopaholic”-aholic, even though I know their heroine is irresponsible and the consequences of her actions would be anything but amusing and easily resolved in real life. Reality, whether on TV or in your life, is overrated in my opinion, especially when your current reality includes the shopping cart people and buying groceries at Lucky. So I need my escapism, and I need it bad.

Shopaholic Becky is missing from the latest effort, replaced by the delightfully named amnesiac Lexi Smart, who wakes up in the hospital one day to find that she had a car accident. She can’t remember a thing, including her gorgeous millionaire husband, her insanely luxurious apartment, and her high-powered job. Is her glamorous life everything it seems to be? Will Lexi regain her memory? It’s a fun premise and a romp of a read.

On deck:

The Monsters of Templeton

Like You’d Understand Anyway

Later, At the Bar

Summer at Tiffany

The bunny makes up for the bad paint job on my front door.

I was surprised and delighted by the mail earlier this week. And it’s not even my birthday*.

I heard a clunk in the mailbox as I was doing my favorite form of multi-tasking: working on the couch with the TV on. Even Bewitched wasn’t enough to stop my Curiousness from immediately checking out the mail. Also, any excuse to pause in working is a good excuse as far as I’m concerned.

Making sure the curious cats stayed inside – I never let them get the mail – I peeked in the mailbox. It was full of intriguing packages, which would remain a mystery less than ten seconds longer.

One in particular was remarkably heavy, and addressed to my name in its entire non-glamorosity (all you expectant mothers out there: don’t inflict something as dull as “Susan Jean” on someone who may well grow up to be far too fabulous for such a dull label – you can do sparklier than that!), so of course that was first.

Guess what it was? My license plates, at last! For some reason, there were also three extra sets of keys with the plates, so baby, if you drive my car, you can use your own set of keys. And in one of the envelopes, my fetchingly pink title to the car. It?s official.

The other star of that day’s haul was the adorable bunny ornament pictured above, from my former neighbor P, to celebrate Easter, the equinox, spring…you decide. P keeps me up to date on the neighborhood (a mutual friend sold her entire show of 38 sculptures to a single collector; my former pad is now, sadly, being used for storage) and sends me surprise cutenesses in the mail. For Valentine’s, I got two perfect handmade chocolates and an eraser with a heart on it.

It’s nice to feel loved. And to have your license plates.

*Though it should be noted that it’s just over two months until the most important day of the year. And there are zillions of things on Etsy that I would love. And I’d love you for giving them to me.

The secret stream

I walk to the corner store through the early twilight. I love this time of day, when the sky is an ethereal blue, just about to darken, the lamps start glowing through windows, the stars begin to wake up. I pass by a bower of palm trees, unpruned, the wind rattling the stiff leaves, and notice that there is a little stream. A lemon tree stands sentry and ivy grows beside it. The rippling water is golden in the setting sun. It?s like a little secret, a little gift. The world is quiet here.

When I arrive at the store, someone?s being arrested. The police car lights are flashing and the police are bustling around with their arrest duties. Makes a change from people being arrested and their cars towed right across the street, I think as I go into the store. In the store, I notice that they actually sell Thunderbird, Night Train, and Boone?s Farm* wine. I don?t think I?m their target market. I?d like to take a picture, but I can?t imagine that would go over very well. I?m already being eyed suspiciously by the cashier.

On my way back home, I think of how different it must have been here in the 1920?s, when my house and most of the neighboring houses were built. It would have been quieter: no freeway, few cars rushing down the narrow roads. Most houses don?t have garages, or if they do, they?re clearly built long after the houses. One house has alyssum carpeting its driveway with white blossoms. I?d love to go back in time for just a day to see the way it looked then. I imagine its original residents would be shocked at the way it is now.

*When I got home, I just had to Google these fine vintages. The reliable sources at BumWine inform me that all are made by our friends at Gallo, the same ones who merrily advertise their “premium” wines. Surprisingly, these are not listed on their website. Apparently they also made Ripple, as popularized by Sanford & Son, back in the day, though it’s no longer manufactured. Wonder why it didn’t make the cut?