Suzy Says

Remember how I called twice about a house, but didn’t get a response? Well, the owner called me last night and said she’d been out of town and was showing the house today at 11:00. I got some details from her (built in the 1940s; hardwood floors, even in the kitchen; 1,100 square feet; garage; no extortionate move-in costs) and set off in the Saturday morning sunshine.

As I crossed the Richmond-San Rafael Bridge, it occurred to me that I have probably gone to Petaluma more in the past month than I ever did when my mother lived there. No wonder I never got that Daughter of the Year award. Just as well: it would be one more thing I’d have to find a place for. Or keep in yet another box.

The house is on a cul de sac, with a view of the rolling Sonoma hills, currently wearing their winter/spring green, though they’ll change their wardrobe to gold soon enough. It has a lovely garden in the back, with room for a vegetable garden, and a lawn bordered by flowery, vine-y plants. On a drip system! Best of all, there’s a sort of secret bower in the back of the garden, made of wooden trellises with a roof, shady and flowery and with an old fireplace.

Inside, the house has a working fireplace, built-in, curved shelves in the living room, a tiny chandelier in the equally tiny dining room, and a small kitchen with an electric (ick) stove, but you can’t have everything. Washer and dryer hook ups in the pantry with original beadboard, and a charming bathroom with the original square sink in a built-in cabinet, with little glass knobs for the drawers. And the bathtub works!

While I was filling out the application, other people started tramping through the house. The owner said she’d make a decision in about a week and let me know.

It’s going to be a long week.

Apparently, those of you in Canada and/or the UK have a four day weekend to celebrate Easter (and hopefully, by now, the arrival of spring). Here in the US of A, we rarely, if ever, get a four day weekend, and we don’t get any long weekends from New Year’s Day to Memorial Day, in late May. No wonder people keep going nuts in public in this country.

Oh, well. Easter, like most things, isn’t as much fun when you grow up. Knowing that I’m not going to wake up to a basket full of candy (or a new bonnet, for that matter) on Sunday morning will just make it easier to sleep in, cats permitting.

In retrospect, it kind of amazes me that we could eat candy at 7:00 on any morning, especially when Marshmallow Peeps are involved. Now just looking at displays of them make me shudder and avert my eyes, teeth aching.

When I got home from work today, I discovered that the recycling hadn’t been collected, though the green bin and the garbage bin had been emptied. Clearly the recycling guys have a better deal and possibly even a four day weekend.

The mailman didn’t have the day off, either, since he had left me a surprise package. On investigation, it turned out to be from my former neighbor, who has my kittens’ mother and who often surprises me with little cutenesses. This package had flowers and drawings on it, and inside, there were fabulous things from MAC, including the sold-out Hello Kitty* lipglass in Mimmy.

It was a grown-up Easter basket.

*Yes, I did love Katy Perry’s Hello Kitty top, though not the leggings.

Storm-tossed roses

Well, that decision was made for me. The owners of the white picket fence house want a total of $4,000 to move in. That’s first and last month’s rent, plus a security deposit, plus a pet deposit. All for a small, beige-carpeted house in a small town where it’s 100 degrees in the summer. In a state where unemployment is at an all-time high and the economy at all-time low. You’d think I could get a place in Manhattan for that kind of money.

So it’s out of my price range, and maybe it’s just as well. It would have taken literally every penny I had, plus a loan from my boss/partner, and I’d have no cushion whatsoever if something goes wrong with the car, or the kitties, or Me, for that matter, since I’m health insurance free at this point.

I’ve decided to write a friendly note to my landlords and ask if they would consider taking their stuff out of the garage, so I can put mine in. It would go a long away toward improving my tenuous mental health if I could get rid of the boxes in the living room. Also, I have to admit that it kind of annoys me not to have the full use of the property for which I’m paying rent. Especially when I can’t use the bathtub and most of the doors don’t close.

I’ll also ask if they’d be willing to buy plants, preferably drought-tolerant ones, to replace the sad brown grass. I’ll haul out the old grass and replace it if they’ll buy the materials. Having a severely depressed lawn tends to make Me depressed, too. Maybe if I can make it a little nicer here, I can take my time, save up some money, and look for the right house at the right price.

Maybe I’m just not a white picket fence kind of girl.

There were sun and showers today. Take your pick! The traffic goddesses smiled upon me, other than the usual slow spots (Berkeley and that construction place when you pass San Quentin). The sun was shining in Petaluma as I arrived at the house with the white picket fence.

The owner was a nice guy, and showed me around the little house. I’d say it’s a little bigger than my current digs in Oakland, but it has a garage big enough to hold all the boxes taking up my living room and all the stuff in the Oakland storage. It has a lovely back yard, a side yard, where the current tenants have a table, chairs, and umbrella set up, and a small front garden. Everything is professionally landscaped in drought tolerant plants, which I think is important. It’s also beautiful.

Inside, the kitchen is essentially a corner of the living room, being completely open to it without even a breakfast bar. The counter and cupboard situation is about the same as here, though the cupboard doors actually close. There is beige carpet everywhere but the kitchen and bath. It doesn’t look like my bed and bed side tables, none of which are very big, would fit in either bedroom, but there is a huge walk-in closet in one, and a regular closet in the other.

The owner mentioned that temperatures get into the three digits in the summer, though it cools down at night. And you know how I love the heat.

So there are a lot of pros and cons:

Pros:

• Beautiful town. Can walk to historic downtown, and transit to San Francisco is only two blocks away. Neighborhood is quaint Victorians* and tall trees.
• Much safer and no audible barking dogs or visible depressing dogs marooned outside.
• Beautiful, drought-tolerant landscaping. No sad, dead lawn to mow and bemoan. Nice yards for Henry to play in, though will have to come up with some kind of shelter.
• Pretty house with use of bathtub and doors, cupboard and otherwise, that actually close.
• Lots of closet space, and, more importantly, lots of storage.
• Rent is cheaper than current abode, and I wouldn’t have to pay for storage, making it cheaper still. Also water is about half the price it is in Oakland, and car insurance will be cheaper.
• Could probably put the grandfather clock in the front hallway (and finally get it out of storage).
• Much closer to my brother sister and so much easier to get there.

Cons:

• The owners want first month’s rent, last month’s rent, a security deposit, and an unspecified pet deposit. This would be in the neighborhood of $3,500+ dollars, and I doubt if I can afford that neighborhood right now.
• I’d have to move in about two weeks!
• Beige carpeting with cats. Beige carpeting.
• Not much improvement, if any, in the kitchen situation, though at least I could close the cupboard doors.
• The current tenants are taking their washer and dryer with them, so I’d have to buy used ones to replace them, adding to moving costs. Then there’s the U-Haul.
• Sliding screened door in the laundry room, which looks onto the back yard, so the girls could hang out there, but is that a real substitute for a screened porch with sun and shade?
• Would have to come up with some kind of shelter for Henry. And how can I be sure he’ll understand about the move when I can’t have him in the house with the girls?
• It didn’t look like either of the bedrooms was wide enough to accommodate queen size bed plus two IKEA bedside tables (yes, nothing but the best for me). I could have one table, though.
• 100 degree weather for part of the summer. It does cool off at night, but 100 degrees is too hot for a delicate flower like Self, not to mention girls in permanent, always-stylish fur coats.

Any thoughts, advice, opinions and spare change gratefully accepted.

*The house’s owner kept referring to the house as “Victorian”, though it was built in the 1920s.

I was startled awake by an unexpected (and unexpectedly heavy) shower this morning. I dashed outside in my pajamas, to the detriment of my velvet slippers, and grabbed Henry’s dishes and bed. By the time I got to the back porch, I would have won the neighborhood wet PJ contest. I propped the door open, fed and watered Henry, then called him until he appeared. He seemed a little nervous, maybe because the girls have been lounging on the porch and now it feels like enemy territory, but at least he can get out of the rain. As I write, he’s lying comfortably on his newly spring cleaned couch, possibly thinking “It’s mine now, girls!”

It’s been a little like Florida today: torrential downpour, followed by sudden sun, then another downpour. I dashed between the raindrops to (literally) run some errands, including the post office, where the guy ahead of me was getting a $2,000 money order. I definitely Coveted that beautiful pile of money.

Remember the house with the white picket fence? No-one rented it on Saturday, so I’m going to look at it tomorrow afternoon. Hopefully traffic will be kinder to me than it was this weekend (when I finally got home, I learned that there had been no fewer than three accidents. No wonder it was such a mess). I’ll keep you posted, rain or shine.

This time, I actually tried to go and look at a house for rent in Petaluma, but I still didn’t get there. This time, it wasn’t my fault, though.

I was sailing along in the sunshine, listening to the new Neil Young (appropriately enough, it’s all about his car) and wishing it was never hotter than the current 75 degrees, when I ran into serious traffic. Of course it was after I had passed all the exits and either had to go left to the Bay Bridge or right, towards Berkeley.

I stayed in the Berkeley lane, thinking I could turn off soon and go home. It took more than forty minutes to go the mile and a half to the next exit, which deposited me in Emeryville, the big box store wasteland. You’d think it was 5:00 on the Friday of Memorial Day weekend and I was trying to drive to the Hamptons, instead of unglamorous Oakland at 1:00 on a Sunday afternoon. I called the house’s owner, who was sympathetic but said that five people were looking at it today. If none of them takes it, she’ll call me and I can see it later this week. Given my usual luck and the cuteness of the house:

I’m not holding my breath.

I have two calls in to another house owner, but I’m beginning to remember from my long-ago dating days that if you call someone twice and they don’t call you back, that’s an answer, too.

My mother would have been 77 today. The biggest gift she ever gave me was her love of music. She may well have been one of the few 70 year olds who enjoyed Blackalicious (though not before coffee). I think it’s a tribute to her that many of the albums she loved and played over and over again when I was young are such classics:

• Carole King, Tapestry
• Herb Alpert, Whipped Cream and Other Delights
• Cat Stevens, Tea for the Tillerman
• Moody Blues, Days of Future Passed
• Fleetwood Mac, Rumours
• Janis Joplin, Pearl
• Elton John, Goodbye Yellow Brick Road
• Queen, A Night at the Opera
• Harry Belafonte, Calypso

Wherever you are, Mom, I hope you know that I still love the music you loved, and it comforts me to know that these albums gave you pleasure. I hope you know that we did our best for you, and that you are always with us.

It’s a beautiful day in the neighborhood

The winter rains appear to be over, so I moved Henry’s dishes to the back lawn. He loves to dine al fresco, and now the weather’s warm and sunny, I hardly ever see him except at breakfast time. I rescued his bed from his summer quarters and put it in the newly-repaired washer, along with the blanket from his winter quarters. After I took the blanket off, I noticed that the couch cushions (it’s actually a metal-framed futon rejected by my boss’ youngest daughter) could use a spin in the washer, too, so off the covers came, creating another load of wash.

Henry feels the same way about housework as I do, so when he saw me pulling his bed apart, he retreated to a safe distance, where he could keep an eye on me but not have to be involved in the actual chorishness. I think I was a cat in a previous life (and apparently a really mean one, if you believe in all that karma stuff).

Once I had the cushions off, I noticed how grubby the floor was, so I went to get my trusty bottle of Mrs. Meyers (basil scented) and my cute gloves which should inspire me to do housework more often, yet somehow don’t:

While the bucket was filling, I saw the porch windows were in serious need of spider web removal (sorry, Charlotte), so I did that before swabbing the porch floor like an exceptionally well-accessorized pirate. Everything is in the dryer now, which I feel so guilty about using, and once I put the couch back together, I’ll replace Henry’s bed in his original bachelor pad and shut the porch door so the girls can get some fresh, sunny air.

Whew. I’m exhausted. Bring me a cocktail, will you? And put an umbrella in it.

Always being a little behind the times, today I finally realized that there were only three days left of the historic 40 year retrospective of Yves St Laurent’s exquisite work at the De Young Museum. Since two of those days are weekend days, the worst possible for visiting museums, I decided to dash across the Bay and pay homage to Monsieur St-Laurent before it was too late.

Driving through San Francisco on this warm, sunny day, with the windows down to let in the air characteristically spiced with eucalyptus and sea salt and listening to a Marvin Gaye* tribute on the radio, I thought how incredibly beautiful the city is. There is nowhere else like it. I was lucky to have lived there for so many years.

Embarrassingly, this was the first time I had visited the De Young since its alleged makeover was completed in 2005. Up close, I didn’t find it any prettier than it is from a distance, and I have to admit I miss the old building. But then, I am change-averse and past-loving.

So it’s not surprising that I liked the 1960s dresses the best, including a little black number Catherine Deneuve wore in Belle de Jour. Several of the dresses on display were made just for Mlle Deneuve, the ageless beauty who was YSL’s muse, as well as International Best Dressed Hall of Famers Jacqueline de Ribes and Lee Radziwill. Others were from the well-stocked closet of native San Franciscan Nan Kempner, the life-long fashionista who famously said, “I spend way more than I should…and way less than I want.”

Me, too.

*The great Marvin Gaye would have been 70 today. He was shot and killed by his father on the day before his 45th birthday. Amazingly, Marvin Sr. only received six years of probation for murdering his own son.

Buried treasure

I had a date with Plumber* Robert today. He arrived early, which a girl always appreciates, and brought an end to my washing machine woes, which I think we can all agree is better than flowers (though not better than chocolate or wine). Apparently, the problem is that all roads to lead to Rome, or in this case, all pipes lead to the same place, somewhere in the mysterious crawl space under the house. This is not a good plumbing idea, but 85 years ago, it seemed to be.

I finally couldn’t take any more of the yowling and whining of the poor red dog across the street, and dashed off a desperate missive, begging the owners to do something about their dog, or I’d call the Humane Society. I had to put the note between the slats of their fence, because Red Dog, on closer examination, is huge and intimidating, and attached to the door by a mighty chain. The note was gone today, and when I went out to get the paper, I saw the owners bringing Red Dog inside, where he has remained for the rest of the day. Coincidence?

Spring has been very springy lately, with temperatures in the 60s and cloudless blue skies. I’ve even been sleeping with my window open. I think the girls have spring fever. They’ve been racing around the house like mad. I made the mistake of picking a yellow rose and bringing it inside, and it was shredded within the hour. Henry, on the other hand, has been scarce. He does appear for his breakfast in the morning, but instead of lounging on his couch all day, is off playing somewhere. I like to think he’s back on his couch at night, since I always tell him goodnight when I close the back door.

It’s been a Magical Mystery Tour going through the boxes from storage. I do have two boxes of books to sell or otherwise remove from the premises, but that’s just a drop in the box ocean in which I am valiantly trying to stay afloat. There have been some fun discoveries, though, like the stereoscope (seen above) and its tin box of images.

I have to admit to a pang of pity for my niece and nephews, who will have to face all this lot after I’m gone and wonder why the old lady didn’t just throw this crap out already. Sorry, kids!

I passed on looking at the fourth house this week. It was one of those box-filled days when the drive to Petaluma and back in rush hour traffic was an impossibility. Someone else rented that house, so I figure it wasn’t meant to be and that something else will come along.

Or not.

*Maybe becoming a plumber or mechanic is a better idea than going to college. People always need their plumbing and cars fixed, recession or no recession.