Suzy Says

Holiday candlelight

Henrietta got an excellent report card, though she doesn’t play well with others.

Dr. Karen told me that Henrietta is at least 10 years old, but her test results were perfect. She excitedly showed me the results, pointing at things which of course meant nothing to my uneducated eye, and kept saying “I’m amazed!” She tested for low thyroid and anemia in particular, since Henrietta is such a lightweight, but there’s nothing wrong with her at all, other than a broken tooth and a bad ‘tude.

I have to admit that I was a little worried that she’d end up having something horribly wrong with her, or something complicated and expensive, so it was a huge relief. Also the final bill was actually less than the estimate, and when does that ever happen? Merry Christmas indeed!

Though heavily sedated, Henrietta was still pretty darn crabby during the proceedings, and expressed her displeasure. When we got home, she started clawing at the bars of her carrier until I let her out, whereupon she ran to her food bowl, meowing in her harsh, yet muted way. I couldn’t feed her until 5:00 that evening, and the vet said she probably wouldn’t be hungry, but she’s a tough little cookie from the mean streets of Oakland. She chowed down enthusiastically and showed no signs of sedation. I’m pretty sure she’s been through a lot worse than a trip to the vet.

When I first started feeding that little stray cat, I never thought the day would come that she’d sit on my lap and purr (or that she’d turn out to be a girl). We’ve come a long way together, and despite her age, I like to think our adventures are just beginning. It makes me so happy to see her sleeping beside me, safe, warm, and healthy. And she’ll stay that way for the rest of her life. The best really is yet to come.

It took me more than ten minutes to get the hard frost off the windshield and car windows this morning. Blasting the defrost didn’t do much, if anything, so I found a piece of wood and used that for a scraper, which worked pretty well. The whole car glittered with frost in the bright winter sunshine.

The Ridge was icy, and there was enough frost on the grass at the sides of the road to look like a light dusting of snow. As I approached town, I thought how strange it is to see palm trees lurking among the pines and redwoods when it’s below freezing. Not to mention people mowing their lawns all bundled up!

There was one angry cat in the back seat. Henrietta knew something was up this morning. She hid in the studio, and I had to pull a horrible trick on her by pretending to feed the cats and then scooping up all four and a half pounds of her and sweeping her into the carrier. She howled, spat, and clawed at the bars like crazy.

She was not amused.

She’s spending most of the day at the vet’s, since they’ll have to sedate her to examine her and do blood tests. I’ve used the time by buying Christmas stocking items, groceries, and 200 feet of electrical wire. Apparently the bears have been feeling the cold too and have been eyeing our bee hive, so my brother is going to get the fence surrounding the bees electrified as soon as possible.

I’m multi-tasking here at the Mendocino Cookie Company, enjoying the free wi fi while I participate in a conference call and wait for Henrietta to be ready. I’m looking forward to learning more about her. Stay tuned!

Woke up this morning to frozen pipes. A tiny trickle of water came out of the tap, so I was eventually able to make coffee, for the good of all concerned.

I also discovered that the Amerigas fairy had come by and filled up my tank unbeknownst to me and despite the fact that I still haven’t paid off the last staggering bill. I’m glad he did, though, because I’ve had to have the heat on all day and all night for the past couple of days, and today is the coldest yet.

When it was a more civilized hour, I called Mark and he said all the pipes on our property are frozen, including the water tank. He observed, “You must wonder where it is you find yourself”, and I have to agree. All the papers say it’s record-breaking cold, and I certainly can’t remember the last time I saw snow on Bay Area hills or below-freezing temperatures.

Mark came over to work on the pipes and clear out the little loft area above the bathroom. Among the items removed were an old futon and a couple of mattresses. Lucky the deer wasted no time in pulling apart the futon filling and nibbling on it, while June (and I) watched in horror. Mark and his family are going to visit relatives in Mexico for a month, so he wants to get as much done as he can before he goes. I hope he sends some warmer temperatures up this way!

While the freeze is on, I’ll leave the taps dripping and try not to think of our state’s perpetual state of drought. I’ll also finally get started on those Christmas cards. ‘Tis the season!

It’s a good thing we enjoyed the sun and warmth of Berkeley, because the weather here in Hooterville’s been more North Pole than Northern California since we got back.

It was 27 fun-filled degrees this morning when I woke up and shivered my way to the heater, where Henry(etta) was firmly ensconced, soaking up every one of the 54 degrees I allow for overnight. I turned it up to 64 and peeked out at the thermometer, which showed a below-freezing temperature in the bright, ironic sunshine. I’m pretty sure there was a light dusting of snow on the hot tub* cover and the wooden platform beside it. My brother said there was a dusting over at his place, and the papers are full of photos of snow on the hills in the Bay Area, such as this one at Mt. Diablo:

It’s supposed to be even colder tonight. At 2:00 in the afternoon, it’s still only 41 degrees. I know those of you who live back East and in other areas where it’s freeze or fry, depending on the time of year, are laughing at me and thinking how pathetic I am, but unless you’ve experienced the stupidity of California building first-hand, you can’t imagine how uncomfortable it is. For some reason, insulation is an unknown concept, so it’s basically like living in a tent.

Even though I’ve visited here many times over the past several years, I never really “got” how cold it was. It was 45 in San Francisco this morning when it was 27 here – a pretty big difference. I honestly think that San Francisco may be the only climate this princess can tolerate. Its entire range of temperature is from say, 40 to 80 at the most. Don’t forget the ocean breezes and fog, the natural air conditioner for the summer.

At least it won’t be unbearably hot here in the summer. Will it?

*The hot tub kind of works. I think. But it works by a combination of electricity, which Mark pays for, and gas, which I pay for, and neither of us want to pay for anything that isn’t strictly necessary. So let’s guess it will remain unused, other than a place for the cats to pounce on each other.

I just had some really bad in-room coffee and burned my tongue. The beverage which I sort of enjoyed turned out to be extremely hot. Maybe I can sue the motel and stay somewhere better next time. Actually, the room is, as Jacques Pepin would say, pairfectly fine, and it is conveniently located within walking distance of last night’s party. It is also located in a strange convergence of sari shops, marijuana growing suppliers, and gas stations.

Yesterday afternoon Megan and I left our remarkable amount of stuff in the room and took off for Telegraph Avenue to do some shopping, mostly of the window variety. It’s full of students, hippies, and general weirdos there, so we fit right in. We also fulfilled one of Meg’s long-cherished dreams: getting a henna tattoo.

Megan’s dream comes true

The world being as miniature as it is often claimed to be, the artist who did our tattoos happened to be the very one whose work Meg was lusting after at last summer’s reggae festival. Megan and Lu go every year to work as medics at the festival, and didn’t have a chance to get their artwork. But this year, they’re going to meet up with the artist a day before the festival begins, and get artwork all down their arms. Yay! Megan picked out this design for me:

After that, we had some coffee at Peet’s and then put on some make-up and went to the BAD RAP party.

When we packed for the party, I laughingly set aside my Manolo Blahniks, but I both could have and should have worn them. You should have seen the girls there! Black stockings with rhinestone seams, the latest in handbags, shoes, and accessories – I loved the girl wearing a black and white dress with a red hem and red stiletttos, and the elderly grande dame with the fur-trimmed cashmere sweater and suede kitten heels – these women don’t just read “InStyle” and “Vogue”. they do something about it.

While I was admiring the fashionistas and considering that I had never considered pit bulls to be a fashionista cause, Megan managed meet the founders of BAD RAP and talk to them about her goals, and they were not only impressed, but willing to help. It was a win all the way around.

Today we might go to the city before heading back to Hooterville. It’s been a fun little break.

I really like this theme, but it’s kind of hard to read. Also links within posts don’t seem to work, as in “party” below. I guess it’s a lot to ask for both form and function in one pretty package.

Megan and I are heading to Berkeley today to attend BAD RAP’s tenth anniversary party. You may remember her fifteen minutes of fame protesting Michael Vick’s playing at the Oakland Coliseum a couple of months back and her general passion for pit bulls, sparked by her own little Schatzi.

Well, this party is to celebrate a decade of BAD RAP helping pit bulls, and some of the rescued Vick dogs will be there. There will be food and music and chances to win prizes, but what Megan most wants to do is network with other pit bull lovers. Her dream is to set up a small rescue operation of her own, and the more people you know when attempting something like that, even in the future, the better.

I have to admit that I’m a little nervous about attending the event, because I can’t bear to hear or read stories of cruelty to animals, even when there’s a happy ending. When the news of Michael Vick’s atrocities was on the news, I couldn’t stop crying, and when Megan casually refers to the appalling abuse Schatzi endured in her early years (which I will spare you), I literally get nauseous and beg her to stop. So I may not be the best candidate to be in a room full of rescued dogs. But I want to support them, and Megan, so I’ll have to gather up my few shreds of courage and go.

We’re leaving later on today for the four hour drive. We’ll stay in a motel overnight, where I am planning to take a bubble bath and emerge from said bath into a warm room, a thought that fills me with excitement. Hopefully we can do some city-related shopping, such as a new DVD player for Megan, and pick up some of the Bay Area’s famed delicacies to bring back to Hooterville on Sunday afternoon.

I wonder what being in a city will be like after six weeks in the country. Stay tuned!

On Thursdays, it’s my turn to make dinner.

My sis is coming off three twelve hour night shifts, and is exhausted. I don’t know what she did before I lived here, but I’m glad to take that burden off her overburdened shoulders*.

This week was much worse than usual – she’s been having pain and complications following a routine dental filling replacement, and it’s made it impossible for her to sleep. In addition to that, the pain kicked into high gear when she was at work on Wednesday night.

If you’re going to be in sudden pain, the ER is a good place to be, but also means that your exhausted ass is going to be dopy on top of being worn to a frazzle. But she fought her way through it, slept for a couple of hours on Thursday, and then had to get up and go back to town.

Rob had an appointment with the constant glucometer doctor, and Meg had an appointment to see the dentist. Both went well, though the dentist still isn’t sure exactly what happened. While Meg was waiting for her prescription, she called me and told me they were on their way home.

It was about 6:00 in the evening, so I took my flashlight and the chicken stew I had made earlier in the day and headed over to her house. As I negotiated the puddles, I hoped that Santa will bring one of us a little red wagon, which we can use to haul things back and forth between our houses. Fun and cute.

Once I arrived, I put on the heat and lights, started warming up the stew, and assembled the ingredients for cornmeal dumplings. I noticed that the sink was full of dishes – one of Rob’s less endearing habits is that he saves the dishes for Megan to do – so I put away the clean ones and started washing the dirty ones. I reflected on how nice it is that we know our way so well around each other’s houses, and felt a little pang remembering how Dad’s kitchen used to be as familiar to me as my own (and vice versa).

Just as I put the last dish in the drainer, I saw the car’s headlights through the kitchen window. Megan and Rob were so happy to come home to a warm house, with the lights on and dinner nearly ready. And the bottle of wine I grabbed on my way out the door didn’t come amiss.

Both of them do so much for me, and I was so happy to be able to do a little something for them for a change.

*Despite being the youngest, she has somehow become the head of the family. When she was little, she used to tell me “I’ll catch up with you. You’ll see!” She not only caught up with me, she passed me!

Yesterday, I took Henry to the vet.

Partly a fact-finding mission, partly because Henry has been having…issues. He often rents his food very briefly, to the detriment of the living room carpet (why do cats always vomit on carpets instead of the much more easily cleaned wood floors?), and as for the bedroom carpet, well, let’s just say he frequently mistakes it for a litter box. Needless to say, the carpet is a very light beige and shows every spot and stain.

I tried moving all the food bowls up there, on the theory that cats don’t poop where they eat, but apparently this theory is incorrect, or Henry never heard of it. I then moved the bowls back to their original location and borrowed an extra litter box from my sister (there is also a litter box in the cold storage section of the house) and put that in the bedroom. This met with slightly more success, though sometimes Henry decided to treat the carpet and the litter box with equality.

I’m not sure if it’s the stress of moving, or living with two other cats, or an attempt to alert me to a health issue, but what with that and knowing nothing about Henry’s shady past, I made an appointment with Dr. Karen, who has served my brother and sister well for many years.

Henry was much less enthusiastic about the carrier than he was when we moved. There was hissing and clawing madly at the bars and growling in an “Exorcist” type manner. It was kind of unnerving. I feared for the vet’s safety. So did she, because she unscrewed the carrier top and lifted it off so she wouldn’t have to reach in. Henry was a puffball of rage as the assistant covered most of him with a towel and the shots were administered (rabies and FVRCP). Dr. Karen was barely able to get a peek at Henry’s derrière, but the peek revealed that he is in fact a girl (big surprise) and also old.

Henry weighs all of four and a half pounds!

In order to examine Henry properly and take blood to find out if her near-weightlessness is caused by thyroid issues or something like that, she will have to be sedated and then kept at the vet’s for half a day to make sure she recovers properly. Yesterday’s escapade, including topical wormer*, cost $138, and next week’s estimate is in the neighborhood of $265. You’d think I was living on Park Avenue instead of Hooterville.

Henry: the world’s most expensive stray cat.

I figure I’ll just keep calling her Henry. I’ve been calling her that for almost two years, so it’s kind of late to change it now. I can tell the curious that it’s short for Henrietta, and anyway, she’s clearly a tomboy (if not an actual tom).

I thought she’d hate me for the Great Vet Adventure, but when we got home yesterday, she came and sat on my lap as usual. How’s that for forgiveness?

*Henry is so light that the vet called the medicine’s manufacturer to find out the correct dosage. It was about a third of the whole dose. Dr. Karen put it in a syringe for me and I applied it while Henry sat on my lap last night. I don’t think she noticed.

This is going to be mostly a pictorial, since the working (and digging) of wells is beyond me. Megan and I have limited our involvement to bringing the boys lunch and picking up essential items from the store, like candy bars and cigarettes. Add in some nylons and you have your basic WWII GI rescue kit.

As we walked back to the car yesterday, there was a heated argument going on behind us about kinetic energy. I observed to Megan that our roles were clearly divided along traditional lines, with us doing the cooking and laundry and the boys doing the manual labor.

“Yup,” she agreed, opening the car door. “And I’m just fine with it.”

The first thing I learned was that the well looks like this, not a big hole in the ground that will one day have a stone Jack & Jill type wall around it.

Though we could definitely use a wishing well around here.

The pipe comes out of the well and over this basketball hoop looking thing to a muddy hole and bucket, where the mud, rock, sand(!), and clay are pumped out of the well.

Here’s the bucket and resulting mud pit. Schatzi found this the most interesting part of the operation.

This is the compressor, which powers the whole thing. Jonathan found it on Craigslist (where else?) and went all the way to Concord to buy it from some skeevy guy who tried to rip him off, but failed. You have to get up pretty early in the morning to put one over on Jonathan, especially where machinery and mechanics are involved. He ended up getting for a fraction of the original asking price, though he and Rob spent a couple of days repairing and refurbishing it. But it costs $162 a day to rent one, so it’s already paid for itself.

This is some kind of doodad (that’s the technical term, of course) which has oil and water in it. It has something to do with the actual drill.

The well is sort of done now. All the digging is complete, but there are other things to be done which are beyond my limited grasp of well digging. I’m so proud of the boys!

Of the many words used to describe me, “patient” has never been one of them. But living in the country seems to require patience, along with rubber boots, fleece, and a tolerance for bugs (so far, I don’t have any of these, either).

Of the many things that either don’t work or sort of work, the worst, to my citified mind, is the internet. I want it to work swiftly and speedily at all times, instead of sluggishly and unreliably some of the time. I want a week to go by without having to call tech support. I want tech support to be in the US of A, instead of Indiah. I want the tech support people to know what they’re doing. It would be a bonus if we could actually understand each other, too.

Yesterday, I spent an hour and a half of the rapidly dwindling remains of my lifespan on the phone with a guy who called himself Jimmy, but who sounded exactly like Apu on the Simpsons. I seriously considered offering his god a peanut as time dragged on and my internet still refused to work. Finally, Apu decided that I would need a technician to come out and try and figure out what was wrong.

Someone was supposed to call me within 48 hours to set up the appointment, which would cost $36. Hmmm, let’s review: I’m paying for at least three days of no service, plus an extra fee so they can figure out why I’m not getting service? Riiiight.

I took my trusty little iBook over to my brother’s place to borrow a cup of internet. It was a good thing I did, since I had some emails from my boss asking me to do some things, which I did while the bees buzzed and the sun shone in the background.

The prospect of no internet was so horrifying that when I got home, I started fiddling around with the various blinking objects, unplugging things and plugging them back in. The desktop computer came back to life, but my iBook had an IP configuration problemo, necessitating yet another call to the far East. After another half hour of trying to explain what was wrong, Apu 2.0 told me I had to call the router provider to get the IP address fixed – even though the destruction of the IP address was caused by all the numbers the earlier Apu had had me type into my system preferences on the first call.

I called the router people, who are also thinly disguised Apus, and they told me I had to call the internet service provider.

I threw the phone across the room.

Later, when I had recovered sufficiently, I unpacked the hub thing my brother bought me the last time he was in Santa Rosa, and tried connecting both computers to it. It worked, though I now have cables snaking down from the loft and through the living room.

I steeled myself to call Apu and tell him that the house call was no longer required, and got a confirmation number. Then I made a drink. Or two.

This morning, I was heading into the icy embrace of the shower (I do have a nice view of the back yard from there, though) when the phone rang. It was a guy who actually could have convincingly called himself Jimmy, asking to set up an appointment to come and fix the internet.