Suzy Says

The trip to the city – well, the preparations for the trip – were not exactly snagless.

I went to check the car fluids, and on propping the hood open on a stick in the usual way, discovered that the oil cap was missing. A look around Miss Scarlett’s interior revealed nothing. Since I only ever check the oil and fluids in the driveway, I must have dropped it there at some point. Maybe it blew away or the kitties played with it into oblivion in the way cats do. Who knows?

I called my brother, who was getting ready for work, and he told me to come over. He took the oil cap off his non-operational (for now) car and tried it on mine, and voila! It fitted. While I’m in the city I will get a replacement part. I hope.

Rescued by the rescuer, I went home and washed the dishes. In the process, I managed to drop and break the last of the hand-made Mexican glasses I bought many years ago from the artist who made it. Brooming and vacuuming ensued, and some grumpiness, too. I began to feel that this trip was not meant to be.

Arriving at the motel, I leaned over to pick up something from the back seat of the car and the contents of my bag spilled to the garage floor. I could find everything but my phone, a cause for panic. I called Megan, who said she’d call my phone and I’d see if I could hear it. I didn’t hear it, but I did see it flashing. It was caught in the door handle of the back seat. Even when I’m more than a hundred miles away, my sister still came to my rescue, just as my brother did earlier. What would I do without them?

I am staying at a different modest motel this time, ironically because the internet works so poorly at the old place, a real problem when your database is online only and your chief communication with your boss is by email. Ironically because it’s even worse here and I was on the phone for half an hour with tech support, who admitted it was an issue at their end and said they’d call me back when it was resolved, which hasn’t happened.

Happy birthday to me?

Well, yesterday wasn’t Friday the 13th, but it was Monday the 13th. And we all know Mondays are worse than Fridays!

Things were crazy at the jobette. We sent out ballots for Board nominations last week, and this week people started calling to complain about not getting theirs, or not getting enough, or something. Anything. In all cases, they were wrong and we were right, but this is not much consolation after being called “incompetent” and other lovely adjectives. I mean, I am, just not in this particular case.

A woman also called to complain about a fortune teller in the Village. She and her husband were visiting for his 70th birthday and decided to stop in and see a psychic. According to this visitor, the seer was “verbally abusive” and told them they should get divorced immediately. The visitor said that she and her husband have been married for 44 years and took exception to this suggestion. “I mean, I didn’t expect her to sugar coat it, but this was insulting!” I ended up giving her the contact information for the county entity which issues business licenses (do psychics have licenses?) and the Better Business Bureau. I wasn’t clairvoyant (or competent) enough to think of anything else.

A guy drifted in saying that he had been released from the jail in the county seat that day and hitchhiked here. He was looking for a private investigator and a lawyer to help him with the restraining order which had been issued against him. I suggested that he check with the police station and the court clerk, conveniently located in the same building. He said that he had to check in with the police anyway, so I guess that worked out. I am a little uncomfortable with my growing familiarity with restraining orders and other depressing legal proceedings. My neighbor is in the midst of dealing with such problems, and we as a family are trying to help her to the best of our ability, but there’s no doubt that it’s upsetting. I definitely think ignorance really is bliss.

I had a few work-related errands to do on the way home, and when I finally got there, the Leafs were ahead of the Boston Bruins by 4 goals to 1 in Game 7 of the first round of the playoffs. The Leafs haven’t won Lord Stanley’s coveted Cup since 1967, thus achieving the longest drought by any championship team in the NHL while simultaneously being the most valuable, earning more than $1 billion last year. They haven’t even made the playoffs in 8 years, so the fact that they were still in there fighting and had actually forced a game 7 against the Cup winners of 2010 was huge and inspiring. By the time I had taken off my make-up, gotten changed, fed the kitties, started dinner, and, more importantly, poured myself an adult beverage, Boston tied the game in the last 90 seconds of the third period. Boston went on to win in heart-breaking overtime, and I’m still stunned.

The imperfect end to an imperfect day.

Well, yesterday was not fun.

It kicked off with a series of conference calls at 7 am which ran until 1:00 pm. When they ended, I headed to the Big Town to meet with the Family Law Facilitator again. She is in the Big Town one day a month; otherwise, she’s at the county seat, which is about a 4 hour round trip drive. And she won’t be in the Big Town next month, since it’s Memorial Day, so it was now or the end of June.

Fortunately, my valiant sister took me to the courthouse, along with a dopy Star. Star’s day was almost as enjoyable as mine, starting with an early appointment with Dr. Karen. Star needed some shots and tests and other unpleasant things. Star’s murky past makes these things more stressful for her than the average dog, so Dr. Karen prescribed dog valium to help make the ordeal more bearable.

It helped, but Star still stayed on Megan’s lap as much as she could (all 54 pounds of her), shivering with terror as the kind vet staff took care of her. So she was glad to crash on the duvet in the back seat of Megan’s car as we went to the courthouse.

Much like Star (though not actually sitting on my sister’s lap), having my sister with me made a big difference. It was good to have her there while Deborah explained the paperwork to me. It turns out that what the clerk told me last month is inaccurate. I still have a package of paperwork to send to John for him to sign and have notarized and send back to me. When I get it, I have to sign and get my signature notarized, and then send it to Deborah, who will file it with the court.

Deborah has filed the paperwork we have so far with the court, and apparently everything flows from the day that John signed the first thing she “served’ him with, which was April 1. According to Deborah, I can get married again on October 2. When she told me that, I instinctively cried out “No!” without even thinking about it, to her amusement and Megan’s. It’s beyond me why people who get divorced ever get married again.

I still don’t really understand how it all works, but Deborah assures me that it’s proceeding well and that we can handle the rest of it by mail. Megan and Rob are going to the county seat one of these days to see Rob’s eye doctor, so if I do need to see Deborah in person I can ride there with them.

On the way home, I said to Megan that although this is a remote area, it certainly attracts amazing people, like Dr. Karen and Deborah, who used to be a public defender in LA. I don’t know that I could find people like this in a big city, and I feel lucky to have them in my life. And as always, I’m thankful for my sister, who makes the bad times better and the good times great.

On Monday, I went to the courthouse at lunch to file the divorce papers.

I kept setting the metal detector off, but they must have deemed me non-threatening, since they let me in so I could get in line.

There were two women ahead of me in line. One of them was trying to get a restraining order, and the other one was trying to get a restraining order against her overturned. She apparently failed, since she raged away from the clerk’s window, spitting “I don’t think yelling and screaming constitutes a threat!”

Clearly.

When it was my turn, I handed the understandably embittered clerk my paperwork. While I did have two copies, I had left one (my copy) at home, and brought the original and John’s copy with me. Unfortunately, I needed the clerk to stamp and approve all three copies. It makes sense when you think about it, but as you know, logic and thinking about it are not my strong suit, just one of the reasons that made me end up in this situation.

I went back to the jobette, where E said, “That was fast!” I explained what had happened, and she told me to just make another copy and go back. I felt weird about using the office copier for my personal business, but she said that I needed to get it over with, so I did.

Back to the courthouse, where – stop me if you’ve heard this one before – the woman in front of me was, yes, getting a restraining order. Between the restraining orders and the people waiting outside the probation office, I began to have serious concerns about the entire “jury of your peers” concept*.

Finally, it was my turn, and this time the clerk was able to stamp and file my paperwork. Thirty days after John is served with the paperwork, I will go back to the clerk and request a summary judgment. I will give the clerk stamped, self-addressed envelopes so the court can mail the final decrees to John and me six months after that date.

She also gave me a summons to appear on August 16 – what is it with me and summons to appear in August? – but explained that it’s only in case I don’t file for the summary judgment. The court wants to make sure that the case is concluded one way or the other, and this is their way of making sure that the case isn’t just out there unresolved forever, like my nine year (unofficial) separation.

I then went to the post office and sent John’s paperwork to Deborah. By the time I got back to the jobette, it was long past the half hour allowed for lunch, which is why I’m lucky that my coworkers are so awesome.

While it’s good to get this dealt with, it’s still sad, and I can’t help feeling that Dad would be disappointed in me. When he died, I was still married, living in a beautiful apartment which we owned (and which sold last year for half a million dollars more than we paid for it – we should never have sold it) in the best neighborhood in the most beautiful city in the world, and had a good job which made good money. Now I’m living in a weird hippie house, barely scraping by, and struggling to pay my freakin’ divorce fees (it’s only fair to note that we split the costs 50/50), and don’t own anything other than a 16 year old car. Not exactly an improvement.

I told my boss/partner about this – he knew Dad well – and he said that Dad would be proud that we built our business together and we still have it, even though times have been hard. He said, “You’ve been through a lot, but you’re still out there swinging.”

Maybe that’s all any of us can do.

*I told Megan about this, and she said, “The ER and the ambulance did that for me a long time ago.”

I wish my days “off” were more like Ferris Bueller’s…

On Friday, I got up early for a conference call, then did a load of laundry and hung it outside. First time this year!

Then I packed my dysfunctional vacuum cleaner into a huge, unwieldy box and stuffed it in the backseat of the car. The vacuum cleaner is still under warranty, so theoretically it will eventually be returned to me fixed or replaced.

Then I set off for the Big Town.

I pulled up in front of the courthouse and parked, went through the metal detector, and then waited. Despite all my practice at waiting, I am still no good at it, even though I had the latest Jo Nesbo to read.

After a couple of hours of waiting, a nice older woman named Deborah came and ushered me into a little room. I explained to her that I needed some help and advice with my divorce paperwork, and showed her the package I had received from LegalZoom.

She described LegalZoom as “bullshit” but noted that they do get most things right.

I could have filed that very day except LZ (note the appropriate initials) neglected to include copies of the documents and the courthouse (believe it or not) does not have a photocopier. So I will copy them and file on Monday. The good news is that I don’t have to go to the county seat to file (a 4 hour round trip drive), but the bad news is that it’s $435 to file.

Deborah said that I can mail her John’s copy and she will send it to him. I asked about the process server thing – the LZ paperwork says you have to have one – and she said that it just has to be a third party who sends the paperwork to John – Jonathan or Megan could do it – and John just has to mail Deborah the form stating that he received the paperwork and she will file it with the court. So at least we can save process server fees.

John has 31 days from the day he signs the paperwork to contest or respond, but if he does (which he won’t), he’ll have to pay yet another $435. Notice a theme here?

I think after the 31 days are up the judge will give us a temporary decree or whatever the actual term is – and then it becomes final 6 months from then. So we should be able to wrap it up by the end of this year.

I ended up talking to Deborah for about 15 minutes. This seems to be the way with waiting, whether it’s the airport or the doctor’s office.

After that, I went to the drugstore, the library, and the feed store (baby chicks peeping up a storm – happy spring!) before dropping off the giant unwieldy box at Fed Ex and finally heading home, where drink o’clock came a little early.

Big River

Usually, my idea of traffic is having to wait for two other cars to turn onto the highway from our rough country road – especially if they’re not related to me. Actually, the major annoyances for me when driving are people who drive below the speed limit and won’t pull over, and the people who jump out in front of me and then drive below the speed limit, usually when the road behind me is completely empty. Extra credit (or demerits) to the cars with “local” license plates frames who do all of the above and brake at every curve.

A few days ago, a cement truck overturned in the afternoon in what we call “Dark Gulch” – a low and curvaceous part of the two lane highway signposted at 15 miles an hour – and when I drove home more than four hours later, it was still a one lane road as they cleaned it up.

As you come out of Dark Gulch into the light, you now find signs warning of road work and flaggers. Only problem – at least for me – is that the actual road work is about two miles south of the signs, and more importantly, about a mile past my turn off. Those not in the know immediately start driving about 20 miles an hour in a 50 zone, annoying the Suzy who just wants to get home.

On the way to work on the same day as the cement truck spill, there was some kind of work going on at Big River bridge which required some kind of enormous drill looking thing and which also reduced traffic to one lane (the other side) or a total stop (Me). Not only did it make me worry about being late for work, it also deprived me of the not inconsiderable pleasure of sweeping across that curving bridge (see above) with the ocean on one side and the river on the other. In any weather, it lifts my spirit.

At the jobette, I learned that a movie will be filming on the notoriously zig zaggy roads around here in the first two weeks in April. The road to the city is a motorcyclist’s Mecca, and it just makes sense that it will be the filming location for Need for Speed, starring Aaron Paul, my crush from Breaking Bad. Oh, and Michael Keaton.

I was the only one who knew who Aaron Paul was, and although this was less shocking than the time that my boss brought in a Wines That Rock bottle with the iconic image from Pink Floyd’s Dark Side of the Moon and I was the only one who could actually identify the image (my favorite guess: “Is it some kind of gay pride thing?”), it was still a little surprising. Have none of you people seen Breaking Bad? And if not, why? Or more importantly, why?

Of course, I am scheduled to go to San Francisco on Jessica’s birthday, when filming is allegedly going to be complete, but I wouldn’t be surprised if it runs over, as filming is wont to do. Apparently the film crew will be equipped with helicopters to film the chase sequences, so maybe they’ll give me a lift if need be.

Even though it’s no longer the New Year – when does a year stop being new, anyway? – I’ve been trying to get the chaos of my life a little more in order. Or, you know, in order at all.

I started by collecting all the crap I need for taxes. Mine are kind of complicated, with the job and the jobette and my lack of any kind of math brain, so I have someone do them for me. Needless to say I forgot to include some things and then had to track them down, but in the end, I have a (very) modest refund coming my way.

The Tax Lady noted that if I were divorced, the refund would be less modest – it would be about four times what I am getting. Realizing that John would be in the same position, I emailed him to reopen the divorce discussion.

We tried to do this a somewhat embarrassing number of years ago (at the rate we’ve been going, we’ll be separated almost as long as we were married), but encountered technical difficulties. Neither of us could afford a lawyer, and there was no question of alimony or child custody or anything that tends to lead to acrimoniousness, so John just got the forms online and tried to file them after I signed.

The clerk at his courthouse said there was something missing, but wouldn’t tell John what it was, since he “couldn’t offer legal advice.” Since we couldn’t afford legal advice and neither of us was at all interested in getting married again (some things never change), we sort of dropped it.

There is a walk in family law clinic here later in the month, so I’m hoping to stop by and get them to look over the forms if I have them ready by then. You *have* to fill out the forms completely on line. I called the company and told them there was required info about John I didn’t have. They told me to put in 0s as a “placeholder” and then have John log in and fill it out.

I told John, and he tried to do that, but the website said it was under review and couldn’t be edited. I just checked again today and there is an alert saying that they need more information. What do you know? So clearly the entire placeholder thing is bogus.

Of course they’re only at work when you’re at work, so I’ll have to try and find time to call them on Monday. Presumably John will have to do the same thing. Oh, and did I mention that the online forms cost $300? And the $300 does not include the filing fees – who knows how much that will be. It’s no wonder it’s taken us so long to get around to this.

If I ran the world, it would be hard to get married and easy to get divorced. One thing I have (finally) learned is to follow your heart. I never wanted to get married. I think you should be together until you don’t want to be, instead of dragging the state and/or church and/or families and/or everyone else’s expectations into your relationship.

But it meant a lot to John, so I went along with it. Kids, this is not a good reason to get married. Having said that, we were happy together for many years, so I can’t exactly say I regret it. I don’t regret the time I spent with John, just the messiness of the ending.

Lesson learned.

The Inner Me

Well, the record remains unbroken. Two good pictures of me in half a century. If I were playing professional baseball, I’d be batting…something really bad.

I hate the pictures for the website, but I’m stuck with them. I think I look like a lunatic in them. In the first one, which the photographer selected, I can almost hear Jack Nicholson hollering, “Heeeeere’s Suzy!”

Hide the kids and sharp implements!

On the other hand, my blow out does look fabulous. Ditto the pearls John gave me for my long ago 30th birthday. And to think I felt old then!

Megan combed through the photos with me, agreeing that they are unflattering. Before you say that my sister is prejudiced, I will tell you that she is the first to tell me if an outfit is unflattering or I don’t look good, feeling, very correctly, that it’s better to tell me so I can fix it before unleashing it on the unsuspecting public.

We think this is marginally better:

They might let me out of the straitjacket in that one.

I hesitated to even show these to you, but as I said, I’m stuck with one of them (not sure which) on the website, and I made such a big deal about it that I felt obligated to unveil the denouement.

After I finished crying over the pictures and the fact that they would be out there for anyone who googles to ridicule, I realized that the two pictures of me which I do like were both taken by men who loved me: the first by my beloved godfather, the one and only Spencer Steele, and the second by John. Maybe that’s the real secret of a good photo: the look of love.

Farewell, 2012

It’s really fun going back and seeing what happened during the year, even if it wasn’t that great a year, like this one. Pay cuts and grand jury summons do not make for a good year. Hopefully the new one will also be improved.

Power outages: 6, including one in October due to someone driving into a power pole at 8:30 am – go figure – and two from a big storm in late November.

Rainfall: 24.20 inches for the season so far, vs. 11 inches this time last year.

Books read: 103 (vs. last year’s 118). Working more means reading less.

Favorites this year were Damien Echols’ astonishing, moving memoir, Life After Death; Gillian Flynn’s clever Gone Girl; William Landay’s surprising Defending Jacob; James M. Cain’s just-discovered final novel The Cocktail Waitress; Jess Walter’s Beautiful Ruins; and the beautifully written and moving Stoner (it’s not what you think).

Trips to San Francisco: 3. I went 4 times in 2011, but one of those was to keep Megan company while Rob endured more spinal surgery, so that doesn’t really count. I’m starting the new year off right by heading to San Francisco tomorrow morning for a few days to meet up with my boss/partner and make some plans for the future. And maybe do some shopping…

As for this year:

January: Hockey, Suzy-style. Little did I realize there wouldn’t be any when October arrived. Or December, for that matter. The case of the ransomed Christmas cards. Ordeal by utility company. Technological difficulties. Why I’m here. Outs & ins. One man’s trash…an unexpected visitor.

February: Cops and a movie! Third power outage of the season. Musing about one grandfather…and another. Coffee break. Finally, a break for Rob! In which our heroine learns that she is just as annoying as everyone else. Maybe more. A surprise wedding.

March: Small town moments. Home repairs. A visit with Jim (and other things). Dad’s 81st birthday. A date with my family. Getting a jump on spring. Suzy the screwup. Surprise present!

April: Megan’s new (to her, anyway) car! Mom’s 80th birthday. Spring planting. A rainy trip to the City. Impersonating a responsible adult. San Francisco storm. A lovely last day in the City. Jessica’s ninth birthday. The arrival of Digit, the Office Cat. Kitty update. A girls’ day out. With my favorite girl.

May: A new (well, to me) couch! My 12th blogaversary, among other things. Festive. A dilemma. License to drive. Scarred for (or by) life. An eclipse, and other things. Rob’s epic trip to see his Mother one last time. My considerably less epic trip to San Francisco. Farewell to Rob’s Mother.

June: A magical evening with the Beach Boys. Fabulous fifty! An unexpected trip. Birthday party. Dilemma solved. Birth of a garden. A wonderful tour of artists’ studios. The arrival of my first (and I hope only) subpoena.

July: A belated and fabulous birthday present. Erica and Jessica are back! My first crown. Sadly, not the Queen kind, though almost as expensive. The looming trip to Detroit makes my humble home look like paradise. The unlovely itinerary. The trip does not go according to plan. Finally in Detroit. Court of horrors. Home at last. Changes at home and at work. Time for an engine check. The neighbors stop by. A snake in the grass. I mean, house.

August: A quick trip to San Francisco. The splendid pool reopens. My 2,000th blog post. And Roscoe’s mystery injury. A lousy day with a better ending. The 11th anniversary of Dad’s death (post won’t link; it’s August 18). A new home for the adorable Digit (who is very happy there). First day at the new office – and more car problems.

September: The money fairy stops by. First foray into retail, and an update on Digit. Two very sad losses for two very dear friends. A fabulous County Fair. A check up for the Schatz. Could, woulda, shoulda – or not. Appreciating the simple things.

October: A small town moment. A very special event. A great evening with family and friends. Swimming lessons resume. Now with Jessica! The 15% pay cut rears its ugly head. So does winter. An eventful day. The Giants win the World Series again! Oh, and we go to the circus.

November: A happy Halloween. The President is, thankfully, re-elected. This campaign was brutal – I can’t believe we have to go through it again in four years. But I won’t think about that now. A beautiful way to remember. An evening at the theatah. A look around the garden. Some new beginnings. Getting ready for Thanksgiving. A wonderful Thanksgiving. Jarrett adopts the World’s Cutest Puppy.

December: Christmas decorations. Church concert. Getting ready for Christmas. A happy holiday. Lighting up the night.

Thanks for joining me for another year of adventures. I wish you all a very happy and healthy new year!

Waiting for the light to change

I arrived at the clinic at 4:40 yesterday afternoon, but I didn’t see the doctor until after 6:00. Fortunately, I had the latest Ruth Rendell (“Really, Megan, have you ever known me to be without a book?”), and the hell trip to Detroit this summer has made every other wait comparatively easy. Compared to four hours (or was it more?) at O’Hare or three or more at SFO in the middle of the night without even a glass of water, it was a joy. Maybe that trip has finally cured my chronic impatience.

Or not.

When I finally got in there, Dr. Sue, who is a friend of my sister’s and now officially takes care of our whole family, apologized for the delay and then looked at my chart.

“Why are you here?” she asked, mystified.

I said that they made me, refusing to refill the medicine for my fluttery heart (no medical intervention as yet for the Grinchiness, though) until a doctor examined me, possibly for actual signs of said heart.

“That’s ridiculous”, she said. “You were here 9 months ago and your blood work is perfect.” She listened to my heart and checked all my vital signs, and, as usual I was pairfectly fine (to quote Jacques Pepin). She emailed the pharmacy with refills for a year and said she’d see me then.

It was a mere $50 to find out I was fine, and although the Giants game was well underway by the time I got in the car, I listened to it on the radio on the way home. I got there in time to see the Giants win 8-3.

Audrey celebrated by staying out all night. She finally showed up in time for me to put her in her carrier and into the car. She had pooped before I had driven more than two miles, so I had to shift abruptly from the pleasant heat to having all the windows open and freezing while gagging.

By the time I arrived at the vet, Audrey was foaming at the mouth and had drool all over the bars of her carrier. Good thing Atticus Finch wasn’t around.

Dr. Karen was not there. She had to rush to her elderly father’s bedside in southern California, and got there just a few hours before he died. He had Alzheimer’s and it had been a very difficult time, but she is glad she made it on time and that he is at rest. Megan spoke with her this evening and comforted her.

Dr. Carl stepped in, as wonderful as ever. He was actually able to calm Audrey down and she didn’t complain when he examined her. Here you can see her exploring the examination room:

It’s a good thing I brought her in, because she has a severe allergy to fleas and has dermatitis. The lumps are her lymph system fighting off the allergy and infection. She needed blood tests, a steroid shot, and an antibiotic shot. She also requires a dropper of Omega-3s on her food once a day to help keep her skin in shape. Oh, and the flea treatment.

It was more than $300, but worth it to get Audrey happy and healthy again.

I had to leave her there for the blood tests, so I amused myself by poking around the Village, which was looking quite lovely between storms:

As I snapped this view from the bookstore, it occurred to me that despite the 1.5 inches of rain in the rain gauge, you probably don’t believe me when I complain about the weather when it looks like this on my blog most of the time:

Relieved of the weighty weight of $300 and Audrey worries, we yowled our way home in the sunshine, three hours after we had left home. On arrival, I let Audrey out into the garden and removed the towel which she had puked on, adding it to the poo towel and the mountain of bedding to be washed.

I had sprinkled diatomaceous earth on all the carpets before I left, so I put in load 1 of 9,000 of washing and started vacuuming. Somehow I ended up sweeping and mopping and cleaning in a manner I had not expected, though I had “Gentlemen Prefer Blondes” on TV to keep me company. I was just hauling a load of blankets out of the dryer when Paul walked in.

He will be here tonight and is heading back to San Francisco tomorrow. He has met a girl in San Francisco he’s really excited about and has a couple of dates set up with her before he heads back to pick up his car in the Hamptons and drive it home to Florida for the weekend. Looks like he will be back at Christmas, so yay!

It has been quite a day. Time for a drink and the Giants game.

Well, today is going to be a lovely day.

I woke up to find that the kitties had been romping in the garbage and recycling under the kitchen sink during the night. I waited until I was caffeinated before dealing with that.

Then I drove to the jobette in the pouring rain. We are going to have a staff meeting for most of the day, and you know how delightful those always are.

After work, I get to go to the clinic and huddle with the rest of the uninsured masses, contemplating my downward mobility among the homeless folks and welfare mothers with screaming children. And pay for the (dis)pleasure. Undoubtedly I will have to also pay for blood tests and lose more pay by having to take more time off for the blood tests, and more time off for the results, for which time I will also not be paid, though I will have to pay yet again for another visit.

If you don’t have money (or insurance), you always have to pay more.

The I get to drive home in the rainy darkness, which I love, and as an added bonus, miss the beginning of the first World Series game between the San Francisco Giants and the Detroit Tigers. Grrr.

Bitter much?

Tomorrow I get to look forward to keeping Audrey inside until 8:30, when I will attempt to decant her into the cat carrier and bring her to Dr. Karen, undoubtedly to the accompaniment of squalling, puking, and pooping. I discovered a lump near her left front leg yesterday and am concerned. And then there’s this year plague of fleas. I’m afraid that Dr. Karen will think I’m a bad pet parent when she finds out how scabalicious Audrey is from the fleas.

In my defense, I have ordered the flea meds but they aren’t here yet – one of the perks of living in the country. When they do get here, it will be a laundry palooza again, which I’m not looking forward to.

Sigh.

As you all know, decision-making is not my strong point. I’m especially ungifted at making good decisions. But I think my decision to move to Hooterville three years ago today is one of the best ones I’ve made recently. Yes, job prospects are scary and dwindling, but at least I have my family to support and help me through the bad times.

On Thursday night, Megan stopped by with an instant cocktail party in a bag and we commiserated on our dwindling job prospects. Hospital management and her union are negotiating, and it’s not pretty. The offer includes things like a 7% pay cut, losing their retirement plan, and no more healthcare coverage for spouses unless the employee carries the entire cost instead of part of it. Needless to say, the union rejected it, so negotiations continue. Megan is terrified that she will be forced to go out on strike, which means not being paid at all.

She went to a union meeting on the weekend. Her idea is to take the employees’ case to the public by putting articles in the local papers and making the community aware of what is happening. I hope that once people realize what’s going on, they will support the hospital employees and try to keep the hospital open. After all, this is the same community that saved the library and the quite splendid pool.

As for our heroine, she got a 15% pay cut which is also indefinite. I am now making less money than I did when I was a secretary more than 20 years ago, which is not the sign of a good career path. Not for the first time, I reflected on my lack of decision-making skills. I should have studied a more lucrative career path, like a dominatrix or a plumber.

Fortunately, I still have the jobette, but as anyone who has ever worked for a non-profit knows, it means non-profit for you, too. I’m sure they would pay me more if they could, but they can’t. I’m still looking around for a “real” job, but they are few and far between up here and seem to go to friends or relatives.

At least I have family and friends. And a sister who comes by prepared with tangerine vodka, pretzel crisps, and white bean hummus to share while we sit in the garden and share our troubles.

Things have been busy in Suzy-land since I last checked in with you, faithful readers.

My blog was hacked, though I can’t imagine why, unless there’s a severe trivia shortage somewhere. The wonderful Candi of the appropriately named No Hassle Hosting solved the problem for me, restored everything, and implored me to change my password, which I did, though I have to say one of the things I like least about the modern world is having to have passwords for everything. Hopefully in the future they can be stored in one’s fingertips. I hope the Powers That Be are working on that, along with the Star Trek style of travel.

Because instant gratification isn’t fast enough for me.

The jobette moved. We have gone uptown, both literally (three blocks north) and figuratively. Our new space is bigger and much more attractive. We have added a retail element, selling local goods ranging from Seasoning Sand (as seen in Oprah magazine) to books, t-shirts, and mugs.

It looks pretty good, no?

Here is my desk, where all the magic happens:

I’ve started working longer hours, including the weekend, so the jobette is getting more and more job-like. I have never worked retail before, and was (and am) still baffled by the cash register when I made my first sale, to a darling 20 month old from Sacramento named Joshua:

His parents bought some sea salt and Joshua got a book about the Skunk Train, which he has already ridden twice in his short life. I gave them a deal since I couldn’t find a price on the book, and they were our very first retail customers. It was exciting.

Also exciting was the fact that jury duty, planned right smack in the middle of the move, was cancelled. I called in the night before and was delighted to learn that my presence was no longer requested and required. I have to admit that I would actually find serving on a trial interesting, but the timing wasn’t good. Hopefully my involvement in the judicial system for this year will be limited to my Grand Jury appearance in July and watching The Good Wife.

That reminds me: I can burn that August 15 “placeholding” subpoena. That will be fun.

Last week, I emailed the US Attorney’s Office to ask them about my expense check, which has so far failed to materialize. At first they told me they had no record of me, which made me laugh, since they had not only issued two subpoenas to me, but had paid for my airfare and hotel so I could testify for an hour.

Then they tried to tell me that they never got my expense report. Fortunately I had copied everything and sent it certified, so I could tell them that it had been delivered at 8:16 am on July 23 and offer to mail them the copies, even though the form says you have to submit the original receipts.

Eventually they admitted that I did in fact exist and that they had my expense report. Then they said they had an issue with my staying overnight in San Francisco on my way home. I had noted on a cover letter that the flight they put me on arrived in San Francisco after 10:00 pm and that it was after 11:00 pm by the time I got to my car. Since it’s a four hour drive from SFO to my house, after that long flight from Detroit, I stayed overnight.

I suggested that they just disallow that portion and pay me for the rest of it, but they said they’d try to get it approved. I sent them an email this week to find out what the status is, but I haven’t heard back yet. The wheels of justice, i have heard, move slowly.

I know you’re all dying to hear how Digit is doing in her new home. Since a picture is worth a thousand words, here’s a picture of Digit on her very first day in her new home:

Her new family emailed us with the following report:

Digit is doing great. She settled in surprisingly easily. She and our other 3-year-old cat surprised each other the first time they met (he’s the disabled one and he accidentally bumped into her), so they started out hissing at each other. After a few hours, though, they got into an easy truce, and now share almost everything. She seemed to have an almost immediate curiosity and affinity with our older polydactyl long-haired grey, which I found quite interesting.

So all’s well that ends well!

On Monday morning, I drove to the new jobette. Needless to say, other people had taken up our allotted parking spaces – we now have signs up, but didn’t then – so I parked two blocks away.

At lunch, I went to the car to run some errands. I turned the key and the engine made the usual sound, but failed to catch. I tried a couple more times before calling my brother.

It turned out that he was a couple of blocks away himself, on his way in to work. He also tried and failed to start the car. I walked over to the mechanic’s and explained the situation. They sent a guy over to see if he could figure out what was wrong with Miss Scarlett, but he also couldn’t – she had to get to the garage to be diagnosed.

So I called the one tow truck in town and went to wait for him. He attached the car to the tow truck pretty quickly, and then offered me a lift to the mechanic’s. We went about 4 or 5 blocks and it cost $70. Fortunately, I just have to email or fax the receipt to the insurance agent to be reimbursed.

In the meantime, it was too late in the day for the mechanic to figure out what ailed Miss Scarlett, let alone fix it. Fortunately for me, my kind-hearted co-worker Erin lives just a couple of miles away from me in Hooterville, so she gave me a lift home. On the way, we stopped off to pick up her son at her mother’s house (which is literally a rose-covered cottage in the Village) and register him for kindergarten, which started today. Erin’s Mom even offered me the loan of her (very nice) car while mine was being fixed.

This morning, the mechanic told me it was the ignition coil, which will be $325 to fix. Later, he changed his mind, and as I write, I’m still not sure what’s wrong with the car or whether I can drive it home tonight. But I’m glad that I did try the car at lunch yesterday, instead of the end of the work day, that the tow truck and my brother were close by, and that I have such great people in my life to help me out in the meantime.

• Get up early on a non-jobette day and drive to the Big Town.
• Get stuck behind lumbering RVs and smug Prius drivers who refuse to pull over, even when driving 20 miles below the speed limit. I wish I had a nickel for every time I got stuck behind a slow Prius driver – I could pay my staggering dental bill. I think they only use gas if they go over a certain speed, so maybe that’s why. Equally annoyed by non-Prius drivers who brake on every curve, when going onto a bridge, both up and down hill. Hear Billy Bob Thornton’s voice in my head from “Tombstone”: “Nerve-wracking sons of bitches!”
• Arrive at the dentist’s office in heavy fog to discover there is nowhere to park. Park two blocks away.
• Spend 15 minutes getting permanent crown installed. Get reminded that you still owe more than $600 which must be paid off in the next two months.
• Drive home. You have now spent nearly an hour and a half driving for a 15 minute appointment.
• Check mail. Discover staggering dental bill to join last week’s jury summons and car registration notification. Note to Self: stop checking the mail. Nothing good ever comes of it.
• Get home and check email. Find a message from your boss saying that your firm lost the contract with their only retainer client. This is not going to help pay off the dental bill. Or any other bill, for that matter.
• Panic.

All this on the 7th anniversary of my mother’s death. On the bright side, though, I guess this means I don’t have to go to Detroit next week for that second Grand Jury subpoena, since the client in question is no longer a client. At this point, I think I’d tell them to come and get me, especially since I still haven’t received the expense reimbursement from the State Attorney’s office (which, come to think of it, would cover my dental bill).

Onward and downward, as my father used to say.

As you all know, I usually dread the advent of August, the Official Month of Death, but its little sister July was such a bitch that I’m actually happy to see July end and August begin. And yes, I do hope the door hit July on the butt on its way out. Hopefully hard. Hopefully both the screen door and the front door.

It kicked off with the arrival of a federal subpoena and the departure of a filling, on a holiday week, no less. Though the filling was probably 25 or even 30 years old, and as the dentist said, I got my money’s (or possibly my parents’) worth out of it.

Then there was the heinous trip to Detroit. All those hours of sitting around the airport (I could have, and should have, driven from Chicago to Detroit. It would have been faster) gave me plenty of time to wonder why airports offer wifi – though at a price – but no power sources. My experience was that people sat on the floors by what few outlets there were with their laptops plugged in. Same goes for the planes: nowhere to plug in your laptop, which ruined my plans of watching “Gilmore Girls” as I lurched across the Rockies.

And then the ordeal of the Grand Jury, followed by a long and horrible trip home.

On arriving home, I discovered that my septic system had crapped out. On the bright side, Mark has redone the whole thing, and when I got home from the jobette yesterday, I was greeted by the sight of a toilet on my front porch, just the sort of touch that makes Martha Stewart so jealous of me. It turned out that Mark had replaced the underachieving Frankenstein commode with a brand new one. So, score one for July. Or at least for Mark.

Then the car engine light came on, which cost me $200 in the same week that the first installment of my luxurious $950 crown was due. Not to mention the horrifying installation of the (temporary) crown and its achy aftermath.

The month closed out with chaos. My job (not the jobette; the one that pays my rent and bills) is in serious jeopardy; the jobette is moving; Mark and his family will be in New Jersey for a year and I will have new neighbors.

I’m on my way to San Francisco this afternoon and I have promised myself that I will enjoy my time there and try not to worry about the future.

Coming to you from San Francisco!

I’m drinking bad in-room coffee, but not at my usual modest motel, where there was, in keeping with the theme of this trip, no room at the inn. So I’m at a more expensive, but noisier and less nice place nearby. I had the middle seat for the long flight from Chicago to SFO, flanked by two very tall but very nice men. We arrived at the International terminal, for some unknown reason, so I had to line up for a shuttle to get to the regular terminal and retrieve my car. I hadn’t eaten since 4 am Pacific time that day, so I called Victor’s and picked up dinner on my way back to the hotel. It’s a good thing they are still open at 11:00 pm.

I don’t even know where to begin to tell you all about yesterday, especially since I can’t tell you, or my boss/partner what happened in the courtroom, just my lawyer.

I walked to our lawyer’s office in the 86 degree heat yesterday morning to be prepared for the coming ordeal (it turns out hat nothing can really prepare you for it, however). On the way there, I noticed this vacant lot which has been turned into a public garden, including vegetables:

Downtown Detroit has many beautiful buildings, including the historic building where our lawyer’s office is located. On the 13th floor. Here’s the view from the conference room:

That’s Windsor across the Detroit River. I can’t tell you how tempting it was to hop across the river and take a train to visit my Ontario friends. So close, and yet so far!

At the appointed hour, we walked to the courthouse:

I had to leave my phone and iPod at the lawyer’s office, but still had to go through airport-type security at the courthouse. I waited about an hour and a half before I was called. Your lawyer is not permitted in the courtroom, so it’s just you, the prosecutor, and the jury. I walked into the courtroom with the US Attorney, stopped in front of the clerk, and took the oath you see on TV. Remarkably, there was no Bible to swear on (or even mentioned). Then I stepped up into the raised witness stand and spent the longest hour of my life answering non-stop questions into the microphone. I kept my eyes right on the US Attorney the whole time; I never even looked at the jury.

When I was finally excused, he gave me a lovely parting gift: another subpoena dated August 15. He explained that this is just in case they have more questions for me after they read all the documents our lawyers submitted to his office. Supposedly it is not likely that I will have to go, and I hope that is true. I was terribly shaken by the interrogation and now I know what to expect, I will be even more scared the next time. If there is a next time.

At least it’s over now: the courtroom, the delayed flights, the waiting around, the worrying. It’s a beautiful, sunny day in San Francisco, as as soon as I have breakfast and pack up the car, I’ll be on my way home, the most beautiful place in the world.

As usual, karma ignored me. I got a seat in the very last row of the plane, giving me a front row set to the sights, smells, and sounds of the lavatoire. As an added bonus – as if one were needed – being in the last row means that the jerk in front of you can jack his chair back right into your lap, but you can’t return the favor to the fellow sufferer behind you, or even move your own chair to get away from the stunning view of his bald spot.

At least it made a change from the bathroom view.

Since the plane was smaller, it was much bumpier and more alarming than the bigger plane on the night flight from San Francisco. I was glad to arrive in hot and humid Detroit, though, after a day and a half of travelling.

Needless to say, the plane parked as far as possible from the ground transportation. I wonder how many airport miles I have walked over the past two days?

Fortunately, a friend had referred me to a fabulous car service that costs about the same as a plebeian taxi, and I was pretty much over plebeian transportation and the common man, woman, and especially child at this point. It was delightful to be relieved of my bags and ensconced in a town car with cool water provided. Not for the first time (or the last time on this particular day), I considered that whoever invented air conditioning is one of my personal heroes.

The driver was so nice and we chatted amiably as we headed downtown, even passing one of my favorite landmarks on the way:

It was the best part of the trip.

I was so happy to get to the hotel. It was surprisingly swellegant. I figured the US Attorney would stick in me in the cheapest thing possible, but instead, I got a lovely suite in a beautifully refurbished historic hotel, just two blocks from the courthouse of doom (where I’ll be spending today). Here’s the living room:

And here’s the bedroom:

Best of all, there was a tub in the bathroom!

I ventured out to find a much-needed (well, at this point, essential) bottle of wine. I learned that, among its other faults, like heat and humidity, Michigan does not seem to sell booze at corner stores or drugstores, the way California does. I ended up walking eight sweaty blocks to the nearest liquor emporium, where I was rewarded with a bottle of Skinny Girl Pina Colada, which I did not know existed. Just the thing for a tropical evening!

Back at the hotel, I drew a bath – though I struck out on bubble bath in my booze quest – poured a glass of pina colada, perched my MacBook on the bathroom counter, and watched “Gilmore Girls” in the tub. Do I know how to live, or what?

After that, I called Room Service – two of the most beautiful words in the English language – for my traditional while travelling club sandwich, and crawled into bed kindergarten early on either coast. Missing a night’s sleep and being tortured by airports and airplanes will do that to a girl. The bed was a cloud of heavenliness and I woke up before my wake-up call, ready to face today’s ordeal: Courthouse followed by yet more airporting. I hope there are no delays in either place and that I am back in California before the day is over.

Stay tuned….

Well, things did not go exactly as planned.

“Picking up forgotten items at lunch” turned into “half hour call with lawyers”, and forgotten items remained in oblivion.

Had a hasty falafel dinner with our friend Clayton in the lower reaches of the Haight, then went to the airport. I was astonished at the traffic trying to get in the airport at 10:30 at night. Presumably the media had been notified of my rare appearance.

Left the car in the first place I could find. Turned out to be as far away as humanly possible from my gate. Car was near Terminal 1; I was leaving from Terminal 3. By the time I hauled Self and bags through the unholy trinity, I was feeling Terminal myself.

Arriving at Terminal 3, I discovered that my flight was delayed by an hour. And yes, I did get the clueless about shoeless people in front of me, as predicted. Not that it matters when you have an extra hour to kill.

I was horribly disappointed to learn that all the bars were closed, yet the halls and seats were full. Why schedule flights when travelers are denied the much-needed solace of a drink? In fact, you couldn’t even get a bottle of water, since everything was closed. This became more annoying as the delay lengthened to two hours and more.

Once aboard, I valiantly gave up my aisle seat to a young guy who had been travelling all day with his girlfriend but hadn’t been seated together. I let them cuddle up while I took a middle seat. Are you listening, karma?

By this time, I already knew that I had missed the connecting flight to Detroit. Leaving the plane around 8 am, I was met by some helpful folks telling me that I was rebooked on a flight at 4:50 this afternoon. I am trying to change that, but the throngs of people in America’s busiest airport make an improvement seem unlikely. I have cancelled my meetings for today.

At this point, the court proceedings will be the fun part of the trip. At least I have a bottle of water.

I know most of you spend most of your time wishing you were Me, but today you would much prefer to be You.

I promise.

Here’s my unenviable schedule for today:

• 6 am: Get up. (Check! Up at 5:30 to discover that cats have broken one of my Elvis movie poster glasses. Bonus: water all over the place!)
• Get ready. Pack up car. Try not to forget anything. Say goodbye to kitties, assuming they aren’t out playing in the sunshine, which they almost certainly will be.
• Leave by 8:00 am for 45 minute drive to the jobette.
• 12:00 pm: Purchase forgotten items at lunch.
• 4:00 pm: leave work for 4 hour drive to San Francisco.
• Dinner somewhere along the way. I have a $28 travel day meal allowance, so I guess this means Chez Panisse is out.
• Park car somewhere at SFO. Drag Self and Stuff into terminal. Suffer usual indignities of having the temerity to travel. I am betting that I will be behind a couple of oldsters who have been living under a rock in one of the square states and has somehow managed never to have heard about the enforced shoe removal rule.
• Festina lente, as our Latin forebears would have it, though they couldn’t possibly have imagined waiting for a midnight flight to a place you don’t want to go to in the first (or second, or third) place.
• Hope the bar is still open.
• Terrifying transport to O’Hare, the busiest airport in the entire US of A, arriving at the unsalubrious hour of 6:20 am.
• Change planes, which will probably include changing terminals with my terminally sleep-deprived self.
• Somehow manage to arrive in Detroit at 9:40 am. Couldn’t I have gotten to Europe in all that time? Or at least Hawaii?
• Drop bags off at hotel, resist urge to leap into Lake Ontario, and head to a meeting at our as yet unseen (to me) office near the ballpark. Needless to say, it’s the All Star Break, so the proximity to the ballpark is completely useless. I am even more certain that the American League will win than I was about the airport oldsters.
• Meet with our lawyers. I imagine this will take my mind right off the impending trip home and the crown that is awaiting me if I am (un)lucky enough to survive the trip. Bonus!

Sounds like fun, doesn’t it?