Suzy Says

I’m up earlier than I’d like. As usual. When I’d like: 8 am or so. When I am: anywhere from 4:30 to 6:00. If I don’t stop these bad habits, I will never attain my lifetime goal of idle rich. Also, a girl must surely need more beauty sleep as she gets older, not less.

The boys found a new and novel way to get me out of bed today (and more importantly, to get breakfast and then outside into the early morning sunshine). This one involved rolling around on top of my unsuspecting body, clawing and biting each other’s heads with accompanying sound effects.

At least I didn’t get a new bruise to add to my collection. The old one is still there, now turning yellow at the edges while retaining its alarming lumpiness. It’s about 6 inches long and three inches wide, with the power to frighten innocent passers-by and co-workers. At least it doesn’t hurt any more and will eventually vanish into the mists of time, unlike some of the other scars I still have:

• The triangular one on top of my left hand. I got this one while ironing my father’s shirts when I was home from college. His mother taught me the proper Victorian way to iron his shirts, so when I was home, I’d iron them for him, usually while watching TV. I think it was an episode of “I Dream of Jeannie” which led to my being distracted enough to mistake my hand for his Ben Sherman shirt (which I now have).

• The long, lumpy one at the base of my left thumb. For someone who’s right-handed, I seem to be unduly hard on my left hand. I broke a goldfish bowl in Megan’s room, again when I was home from college, and rescued the fish. I picked up the broken glass and it slipped. Instead of letting it go, I clutched at it and sliced open my hand to reveal its inner workings (there’s a reason why they hide all that stuff under our skin). I immediately turned into a six year old, yelling, “Mom!” She took me to the ER for several stitches, which surprised me by being black and wiry, and held my hand when they injected novocain into the wound.
• Above my – yes, you guessed it, left – eye is a small wrinkle which I acquired while Mom in the hospital in the final months of her life. There is no tired like hospital tired. The little line mostly appears when I am tired at a normal level, but I notice it whenever I put on makeup and think of Mom. Accessorizing the line is a scar mostly hidden by my eyebrow, which comes from having a few glasses of wine too many after sharing Christmas dinner with Mom at the hospital and realizing there wouldn’t be any more to come.

  I lost my balance – which I am perfectly capable of doing with no alcohol involved – and hit my head on the open door of Megan’s desk. I was slightly stunned. Megan cleaned me up and called our brother. We still laugh about her calling him late at night and saying, “I’m drunk, but Suzy’s drunker, and she cut her head open.” He sighed and came over, and by his account, “When I opened the door, the smell of vomit wafted out.” In the meantime, Megan had butterflied my eyebrow together really well.

  Not my finest moment, but as usual, I was lucky to have my family there to rescue me. I think I threw up all the next morning. Merry Christmas!

• The chicken pox scars on my legs. I had mumps twice, and I had chicken pox twice. Both poxes were memorable. The first time, I was 8 and my parents had taken us kids and Mom’s aging parents to England to visit Dad’s parents. On the way home, the flight was delayed at the airport for many hours. But that was the least of our parents’ worries – we had broken out in chicken pox that very morning. Mom was convinced that if the officials found out, we’d be forced to stay in England until we were healthy again. “Don’t you dare get any on your faces!” she said as we approached Customs. We didn’t, and after an overnight stay at Charlie Chaplin’s suite at the Grand Hotel in Eastbourne, we finally went home.

  The second time, I was 15 and spent hours lying in an Aveeno bath, complaining about the utter itchiness. Though I did get out of midterms.

Considering my ability to damage Self in nearly any circumstances, it’s somewhat surprising that I have never had major surgery, broken a limb (though I did break two fingers recently), and still retain my tonsils, appendix, and two of my wisdom teeth. I need all the help I can get.

In addition driving me crazy yesterday, Clyde also managed to get between me and the stairs, right before I left for work. I tripped down the last three steps, bruising my left forearm (and butt!) in a horrifying and lumpy manner, and doing something to my right foot which makes me a little limpish. But only when I walk.

Calamity Suzy rides (or falls) again!

Still, I think we can all agree that it’s an improvement over falling off the top of the stairs.

Today, my brother is going to stop by the jobette and pick up a tarp and random hunks of wood, which Rob brought over last night and stowed safely in Miss Scarlett’s capacious trunk. Why, you ask? Because my brother is going to pick up a truckload of dirt for me on the way home, and you have to cover it up and weight it down so your investment doesn’t end up flying all over the highway instead of making a comfortable home for your flowers. I’m looking forward to getting some things done in the garden over the next few days.

Hopefully I won’t fall off the truck while shoveling dirt. Stay tuned…

Maybe I need a reminding sculpture. Or a whole pad of neon Post Its. Or a personal assistant. Or a brain transplant! If Dick Cheyney can get a heart transplant, it just goes to show that you don’t have to have the original organ to get it replaced…

Lately, my brain has not been functioning at peak capacity. Or maybe this is peak capacity, and I’ll have to get used to it. The new normal: not fun.

This week has been less than fabulous. It’s been pouring, for one thing – I fully expect the Ridge to be flooded tonight or tomorrow – which is always depressing. And for another, I seem to be making one mistake after another.

I locked the keys in the car when I was at the jobette, far from home. This was mitigated by the fact that I knew I’d do something like that, so I already had an extra key sitting in my desk drawer, but still.

I bought the kitties a fifteen pound bag of cat food instead of a five pound bag, to minimize time and gas spent on going to the feed store. I bought a different flavor since I thought they’d be bored of the old one. Well, they seem to hate it. Even Clyde the Food Monster sniffed at it (in all three bowls) and walked away this morning, an unprecedented feat of disdain on his part. I’ll see if they have eaten any when I get home from work tonight. If they still hate it, I’ll buy the original flavor and sell the rejected bag to Megan, whose kitties are less picky than mine.

I was supposed to join a conference call today, and discovered that my cell phone battery was dead, so I couldn’t. My boss was not happy, and neither was I.

Worst of all, I worked all weekend on a proposal to provide services on behalf of my real job, only to discover that I had mistaken the due date. By the time my boss alerted me to the fact that the due date was Monday, not Tuesday, it was Monday night and officially too late.

I realize that he should have noticed the due date as well, but still…I feel pretty stupid right about now.

One thing about being sick is that it gives you time to notice how your house is slowly descending into chaos around you. Dishes and laundry remained undone; dust and spiderwebs accrued at an alarming rate; gravel and pine needles drifted unchecked across the battered wooden floors.

I’d notice all this, and then just go back to bed and watch more mindless TV – surely the best thing about being sick.

Even though I was well enough to go to the jobette – and I worked four days this week, instead of my usual three – I still haven’t really addressed the Housework Situation. Maybe if I ignore it long enough, it will go away.

While the house was undoing its thing, other things happened.

I ordered and received a new coffeemaker. Online shopping is another activity that is suitable for the bedridden. In my weakened condition, it was even more annoying than usual to deal with the French press and its endless, messy grounds. So it was a necessity:

So was replacing my favorite lipgloss from Sephora, since the first day back at the jobette, I was shocked to discover that the tube was basically empty.

I’m never too sick to shop.

While I was shopping, Rob was fixing a hole (or two) in the laundry room/pantry/cat dining room (multi-purpose room?).

The one under the door (being inspected by Clyde):

And the one that was so useful during the great Booze Breakage of 2010:

The repaired door:

And the repaired drain:

We had a storm after the holes were repaired. I set the battery-powered alarm clock and made coffee the night before, just in case, but the power stayed on. In the morning, I realized that if the power had gone out, I couldn’t have used the generator. I used to thread the extension cord from the generator through the hole under the door and into the house, but now the hole (and its draftiness) are a thing of the past.

I mentioned this to Rob, and he is going to drill a hole in the wall near the generator for the extension cord. I’m hoping that we are past power outage season (I’m watching the first Spring Training baseball game between the Evil Empire and the Phillies, so the year has turned a corner), but we should still deal with it before storm season rolls around again.

Wow – it’s a chilly one this morning, both inside (44F) and out (29F). Good thing I left the tap dripping – to the kitties’ delight – and brought the orchids inside. Still, I shouldn’t complain, considering that a year ago today, I woke up to a blanket of snow.

One thing I will complain about is how Le Bug has managed to totally de-rail my so-called life.

I had to take an entire week off from the jobette, and in my case, no work means no pay, which also means no play. I can’t afford to take more time off this week to go to the City and see the Cult of Beauty exhibit at the Legion of Honor and the Walker Evans exhibit at Stanford. Hopefully I can still go before the exhibits end. I’m really feeling the need for a dose of civilization lately.

Last week was one of surprising phone calls. There was the Rob surprise – the biggest of all – and the next day, a call from my neighbor Catrin (who is Rose’s younger daughter) to say that she and her boyfriend Zach were getting married. On Wednesday.

I figured this gave me at least two shopping days while in town at the jobette, but alas – I was too sick to shop, or drive, or work, or do anything other than drink ginger ale and cough. (I’m still coughing (or barking) and blowing my nose, by the way. I’m going to feel like Typhoid Mary at the jobette tomorrow.)

The wedding day dawned bright and sunny, and was in the 60s in the Hooterville and about 80 at the County seat, which is inland and also where the ceremony took place. The wedding party arrived at Mark and Citlali’s for the wedding party early in the evening, and I dragged my formerly fabulous self out of bed to go and congratulate the happy couple.

It occurred to me how lucky it was that they could have an outdoor party on a February evening, especially considering that it was snowy about a year before. But Catrin thought the date of 2/22/12 was a lucky one, especially since her mother’s birthday was the 22nd (of October), and I guess she was right.

Here are some pictures from the party:

Just married!

Balloons and streamers.

The table, with fresh-picked daffodils and votive candles.

The bouquet.

The bride and groom.

Well, Le Bug is making its majestic (and satanic) progress.

The chills and fever have abated, but the deep, wracking cough refuses to leave. Every time I breathe, the ripping lace sound and feeling is still there, and it’s been added to and amplified by a Philip Glass symphony of weird sounds. They are as annoying and hard to ignore as a particularly bad-tempered two year old, making it equally hard to sleep and sleep in.

The coughing is the worst part, though. My stomach is killing me from coughing so much. I feel like I’ve done a million crunches (I wonder if coughing is good for one’s abs?), and I wouldn’t be surprised if I re-broke the ribs I broke when they broke my fall a couple of years ago, or if I have broken capillaries in the whites of my eyes like a strangulation victim.

I sound like the sea lions at Pier 39. I used to be able to hear them from my first San Francisco apartment on Jackson Street, a few miles away. Now, they can probably hear me.

Frankly, all this coughing is way too much work.

Maybe it’s the coughing and its aftermath, or just Le Bug in general, but ever since it struck a week ago, I have had a complete and uncharacteristic lack of interest in both food and adult beverages. It’s been gallons of ginger ale and Oliver Twist-sized portions of canned soup, and that’s it. How sad is that?

Also? There appears to be no limit to the number of times you can blow your nose in one day. Just ask the red, raw, Sephora-defying remains of mine. If I’d known, I’d have bought stock* in Kleenex, Canada Dry, and Progresso before this thing started. I’d be rich enough to go and recover at the Golden Door.

*I recently learned that the average length of time a stock is held is now…24 SECONDS.

Generally, we like to think that we are a little better than the common man. We aren’t the Ugly American tourists giving our great country a bad name. We aren’t tourists at all! We are citizens of the world. But sometimes, we have to face the fact that we are, in fact, the Ugly American tourist, fanny pack and all, speaking English loudly and slowly enough* for those silly foreigners to get it**.

Yesterday, I had to face the fact that I am One of Them.

One of the many, uh, challenges Megan faces at work in the ER is people who come in saying they’ve had back pain or whatever for a month, but they need treatment NOW. Yes, they’ve had it for weeks and could have gone to the clinic or seen their doctor, but instead chose to go to the Emergency Room at night and get in the way of traffic accident victims and people having babies or heart attacks.

The ER staff does not look kindly upon such individuals.

Yesterday, my fever and chills were so bad that I called Megan at work, thoughtfully placing the call about five minutes after her shift started. She calmed me down and said she’d tell Rob what to bring me.

Rob appeared with Tylenol with codeine (later, I noticed that it had been prescribed for one of my mother’s dogs, who died a couple of years ago), cough syrup, and ibuprophen. He also thoughtfully brought their coffeemaker, which he will repo later on today when Megan wakes up.

I took all these things and shiveringly watched “Pan Am” until Megan called to check up on me. This morning, I feel a little better – though not enough to go to work – and as I came downstairs, Megan arrived, bearing ginger ale and soup and hugs. I may be sick, but I’m still lucky.

*My father believed that there was absolutely no point in speaking a foreign language abroad unless you were fluent in it, since offering a word or two in the other person’s native language simply unleashed a flood of it which you couldn’t understand, thus creating a conversational impasse.

**I always loved that line in “Big Trouble in Little China” (filmed in San Francisco!) where James Hong says, “Shut up! You are not brought upon this world to get it! “

Hot (or cold, depending) on the heels of Friday’s triumph came the flu from hell. It started off with a tickle in my throat, and then escalated into fits of the chills so bad that my teeth were chattering, followed by burning up with fever bad enough to sweat through my PJs. Add in a deep, wracking cough (you’d think I was the one smoking two packs a day), endless nose-blowing, and a strange sound like tearing lace every time I breathe, and you have a sick little Suzy on your hands.

The flu persisted through the weekend and into the work week. I can’t remember the last time I was this sick. My ribs and stomach ache from coughing, and not for the first time, I wish I could soak in a nice, hot bath. I have never missed my gracious San Francisco bathroom

quite so much as I have over the past few days.

I’m hoping to head back to the jobette tomorrow, but I fear that my much-anticipated trip to the City next week will have to be put off until later, since I can’t afford to miss two days this week and two days next week.

As I write, the air in my little hippie hovel is delicately scented with eau de skunk. So glamorous!

I woke up around 2:00 to the distinctive smell. I knew all the cats were in for the night, but wondered if an intruder had made his stripy, stinky way into my humble abode without any of us noticing. This seemed unlikely, but I got up and checked the house anyway. The smell was there, but Mr. Le Pew was not.

I went back to bed, and the Audrometer went off around 4:30. I didn’t want to let Audrey out into the darkness, in case the skunk was still there, so I meanly made her wait until 1) it was light out*; and b) I had checked the perimeter.

The good news is that the outside smelled like rain and fresh air, and the area appeared to be skunk-free. The bad news is that it’s too cold and wet to air out the house. So Roscoe and I are sitting by the heater in the stinkiness and hoping for sun, while Audrey and Clyde are playing in the woods somewhere. By the way, Clyde’s paw is much better.

Mine is not.

You may remember that I managed to fall off a log as my own special way of celebrating the new year. Well, that hand has never been the same. The middle finger and ring finger can’t straighten out, and they are oddly swollen and arthritis-y looking, which is painful for the aesthetically inclined. Also it makes it impossible to wear some of my favorite rings on my right hand. And amazingly, it still kind of hurts when I press on those fingers.

Megan thought at the time that I broke something in there, but I don’t have health insurance and can’t afford to pay thousands of dollars to have my fingers x-rayed and what have you. So I’ve just been living with it.

My left hand now temporarily matches my right hand. I made Jacques Pépin’s mustard-crusted chicken** the other night. When I took the skillet out of my little oven I used my very cute red potholders, and set it on top of the stove. Just a few minutes later, I grabbed the skillet handle with my left hand to move it, apparently having forgotten that it had just spent an hour in a 400 degree oven.

I let go pretty fast, let me tell you. I ran cold water over my hand for a while before calling Megan, who arrived with burn bandages and painkillers. The burn bandages look like a second skin and contain lidocaine or some other kind of surface pain deadener. She also lent me one of her ice packs from her knee surgery last summer, so I was all set for a bad night’s sleep.

Nothing like having EMS living on the premises. Practically a necessity when you’re Calamity Suzy.

*Stupid, stupid daylight savings time.
**A quick search of my archives reveals that I have never shared this recipe with you. Will remedy this shocking omission in the near future.

It’s good that this year’s resolutions did not include any Calamity Suzy items, because the month isn’t over yet and I’ve already slightly damaged Self. In doing so, I proved, if there was any doubt to begin with, that the old adage is true.

It really is easy to fall off a log! Now you don’t have to try it yourself to see.

Megan and I were giving Schatzi a run on Saturday evening on an off-road path on the property. The path appears to be practically a highway for mountain lions, though, judging by the number of calling cards, and we wanted to get back to the car before darkness fell and rush hour began.

Part of the path devolved into fallen trees and bits of wood, and the only way across was balancing precariously on a fallen tree trunk. Needless to say, I only made it about halfway across befoore falling off said log, foolishly attempting to stave off the inevitable with my hand.

My fingers bent back horribly, and I spent a little time sitting on the log and swearing, no doubt scaring off the mountain lions.

Nothing was broken, but my fingers are now swollen and not too comfortable, and bruised across the knuckles. It looks like I punched Muhammed Ali, but actually I can’t clench my fingers enough to punch anyone. Same goes for actually straightening them out. I’ve been treating it with ibuprophen, that most pointless of panaceas, and an ice pack, which is almost as uncomfortable as the original injury.

Today, my Horror Hand and I are heading to the safety of the city (hence the theme change), where there are nice, even sidewalks to walk on and I can hopefully remain more or less upright despite being gravitationally challenged. I have some meetings but am hoping to fit in a movie or even two at the annual Noir City Festival. What’s the point of work without fun?

Yes, these sneakers cost the same as my used Manolos

[Note: For some reason, I know not why, the comments have turned themselves off. The Doc is on it. In the meantime, email me at sjpeakall@gmail.com. You'll be glad you did.]

Guess what I did yesterday?

I bought a pair of sneakers!

That’s the sum total of my achievement.

And somehow, it took all day.

I took the bus downtown to buy new sneakers, or , as my father would say, plimsols. When I introduced my eternally fashionable stepmother to the concept of the sneaker, she tried them on and exclaimed with pleasure in her rich, plummy English accent, “They’re so gorgeously squashy!” She was a convert.

I, on the other hand, made the fatal error of buying cheap sneakers and wearing them for ~mumble~ years. They were no longer squashy, let alone gorgeously squashy. I leave that to my thighs. My feet finally rebelled after a long walk at Big River. My feet were still so sore the next day that I borrowed my sister’s Keens to wear to the city. Notice how Megan always has the right footwear and I never do.

The other mistake I made was my incorrect memory of where things are in the nebulous area south of Market Street. I got off the bus too early for my first stop, and had to walk for about 20 minutes to Ross in my unsuitable work shoes. At Ross, they didn’t have a thing I wanted. That’s the thing about Ross: they either have tons of things you want, or nothing.

Then I decided to walk to REI, which was also much further than I remembered. I spent over an hour trying on 5 pairs of shoes with the help of a very knowledgeable gentleman. He was horrified that I’d kept the same shoes for so long – apparently, 400-600 miles is the limit – and explained how my non-archy arches made my feet hurt. He was Russian and was an engineer at Apple down in Cupertino until they outsourced all the jobs to China and he was laid off.

So I spent $100 on sneakers for the first time in my life.

I wore them out of the store, thinking I could just grab a cab. Those of you who are wondering why I didn’t drive have never experienced the lack of parking in this compact city, or the exorbitant pricing of what parking there is. I thought public transit was a good idea. Shows what I know.

I couldn’t get a cab, and even wearing my new, gorgeously squashy sneakers, my feet hurt like hell. It took me 40 minutes and 0 cabs to get to Market Street, San Francisco’s Main Street. Surely, here I could get a cab.

Nope.

Eventually, I called one. I waited 20 minutes, and it hadn’t appeared. I called back, and they said, “Oh, he must have picked up someone else. We’ll send another one.” He showed up in 10 minutes, and I had to stop myself from kissing him and offering to marry him. Arriving at my hotel, I discovered that the maid was still cleaning, even though the cleaning cart had been next door when I left four hours earlier and the manager had asked if I wanted the room cleaned before I left and I said yes.

I went to call Megan and tell her I’d be home tomorrow and get a status update on the cats, who don’t seem to miss me, while the maid finished up. When I went back to my room, the card key didn’t work. I went to the office to get a new one.

It was the imperfect end to an imperfect day.

A year ago today, I moved to Hooterville.

Last year, it was warm and sunny. This year, it’s cold and rainy*.

Last year, I had my beautiful June Bug and my sweet little Henry Etta. Now they are gone, and I have the two rambunctious kittens to make me laugh, drive me crazy, and ease the aching of my heart. My precious Audrey is the same as ever, thankfully.

Last year, I had the moving-related knee injury and the gravity-related full body injury. This year, I’ve managed to remain major injury free (touch wood), though of course there have been the occasional Calamity Suzy incidents. It just wouldn’t be me otherwise.

Last year, I was too injured to go trick-or-treating with Jessica. This year, try and stop me. Erica asked Jessica if she’d rather go with her friends this year. Jessica said, “But Mom! I need my entourage!”

Last year, there was a lot to do in the house and garden. This year, there’s just the bathroom floor to paint, the new heater to install, and plans for the garden for next year. I’d like to have a table and chairs in the garden, and some lounging chairs on the balcony, as suggested by Jessica**.

Over the past year, I have come to appreciate and love my little family even more than I already did. Last night, I thought about how many things that make my house more comfortable and livable were brought to me by Rob. The Suzy proofed loft; the curtain rods; the CD shelves; the cat doors; the towel bars and shower curtain rod in the bathroom, to name a few. Looking around, I am surrounded by love.

*Everyone is blaming me for bringing down some kind of bad weather curse on Hooterville. Maybe Christine O’Donnell can help.

**While doing her homework the other day, she asked her mother if she had spelled “manifest destiny” correctly.

A Roscoe original. Price upon request.

Sometimes, it’s great that my house has so many doors. Other times, not so much…

Yesterday, Rob came by to put the first coat of paint on the foyer floor. He carefully blocked the painting area from curious cats with a big piece of plywood, and put a big tape “X” over the front door to stop any unwitting visitors from stepping on the fresh paint. People who visit generally just walk in, and there are no keys or locks to any of the doors.

But he reckoned without Calamity Suzy.

I went through the door on the back deck to the bathroom, where Rob was just painting himself from the foyer into the bathroom. He said he’d be a few minutes, so I left him to it. I also left the door to the deck open.

You can see where I’m going with this.

In a few minutes, Rob was yelling and I saw Roscoe racing into the woods in horror. Peering over the plywood, I saw the above.

Rob was not happy. And I was reminded of my Dad’s saying, “However foolproof you make a thing, you’ll always find a bigger fool”. That would be me.

Rob taped the paintbrush to a stick to paint over Roscoe’s masterpiece while I apologized, which I think kind of annoyed Rob further.

In the evening, he came back to check on its progress, and decided it was dry enough to apply the second coat. Needless to say, he pointed out flaws which were non-existent to my eye, but blatantly obvious to Rob’s. It’s an education going into a building with him. He sees things I’d never see, but when he points them out, I can’t believe I missed them.

He set up an industrial heater to help dry it out. I later learned the hard way that you can’t use the microwave while the industrial heater is on. Also that all the breakers in the box on the side of my house are unlabeled, and all the breakers for four houses are in there. Fun! So I didn’t dare to make fresh coffee this morning. I just reheated yesterday’s on the gas stove. I think I’ve annoyed Rob enough this week.

Spot the Audrey!

Here you see Audrey perched on the bureau in the sleeping loft. She has the opposite of acrophobia. She has love of heights. Only an empty box makes her happier than being as high up as possible. She must enjoy looking down on me.

I heard her racketing around downstairs this morning at about 5:00. I came down to investigate, and discovered her chasing a mouse. I screamed and fled in the traditional girl manner, retreating to my bed. Needless to say, I was unable to sleep, so I just got up again about twenty minutes later.

The intruder was nowhere to be seen. I put on three lights in the living room, instead of my usual one, and am now looking around in horror, trying to decide whether it would be worse to find a live mouse or a dead one. Audrey is acting like nothing ever happened, waiting for it to be light enough to be allowed outside, whereas I am so nervous that coffee is probably superfluous at this point.

It’s probably a good time to resume the laundry project interrupted by the Back Débâcle this weekend. It seems to have recovered, but I’m being extra-careful and trying to remember to lift with my legs, not my back. It’s astonishing how many times a girl bends in a day. You only notice it when you can’t do it. When I was taking care of Megan after her knee surgery, I felt like I was flaunting my bendiness around her. Maybe this is karma?

Note to Self: housework is very bad for you, and should be avoided at all costs. A cleaning lady is a perfectly legitimate healthcare expense in your case.

On Saturday, I waxed the floor in a bout of temporary insanity. I knew that it would still look semi-bad, since it desperately needs refinishing, and, like everywhere else in the house, sports splotches of paint from previous bad paint jobs. One of the more depressing aspects of attempting to clean my hippie hovel is that you can work on it for hours and it still looks crappy. Whether it’s painting or cleaning, the result is never better than slightly less crappy.

I knew all this, and yet, I persisted in waxing the floor.

On Sunday, I went to do some laundry, and carelessly bent over to pick up the basket. I soon discovered that:

a. I couldn’t stand back up again; and
2. It hurt like hell.

Abandoning the laundry project, I hobbled swearingly to the phone and called a medic. As you do.

My sister hobbled over with drugs and settled me on the couch with the heating pad. You know you’re pathetic when your sister has to crutch over to take care of you. I guess it was my turn, after taking care of her for the past couple of weeks, but still. Also the irony is not lost on me that I managed to mess myself up almost immediately following getting a clean-ish and expensive-ish bill of health from the clinic.

As I write, a postcard and its magnet have fallen off the face of the refrigerator, and are lying on my waxed floor, mocking me. It’s driving me crazy that I can’t pick them up. But I can’t stop looking at them, either.

Drinking bottled water really makes the recycling pile up, my friend. I notified Rob a couple of days ago that one of the recycling bins was full, even by his exacting standards (you would not believe how much stuff he can jam into one bin). The dump is only open on Wednesdays, Saturdays, and Sundays, so notification is essential.

I was washing the dishes in hose water when I heard a mighty crash. I thought it might be Rob hard at work, but it turned out to be gravity. One of the shelves in the pantry had given way, depositing full bottles of brandy (it’s medicinal!), wine, beer, and partly full jars of peanut butter (organic!) and soy sauce (“low” sodium!).

You can imagine the smell.

I stood there for a little while in my silly sandals, contemplating the mess and how to clean it up. After a period of reflection, I went and put on my trusty sneakers, got the mop, filled the bucket in the shower, and went to work. First, I swept up the glass, trying not to breathe too deeply, and put it in a paper bag, which then went in the not full recycling bin.

Then I mopped the floor, and since there’s a drain in the floor, I figured I could use the hose to rinse it. Alas, the hose was not there. While wondering where the hose had gone (is there a lively hose nightclub scene in Hooterville which I don’t know about?), I decided that this was probably the perfect opportunity to face reality and put away June’s dish after I washed the glass and booze out of it.

I called Mark, and it turned out that he had repo’d the hose. He said he’d bring it back.

While waiting for the hose’s return, Rob came by to really take the recycling. He pointed out the serious design flaw that led to the crash, and also pointed out that it could have been worse. After all, Audrey could have been eating in the direct path of the bottles. And two bottles of beer survived.

You have to look at the bright side.

When Mark brought the hose, Rob quite correctly assessed my hose skills and took over the rinsing job himself. He also took the recycling and went off to make me a new shelf.

What would I do without him? I hope I never find out.

Update: I just sprayed Nature’s Miracle on it. I’m not sure it’s quite that miraculous, though. Is anything?

Further Update: I heard water running, and discovered water pouring into the pantry. Hey, it’s thoroughly rinsed now. It still smells like….nothing I’ve ever smelled.

Mark ran over and fixed it. Nothing like Dial-A-Boy when you really need it.

About twelve hours after Megan and I parted ways with Lu at the Wharf, we met up at Big River.

Ligament tearing seems to be all the rage these days, since both Schatzi and Lu’s dog Marko (who can be admired here) are sidelined with the same injury. Schatzi will see Dr. Karen next week for a leg once-over. We’re still hoping to avoid the expensive and time-consuming surgery for her, but Marko and Lu’s wallet are not so lucky.

Though Marko is a mere three years old, he’s also 123 pounds of lovin’, and big dogs like that don’t self-repair in the way we’re hoping Schatzi does. So he will definitely have to face the knife and Lu will have to face the bill.

But we tried not to think about that as we set off down the path with Star and Harlow.

Once again, I failed to bring my camera, thinking that I had posted enough pictures of Big River, but I should have brought it to take pictures of Star and Harlow together. If I can make a resolution halfway through the year, I resolve to bring my camera with me whenever I leave the house.

We had a good walk. Star met a really nice older dog (rescued from horrors in Mexico) and several cyclists without getting upset or nervous. She’s really come a long way since Megan started fostering her. We’re hoping that we can bring her to the local Humane Society’s event in early July to meet some prospective parents.

Arriving back at the car, we discovered that Calamity Suzy had struck again.

Megan and I did some shopping for her belated birthday barbecue before meeting Lu, and since the provisions included beer and wine, and the parking lot at Big River was full of visitors, I thought it wise to lock the car. Unfortunately, I didn’t run this by Megan, who usually leaves her keys in the ignition. So we were locked out of the car.

It takes a Suzy.

It was especially ironic since I’d made a point of propping the doors open at my house so it wouldn’t be hot when I got home, and I had remarked to Megan that when I lived in the city, I made sure every door was locked when I was going to be out all day, whereas here I make sure they stay open.

Megan called Rob, who agreed to meet us at Frankie’s with the spare key. Lu drove us to Frankie’s, where we sat in the sunshine eating ice cream while waiting for Rob. When he arrived, he wasted no time in repo-ing Star, and drove off. Lu took us back to the car, and wisely waited while Meg made sure the key fit.

It did, and everyone was much nicer to me than I deserved.

Up next: a birthday barbecue and a haircut! Not necessarily in that order.

Nature always wins in the end

Yesterday, Megan and I took Schatzi for a stroll on the headlands at Navarro Point. As soon as we turned left onto Highway One, she perked up. Left is lacking in the boredom potential of right, which can mean getting stuck in the Safeway parking lot or going to the bank instead of doing something fun.

At the Point, there were signs of spring: wild irises, tiny violets, starry daisies, red clover, frothy Queen Anne’s Lace. Another sign of spring was deep mud and marshy grass. Apparently I still haven’t figured out the correct footwear for country occasions. While Megan splashed happily through the muck in her trusty Red Wing boots*, I ended up with soaked and muddy sneakers, socks, and pants.

The Point is a nature preserve, so there are signs warning visitors to stay on the paths, stay off the peninsula, and keep away from the crumbling cliff edge, warning that it’s unstable. Just like Me!

You’d think that people would have the sense not to litter in a place like that. But you’d be wrong. We picked up candy wrappers, cigarette butts, and other debris on our way back to the car. We put it in one of the beverage holders until we got to the store and could throw it out.

Arriving at the store, I scooped the garbage out of the holder. A surprise spider dangled from it, so I screamed and threw the stuff away from me. In the process, I managed to scare my sister; get dirt all over her pants; and distribute the trash throughout the car. In just seconds! Megan laughed at her silly sister as she collected it.

I still don’t know what happened to the spider.

Megan sent a package UPS by placing it next to a weeping flowering cherry tree outside the hardware store. Then we went to the store for necessities like PopTarts and SweetTarts. Because we’re girls. Behind us in line was a guy buying beer and pork rinds. Because he’s a boy.

The mail was more interesting than usual. I received the Dogs In Canada issue with my very first ever printed article** in it! I’m even listed on the “Contributors” page! For some reason, this is much more exciting than the pieces I’ve published on their website. We stopped off at the property, where Rob was building a cover for the water tank, and showed it to him. He was excited, too, or pretended to be.

He gave me a box from Bed Bath & Beyond, saying that he almost opened it, since he figured whatever was in it was a project for him. Fortunately, it’s only pillowcases to replace a pair of old, torn ones. But I’m sure I can come up with some kind of project for him…

*She told me later that her entire shoe wardrobe consists of those boots, a pair of Keen sandals, and the bee boots.
**Yes, I do realize how ironic it is that the article is about cleaning, I don’t have a dog, or live in Canada.

Well, the rain has made the leap from faithful companion to stalker. It’s a fine line, but after about a month of rain and gloom, I think it’s safe to say the line has been well and truly crossed. And it’s making me cross.

Megan and I were thinking of going to town to run some errands, but looking at the pouring rain made us change our minds. At least for now. It did, however, inspire me to do the laundry and polish some silver.

I guess you know what it takes to make me domestic.

Given the endless rain and my miserliness at using up the expensive propane supply, I invested in a clothes rack to dry my clothes in the living room. This does not lend a note of elegance to one’s decor, and I’ll have to see how effective it is. In Oakland I could hang the clothes out on the porch and they’d dry in a day or two, but here it’s too rainy and damp. And much colder. So I’m hoping that the clothes rack will work out.

It’s not without its hazards, however. While carrying the clothes from the laundry room/pantry, I tripped and fell flat on my hands and knees, scattering clean clothes everywhere. I also scattered the boxes piled up by the laundry room door, where I had carefully placed them to keep them away from the open flame of the dryer.

As I got up, I thought that I haven’t been doing so well with this resolution thing. Maybe I need to scale it back to something like “no major mishaps” or “Only one minor accident a month”.

By the time I escaped from the conference, the skies had cleared. Sun! I didn’t even mind taking public transit for the second time that day, even though it’s now $2 each way. Still not as much of a fan as John Waters apparently is (who knew?).

I got off the bus a few stops early so I could stroll down Polk Street. It was fun to see which stores were still there and which weren’t, and I have to admit that I did in fact do a teeny little bit of shopping. Oh, and I got a cheap and fabulous manicure at the still-there Merry Manicures. It did make me merry.

As for shopping: a birthday card and giftlet for my dear friend Patrisha; a stop in at La Boulange de Polk for cannelés de Bordeaux, a treasured indulgence; and a near-set of espresso cups from the wonderful Molte Cose (see above). I’m sorry to say that my beautiful Swedish cup has broken*, as predicted, and I can’t find another one. Good thing there aren’t any cup actuaries.

There are five espresso cups (and saucers!) in the set, one having been stolen, so I got the remaining five and its adorable box for less than half price. So if I break one – and I will – I have four more to go.

Shopping bag in hand, I was heading back to the hotel when I passed a mother holding her son’s hand. He had a halo of blond curls and was looking up at his mother earnestly, saying “Mommy, I love the whole world.”

*Though Rob might be able to glue it back together with special ceramic glue.