Suzy Says

Well, my new year’s resolutions, like so many people’s, didn’t last long.

This morning, I tripped over June, who was milling around under my sleepy feet as I came downstairs. This is June’s way of reminding me that she’s ready for breakfast, even if it’s an hour or more before the appointed hour of 9:00, when breakfast is served.

Fortunately, I was only two steps from the bottom of the stairs, so damage to Self was minimal. I’ll probably have a bruised elbow, but that’s it. In the interests of honesty, though, this probably means I’m back to square one on trying not to damage Self. I went half a month injury-free, though, so yay me!

As I fed the cats, which entails stepping carefully onto a little wooden chest, then onto the studio floor, then up a step into the laundry room/pantry/cat dining room, it occurred to me that this is the first time I’ve lived in a house with stairs since I left my parents’ house. Maybe practice makes perfect and I need more stair experience and less experiments in gravity.

Morning light

The past couple of nights I’ve dared to sleep in my bed, although for some reason it makes my aches achier. But I couldn’t handle the Elephant Man thing of sleeping partly sitting up on the couch anymore. Why is life full of unpleasant choices instead of, say, one fun’n'easy option? Hmmm?

In the morning, I hobble carefully down the stairs, clinging to the driftwood banister to prevent any further fragility and the girls follow me – or precede me – in their headlong rush to the “front” door. If you’re wondering what the deal is with my irritating quotes (at least they aren’t air quotes!), it’s because the door is at the side of the house. But it’s the one we all use to come and go, including the cats. Except when they use the sliding glass doors in the living room.

I let June and Audrey out before going to make coffee and turning up the spectacularly ineffective propane heater. No matter how cold or wet it is outside, they bound out happily, looking for trouble and fun wherever they can find it. Henry, on the other hand, prefers to huddle by the heater or cuddle up with me as I read my fan mail. He is superbly unperturbed by the girls calling him a mama’s boy.

I have come to know who is coming down the stairs by the sound. June busy and bustling; Audrey light and graceful; Henry has a characteristic drag in his back leg, whether he’s walking or running, probably from a past injury.

Lately, Henry has taken to drinking from my ever-present water glass. June used to be the only one who did it; now they all do. It’s as if Audrey is copying her big sister and Henry figures that’s what inside cats do.

The girls come back in for breakfast, which is the usual mêlée, and then I let them out again. And in again. Lather, rinse, repeat. My sister says, “Cats are New Yorkers at heart – they all want doormen.”

I could have borrowed the title of this post from the title of Haven Kimmel’s delightful memoir She Got Up Off the Couch: And Other Heroic Acts. Yesterday, I performed my own heroic act by getting up off my own couch and accompanying Megan (and, more importantly, Princess Schatzi) to the Mendocino Headlands.

The quaint town of Mendocino is perched on rocky bluffs which jut out into the ocean. The trees there are windswept and bent into fanciful shapes from years of wind and weather. The headlands are bordered by blackberry bushes and rose brambles, and there are trails all along the rugged coastline.

It was a beautiful day, and there was a high surf advisory, so the ocean was even more spectacular than usual. Schatzi bounced happily along, wearing her cozy sweater (pit bulls have very thin fur and really feel the cold. Schatzi literally dances on her hind legs for joy when Megan gets a sweater out for her) and sniffing the exciting smells. I walked along more slowly, careful to look for unexpected rocks and gopher holes. It was good to move again, even if it was somewhat painful. I loved the sea air and the spray on my face and the sun on my aching bones. And the company.

Before

After

You can see that Rob’s been a busy bee. He found two pieces of driftwood and some redwood (the house, including the staircase, is made of redwood) and Suzy proofed the loft over the past couple of days. If I can ever sleep upstairs again, it will be good to know that it’s unlikely I’ll roll off. Once was more than enough, no matter what Jacqueline Susann says.

I’m slowly improving, but still can’t sleep in my bed. For some reason, lying down riles up the bruises on the left and the rib-related injuries on the right. I tried again last night, but ended up dragging my pillows and blankets back downstairs. I propped them up on the couch, where I slept like the Elephant Man for the fifth night in a row. I now fantasize about sleeping on my side in my bed instead of having dinner with George Clooney in Venice.

How the mighty have fallen. Both literally and figuratively.

Speaking of busy bees (and Italy), the bees have arrived. There are 40,000-60,000 of them, and they are Italian Blondes. Megan and I stopped by our brother’s place for a quick inspection. We could smell the honey and feel the heat through the netting on the top of the bee hive:

Now that Rob has Suzy proofed my house, he’s going to help Jonathan bear proof the bees, building an electrified fence around them. While they’re doing that, I’ll start reading “Beekeeping for Dummies”. Will Calamity Suzy and bees be a bad combination? Stay tuned!

It took a while, but Henry finally decided to venture outside. The weather’s been gorgeous lately, sunny and in the 70s, and I’ve had every door in the house open. I guess Henry finally couldn’t resist. He’s been slinking in and out all day and enjoying the sun. I saw him playing with June, too.

I was surprised that it took him so long to go out, but maybe he felt that he had both been there and done that. Or he thought that if he went out, he wouldn’t be allowed back in. All I know is that we’ve made great strides in our relationship.

When I woke up in pain the other night, I went to sit on the couch, unable to risk the risky stairs (I haven’t been up them since, though Rob is working away at Suzy proofing them). Henry took the opportunity to ask to be petted, which I was happy to do, despite the fact that he kept bumping his head into my book. Eventually, he crawled into my lap and sat there for at least half an hour. Can you believe it?

Well, the adventures in gravity finally caught up with me.

Last night, I woke up in horrible pain on my right (non-bruised) side, around my back lower ribs. I managed to crawl carefully down the stairs, practically howling, and called Megan, who was at work. She asked me a series of questions, and I guess I answered them correctly, though she called our brother (also at work) to double-check with him. They think I might have bruised or even broken a rib or two in my fall, or maybe done something bad to a muscle or two.

It was a long night. Meg called to check in with me several times, and came to see me as soon as she got home, setting me up more comfortably on the couch and giving me still more of her stash of pain meds. She looked at it and couldn’t see any breakage or “lack of symmetry”, so it’s not as bad as it could be, but it sure ain’t fun.

I’m marooned on the couch until she wakes up this afternoon to check on me. Notice that I’m still blogging despite the pain, so maybe I really do have a problem. Is there blogging rehab?

The cats kept me company all night. Henry even sat on my lap for an extended period of time, sleeping and purring. Maybe they were worried about me, or knew something was up. Animals can surprise you. And comfort you.

I have to wonder if there’s some lesson here for me, something I’m supposed to learn from the constant pain and accidents ever since I moved. Any ideas?

Megan and I brought blankets, pillows, etc. with us to Lu’s party, in case we wanted to stay overnight. We didn’t, in the end, and my pillow was my undoing.

I brought it upstairs on my way to bed, but dropped it on the landing at the top of the stairs. Bending over to pick it up, I tripped over a wayward cord and fell to the floor beneath, with a resounding crash.

It was about seven feet, and I managed to break the house, though, amazingly, I didn’t break Self.

When I got up, I saw the hole in the floorboards, plus two long cracks. Rob came over the next day and repaired the hole, so it’s even better than it was (he also hid the cord catalyst), and Mark is going to put up a railing to stop any further gravity-related experiments. I honestly don’t know who was more horrified, Mark or me. I felt like the Worst Tenant Ever, smashing a big hole in the floor after living here about a week, and Mark felt terrible for not putting up the railing sooner. We all knew it was dangerous, but we reckoned without the powers of Calamity Suzy.

So other than being incredibly embarrassed and spectacularly bruised, I’m OK. Megan says her bruises were worse when she fell down the stairs at our brother’s old house a few years ago, right in front of his appalled eyes. But now the bruises and pulled muscles are keeping the housemaid’s knees company, I still can’t do much of anything. I couldn’t go Trick or Treating with Jessica, for example. But there’s always next year!

• Housemaid’s knee is receding, but still making its presence known. It has been joined by an unpleasant tingling sensation in my right leg, running pretty much the length of it. I have not yet regained my usual graceful gait, but I promise to be thankful for being able to actually walk once I can. For at least five minutes. And if this is a preview of being an old lady, I’m really not looking forward to that now.
• Besides wishing I could walk, I wish I could unpack. Actually, I’m wishing for Samantha Stephens or Jeannie to twitch or blink the house in order, no manual labor required. Besides being dreary and manicure-destroying, manual labor is what led to the limp in the first place.
• The cats have been getting along surprisingly well. There’s been the odd hiss or two, but no fights that I’ve seen or heard. Yesterday, I found them all asleep on the bed. Henry’s still skittish, but the girls are clearly happy and notably less naughty. They haven’t been racing through the house or breaking things at all. I think they’re enjoying going up and down the stairs and exploring their new house.
• I have no fewer than five doors in my house, but no locks. Today, one of the doors wasn’t latched properly and drifted open while I was out. June and Audrey were outside, but came in pretty easily when I called them. Henry was still inside – I suspect that years of being a stray have made the great outdoors a lot less appealing to him. My original plan was to keep them all in for a week, so they know it’s their house, and then let them out on the balcony from the bedroom, so they get used to the whole outside thing. After a few days, I’ll let them out the door downstairs. I’ll be curious to see what they do, how far they go, and whether I can get them in at night.

The road home

Operation Escape Oakland hit a few snags, as many elaborate maneuvers are wont to do.

Rob is an insulin-dependent diabetic, and had some issues with his sugar count early on Wednesday morning. We applied soda and waited for him to feel better. At times like this, it’s great to have your EMS trained brother at hand.

While Rob was recovering, Audrey decided she’d get a head start and escaped from her carrier. The girls’ carriers are cloth and close with zippers that meet in the middle. Audrey must have poked her nose or paw through the place where the zippers met until she made a big enough hole to slip out.

Unfortunately, I had left the car window open to give the girls some air while we completed the packing process.

Fortunately, Audrey ran into B’s garden, which is enclosed, so trapping her was (relatively) easy.

Unfortunately, I had learned nothing from this experience since Audrey repeated the escape, though this time remaining inside the car (with its windows closed).

Fortunately, my brother had a bit of string in his pocket, as boys often do, and tied the zippers together tightly.

It seems that Audrey does not enjoy driving any more than I do, since she did an encore of the carrier poo. When I finally decanted her, she was literally covered in it. Megan immediately put her in the sink and washed her, which Audrey took remarkably well, after meowing for pretty much the entire four hour drive. June had thrown up in her carrier, undoubtedly due to the proximity of the carrier poo. Henry didn’t utter a peep and all his bodily fluids stayed in his body.

I expected a series of boos, hisses, and claw to claw combat when all three cats met, but so far, so good. They have walked past each other without remark, though fights may still ensue. They do seem happy to be here, and are enjoying the view from the glass doors and exploring a new place. This is definitely a much more interesting house from a cat’s point of view.

As for me, I now have proof positive that housework is very, very bad for you.

After we finished most of the packing on Wednesday, we cleaned the house, which entailed grovelling around on hands and knees. Not for the first time, I reflected that cleaning is a job best left to the professionals. I’m pretty sure that this unnatural activity resulted in my knees going on strike. By the time I caught Audrey the second time, I noticed that the inside side of my knees (if you follow me) hurt. By the time we stopped for gas, I could hardly bend them. By the time we got home, Megan took one look at me and put me on her couch with ice packs and painkillers.

So while my family was unpacking all my things and stuff, I was lying on Megan’s couch watching “Gilmore Girls” and whimpering. The guilt was definitely worse than the pain. I feel better today, but have been ordered to take it easy so that hopefully tomorrow I’ll be able to get a few things done around my new house.

It was an adventure, all right. Would you expect anything less from Calamity Suzy?

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

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

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

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

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

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

I hate:

• Having to wait for the kettle to boil, then attempt to pour said water onto grounds without spilling or scalding Self (no easy task when you’re Calamity Suzy);

• Having to wait again for the coffee to strengthen sufficiently to jumpstart a cold and Grinch-sized heart;
• How there’s always a certain amount of sludge in the bottom of my coffee cup; and
• Having to scrape* out the grounds, but yet have enough left over to get into everything I wash and leave a sad ring-around-the sink in its wake.

I think I hate that most of all.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Now, that looks dangerous.

Your average, drugstore-bought round brush doesn’t, does it? But in the hands of Calamity Suzy, I assure you it is.

In a foolish attempt to recreate the hairstyle my stylist* gave me a few days before (much like that sported lately by the lovely Reese), I managed to get the brush hopelessly entangled in my hair. Within seconds. Faster than the gunfight at the OK Corral. It was like, turn on hair dryer, wrap hair around brush – SNAG!

Uh oh.

I tried to untangle it, looking in the mirror from every conceivable angle, pulling hopelessly at various tufts until the inevitable became apparent.

I had to cut the brush out.

This is not what a girl wants to hear after dropping some serious change on a fabulous haircut and highlights. All I can say is thank God I’m moving or my stylist would kill me. Or run me out of town on a rail** for destroying his artwork.

So, yeah: SNIP! And SOB!

Fortunately, like Meg in LIttle Women, I am only bald underneath. Unfortunately for the brush, my hair was so wildly entangled in it that I threw it out in horror and embarrassment. Enough for about a million DNA tests on any given CSI, so I better keep my nose clean.

And my hair unbrushed.

*Oh, Sandy and Didi…I think I’ll miss you most of all!

**Probably still more enjoyable than your average airport experience. Or mine.

Well, venturing from the house really didn’t pay off for me.

1. I took Rita for quick tour of the alleyway (yes, that alleyway) before running (and falling) some errands. No fiesta evidence, but the following: yoga pants; sports bra; hoody, abandoned, as if someone petite had just stepped out of them (and walked away in her panties?!). No body, just the clothes. Go figure. I can’t. Neither can Rita.

2. A guy with a heavy Scots accent asked me where the nearest coffee shop was. Outside a Starbucks. His accent was so strong I had to ask him to repeat it. Which of us looks dumber* in this particular anecdote?
3. A Jamaican cab driver earnestly asked me if I spoke Polish. I don’t know what about me exactly broadcasts “Get your Polish translations here” or why this guy was in such dire of need of same, but there you have it.
4. On walking into a store – or attempting to do so – I stumbled and fell, embarrassing Self and breaking a nail. It’s always the innocent who suffer.
5. A visibly (across the shoulder and up the neck and onto the face) girl asked me if I knew where to buy a bathing suit. My immediate, unspoken response was “Do I look like someone who knows where to buy a bathing suit?” I look like someone who should be heavily sedated before even thinking of buying a bathing suit.

   I told this story to my fabulous friend K, who said we should invent a place where women could buy bathing suits and not want to kill themselves or the nearest supermodel. In our imaginary (but wildly successful) store, you’d get valium and a cocktail of your choice before even approaching the dressing room. The dressing room would be lit by candles, which we all know are the most flattering, as opposed to the hideous fluorescent bulbs favored by most department stores, which make one look like a cottage cheese avalanche. I think we might even go as far as those fun house mirrors which make you look really thin, as opposed to those completely un-fun mirrors in department stores which scar you for life. We’re thinking of calling it Suit Yourself. Investors, apply to me.

Well, that’s what happens when you leave the house.

*Years ago, one of my oldest friends was rooming with an Australian guy. I came over to visit my friend, who hadn’t gotten home yet. The roommate did his best to entertain me, but I was completely unequal to his accent. After a few rounds of “Excuse me?” and “Can you repeat that?” I subsided into agreeing with everything. Am convinced that as soon as I left, he told my friend that I was just about the stupidest person he’d ever met. “I aked her if she was a cannibal, and she said yes! She agreed to have 19 children with me! She thinks Ronald Reagan is a genius! Ronald McDonald, too!”

It was an unusually embarrassing day for our heroine, whose aliases include “Calamity Suzy” due to her amazing talent for being accident prone. Not to mention that in addition to the usual fights against gravity (boobs’n'butt), she ends up wearing part of every meal. Her eating style is probably comparable to Mike’s beautiful daughter Marina (though far less charming). I hasten to add that despite being a messy eater, our heroine does know what fork to use. The food just might not stay on it.

The day started out reasonably enough, with a cup of black coffee and a completely perfect peach, but deteriorated rapidly. I went to water the flowers so kindly planted by (but not maintained by) the Mystery Gardener. While walking out the door, I managed to trip and fall forward, smashing the pitcher of water and falling onto my side. My shoes had fled inside, and I lay there winded for a moment, hoping that no-one would see me. They would be all too likely to jump to the wrong conclusion based on the contents of my recycling box, against which I was gracelessly arranged.

When I was finally able to get up and breathe again and wash off the blood, I went to the doctor. Not because of the watering incident, but because of my oh-so-tenuous mental health. I burst into tears in her office. She increased my dose of happy pills.

I thought it would be too embarrassing to be seen on public transit, weeping and sniffling, so I treated my beat-up body and psyche to a cab ride home. Waiting at a red light, a loiterer on the street corner winked at me. I smiled politely. He said, “Meet you at the next traffic light, baby!” I just shook my head and looked away. Then he started knocking on the window of the cab, saying, “You can’t even look at me now? Aaaah, you’re blushing!” Which was true. This was the longest red light in the world. The cab driver was supremely unaware or superbly uninterested, since he appeared not to notice a thing. He has probably seen far more interesting things in his career.

I finally got home and decided to have a nice long bath, complete with a Lush bath bomb. I ran the tub, applied the bath bomb, which fizzed deliciously, and went to get my silly, fluffy novel and a glass of wine, which I set on the edge of the tub. While leaning forward to turn off the taps, I managed to slip on an errant piece of cinnamon from the bath bomb and knocked the entire glass of wine into the bath. The glass didn’t break, but I sat there thinking of an old commercial: “You’re soaking in it!”

Now is the summer of our discontent….

A construction worker, talking on a payphone (how retro is that?):

“And that’s why this city drives me crazy. Honest to God!”

Two guys on bikes:

Guy One: “That’s the kind of bullshit I’ve had to work with here.”
Guy Two: “it’s all bullshit here.”

Maybe I should move.

I already have two summer-related stupidity injuries (Calamity Suzy did not stay in Florida):

• A scrape on my left elbow. This was due to breezily informing a friend and hammock owner that I knew all about getting into and out of these summery contraptions. I may have gone so far as to boast that I had “skills”. The hammock promptly dumped me on the ground in a graceless heap to prove that I was just as wrong as I could be. That’s the “mock” part of the hammock. Yes, it mocked me for being such a ham.
  
• A burn on the fingers of my right hand, incurred while attempting remove skewers of shrimp from my barbecue unassisted. I discovered that you really shouldn’t hold onto the barbecue with your bare hands (or fingers). Kids, don’t try this at home.

Calamity Suzy Rides Again…

…or not, as the case may be.

I’ve taken the accident-prone talent to a whole new level. Now I don’t even have to be awake. Yesterday, I actually woke up with a scratch on my face from an errant feather in my pillow. I’m beginning to think the birds heard that I was considering getting rid of them and acted first. While examining the scratch in the bathroom mirror, to the triumphant cawing and shrieking of the flock of conspirators outside, I discovered a whole flock of zits inside. They are a less than charming counterpoint to the scratch. Now I look almost as immature as I am.

While talking on the phone and stepping outside, managed to hit my still-wounded knee against the aluminum doorframe, re-wounding it. Note to self: don’t talk while walking. Or walk while talking.

Not that driving is much better, in my case. Faithful readers may recall my automobile adventures just three months ago. Apparently, I learned nothing from that episode, since I managed to lock my keys in the car yet again.

Bad news: As usual, I did not have my cell phone, because I was using a very tiny, but very cute handbag (patterned with Marilyn Monroe magazine covers) that could barely hold my wallet.

Good news: There was a payphone! So I called the towing company.

Bad news: “That’ll be an hour, ma’am”. Also, $60 worth of stupid.

Good news: I was at Walgreens, so I bought a bunch of trashy tabloids and caught up on my Bradifer, Charles’n'Camilla, and Wacko Jacko news. They even had a bench outside. And unlike the last time I locked my keys in the car, it was 70&deg outside.

Bad news: It took an hour and a half for Rescue Guy to appear, pleading traffic.

It took him about two seconds to get the car door open. It just goes to show how quickly someone could steal your car. He wisely wouldn’t leave until I had actually started the car, and when I thanked him, he said, “That’s all right, sweetheart.” I love how everyone calls you “sweetheart” and “hon” here.

Good thing I’m flying home.

It’s Calamity Suzy!!

Yesterday I:

- Fell and scraped both knees, which are now even less fit for public viewing than usual, being red and puffy. I hasten to add that this was sun-related and not alcohol related: I was blinded by the sun and tripped on a huge crack in the driveway.

I did this in front of the two cable guys, who were unlucky enough to be sent to fix the cable. They ended up being here for more than three hours and had to replace pretty much everything. They couldn’t really laugh at me, though, because they were calamity cable guys, one cutting his head on an open window and the other cutting his hand along with the new cable.

- Tore side of dress in the process of falling on the driveway, revealing pale pink satin bra to an unsuspecting public. Failed to realize this until after the cable guys had gone and I had talked to the mailman and a couple of my friend Paul’s neighbors. Belated blushes.

- Hit head getting out of car.

- Melted into tears in front of Paul. Very, very embarrassing.

- Burned my hand on the pot lid while making dinner. Note to self: don’t pick up metal handled lids from boiling pots with bare hands. Really not a good idea.

- Cut the other hand while cutting a lemon.

At this rate, I’m going to need the services of Rico from Six Feet Under while I’m still alive in order to remain at all presentable.