Suzy Says

My wonderful friend Kathleen is, as I write, winging her way to me (well, the Oakland airport, where I will claim her in baggage claim ’round midnight) from Detroit. Little does she know that among the many amenities of Chez Suzy (constantly barking dogs; scavengers peering through the trash – and sometimes the windows; unexpected requests for late-night cash) is a shower without the cold tap. Yes, while attempting to take a post-gym shower, the cold tap came off in my hand.

On closer inspection, it appears that some kind of long, thin, stiletto-like screwdriver is needed to go in through the hole in the handle and screw it back on to the tap shaft. All pieces are, of course, as rusty as my brain, though in their case, it’s decades of use, rather than the lack of it. I have a message in to the landlords, but considering they have yet to respond to the note* I enclosed with last month’s rent check, and it’s time for another one, I’m pretty sure I’m going to have to live with the improvised solution of vise grips currently turning the cold tap on and off for an indefinite length of time.

Of course this happens literally hours before my guest arrives. I really am the hostess with the leastes’.

*I asked if they’d let me paint the roof with heat reflecting paint, and to replace the battered lawn with drought-tolerant ground cover. If they’d buy the materials, I’d do the work. The house would look better and be more comfortable. You’d think this would be a win-win, right?

I found a Blog Doctor to diagnose and treat my blog. I’m following the prescriptions and waiting for the results right along with you. The Doctor is so In that he’s working on it this weekend, even as I type. How’s that for above and beyond the call of duty? If only healthcare for humans was as good as it is for blogs…

Since I have no healthcare insurance, I had to resort to the QuickHealth clinic at the Farmacia Something, conveniently located right near the BART station. You sign in and wait, along with the madd(en)ing crowds. Then you go into a teeny room, chat with a kindly doctor from Mexico about politics and the weather while he takes your blood pressure (possibly affected by the political chat) and other vitals. Then you go and wait some more for the prescriptions, perusing the shelves of mysterious panaceas (what’s Volcano Oil used for?) while babies cry and cheerful mariachi music plays. Fifty dollars later, you’re out of there, and on your way to Wal-Mart to get your prescriptions filled.

If it isn’t Wal-Mart, it seems. But the prescriptions are $4 each, so it’s (hopefully) worth the bad karma and soul erosion to go there.

The waiting motif continued at Wal-Mart, once I located the pharmacy in the hangar-sized store. The pharmacy was technically open, but no-one was there, other than a line of irate would-be customers. Coincidentally, the guy ahead of me was wearing a Geddy’s Pub t-shirt – here on vacation. The girls behind me were from Detroit, also on vacation*, so the time was agreeably filled by chatting about both places. Once the pharmacy opened, it took forever for the ancient, harried-looking clerk to dispense with us.

The whole process, from Farmacia to Pharmacy, took most of the day, and left me feeling quite third world. My final stop was at Safeway, where Ray leaned over the cash and said confidentially of a guy leaving the store, “Don’t that look like a prison walk? I can just see him walkin’ around the yard at San Quentin. Mm-mm.”

*Apparently, vacationing in Oakland is hazardous to your health.

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!

I’m pretty sure my $20 has been turned into crack.

It’s been hot’n'heinous lately. In a vain attempt to keep from melting/swooning/dying in my very own living room (if I must make a headline, I don’t want it to be as a cat snack), I had the both the front and back doors open to catch any stray breezes*. Since this is Oakland, I had both doors locked.

One sultry afternoon, I was trying to convince myself that the heat was an anomaly, it’s much worse where people have real weather, etc. when there was a pounding on the front door.

A tall, skinny, older African-American man stood there. Gasping slightly, he told me that he was my neighbor and needed $17.50 for a locksmith. His car keys were locked in his house and he needed to go and pick up his granddaughter. I asked him if he needed some water, but he said no. He offered me his driver’s license, which has an address on my street, and told me I could hold it until he brought the money back.

Caught off guard and slightly unnerved, I gave him $20. He gave me the license and ran down my steps, calling out, “I love you! I love you!”

I looked at the license. It expires in 2012, so it’s current, and the description and photo match the look of the guy. It’s been two or three days now, and I’m still mystified. It costs more than $20 to replace your license. Maybe it’s a scam and he has a bunch of fake ones he uses, or he stole it from someone else. Who knows?

Never a dull moment when you live in Oakland.

*The house appears to be set up for central heating and central air, but the central air doesn’t work. I called the landlord, who said vaguely that she had never used the central air, but if you open the front and back doors, you get “an awesome crossbreeze”. Thanks.

June searching for Santa, Christmas Eve.

You will be relieved to learn that I can now relieve Self without fear of turning my lawn (still unmowed) into a toxic waste dump. I finally reached the landlord and she in turn reached the Roto Rooter guy. He loomed into view on a stormy day (my house has a big front window and the front door is mostly glass, so visitors just appear, practically in the living room), wearing big rubber gloves and a rain slicker, as popularized in horror movies. But there was nothing horrifying about him, except his job. He fixed the vintage plumbing and aftermath in the pouring rain. I felt really sorry for him, even though he kept saying things like “sanitary products”. ~shudder~

Although The Beautiful June Bug looks like her mother, I didn’t want her to act like her and end up a pregnant teenage runaway, so a trip to the vet was in order. Fortunately, there is a vet nearby with excellent accreditations and a kindly staff. I still nearly cried when I left her there. They kept her overnight, and kept me posted on her progress. I couldn’t wait to pick her up the next day, and beamed with pride when they complimented her beauty and good manners. June is so stoic and brave and never complains, even when stuffed into a carrier for twelve hours at a time.

The Adorable Audrey Grey, on the other hand, complains enough for two cats, and then some. She takes after me. She is also precocious, and has decided she’s ready to date, though she’s not even 6 months old yet. Like most parents, I disagree on this point. She may have her eye on the stray grey cat who lounges on the garage roof, the cat equivalent of a leather-clad, tattooed and pierced older guy on a motorcycle. Of course she wants to go out with him.

Her escape attempts have increased along with her demands to go out and have fun like all the other kittens. Today she actually climbed up the chimney, which is fortunately blocked. Thankfully, it’s her turn at the vet’s tomorrow, and not a moment too soon.

These kittens today.

I didn’t do a thing for Christmas. The tree stayed in its box, the door remained unwreathed, presents unbought. I spent the whole day in my pajamas, reading the new Sue Grafton. In the evening, I lit the candles in the fireplace and sipped champagne. It was the most peaceful Christmas I’ve had in a long time.

Hope yours was, too.

Sunny Sunday afternoon. I’m lying on the couch reading a frivolous novel, though I should be unpacking. But I’ve adopted a Scarlett O’Hara attitude to the maze of boxes today; I’ll think about them tomorrow.

I’m startled from the peaceful perusal of the pages by a loud knocking on the door. Opening it, I see a huge gentleman in his Sunday best, hat in hand. “Ma’am, that your car?” he asks, gesturing to the driveway. “Yes,” I whisper. He puts something in my hand. “Left your keys in the door. I seen ‘em on my way to church.” “Thank you,” I say. “Welcome. Bless you,” he says, and goes on his way, putting his hat back on.

And in the continuing adventures of the car…

I went to the store this morning to get a baguette for breakfast. On my way home, my head full of thoughts of creamy Brie on fresh bread with crisp green apples and hot, black coffee, I got a ticket.

I was thirty feet from my house – I could see it – and I apparently didn’t come to a complete stop at the stop sign in front of the church.

The cop car is still there, mocking me.