Suzy Says

You never know what’s going to happen when you go to the Safeway. Maybe it’s because I tend to go before work, when the store is lightly populated, and much like when I worked market hours in San Francisco, the denizens tend to be those heading to early morning jobs or those heading home from late night partying.

Recently, I came into the brightly lit Safeway from the rainy darkness, wearing my coat and the hat I bought long ago at the County Fair, which is my official winter hat. As I looked over the lychees*, a youngish guy walked by and told me, “You look adorable today!” It was a nice way to start the day. And just like when the guy tried to pick me up at the gas station a couple of years ago, I had to wonder if it was the last time that I would get a random compliment from a stranger. So I enjoyed it while I could.

My bank has a branch inside the local Safeway, which is very convenient. One day, I went in to take out some cash, and there was an older woman with a shopping cart standing in front of the ATM, but apparently working on her checkbook. I asked if she was using the ATM, and she said she wasn’t, moving her cart out of the way and saying, “I always feel like I’m in the way.” I got my cash and on my way out, apologized for disturbing her. She looked at me and said, “Every human interaction is a gift.” That made me stop and think. All day, I came back to that thought.

It made me think of Safeway Ray, the store employee who used to dance with me when I shopped there and made existing in Oaktown just a little more tolerable.

*I love lychees. They always remind me of my dear friend A and how we used to eat them walking down the street when we were young, feeling waifish. Also, they are delicious.

FIVE YEARS AGO: Seemingly endless power outages.

TEN YEARS AGO: A welcome visit from an old friend.

FIFTEEN YEARS AGO: Random food-related thoughts.

TWENTY YEARS AGO: The ugly truth about cosmetic surgery.

It’s the last day of March. The month flew by quickly, and spring is making its presence known. Somehow, the bear-attracting apple tree has blossomed without my noticing the bud stage at all:

and the trees in the long curves at Caspar and Little River are misted with leaves of that heart-breaking, almost electric green that they only have when newborn.

When I leave for work in the morning, I give the cats treats to distract them, and before I go out the door, I always take a look back at the house:

It always seems like the most beautiful place when I’m about to venture out into the Wide World. And we all know no good ever comes of doing that.

I’m getting a new computer. My current model is from 2012. The trackpad no longer works, and the black plastic connecting the screen to the rest of it is badly frayed and missing entirely in some places.

I had trackpad problems a couple of years ago, which were expensively resolved. Or resolved-ish, since they have reared their ugly heads again. I brought the ailing laptop to someone else this time, and he said the battery was swollen and had to be replaced, and that the swelling was what made the trackpad refuse to click. He relieved me of $150 for taking the battery out of another laptop and putting it in mine.

When I got home, I discovered that not only did it not click, I couldn’t drag anything. I thought about getting another technician to look at it, but it’s 10 years old and I have already put more than enough money into it. It’s time to get a new to me laptop. And ask if I can give back the battery and get a refund.

I stopped at the post office on my way to work this morning, my usual time for this chore. I came across a young homeless guy in there, and he asked me if I knew what time it was. I didn’t, because I had left my phone in the car*, but I gave him my best guess, based on when I left the house. He said, “Thank you, sweetheart”. He was probably in his 20s, so I found it unusual that he would call me that, though I enjoyed it as much as I always do. He also asked me when the Gro opened, which I could tell him, and as I left the post office, he said cheerfully, “Have a good day, sweetheart!” It was a nice start to the day.

I seem to be encountering homeless guys a fair bit recently. There is one who often sleeps under the tent at work where we do COVID shots and testing. I say hello to him in the morning if he’s awake, and try not to wake him up if he’s not. He works at McDonalds, but still doesn’t have a place to live. I think we both like seeing each other in the morning. I’m hoping he can get back on his feet soon.

*My cute pink iPod died a few weeks ago, so I’m now using Apple Music. Still figuring it out. It has a lot of drawbacks compared to the iPod. I really am not a fan of change, especially in technology.

A YEAR AGO: My brother was off on an adventure

FIVE YEARS AGO: Enjoying the ballet.

TEN YEARS AGO: A surprise gift.

FIFTEEN YEARS AGO: Some coincidences.

TWENTY YEARS AGO: My favorite flowers bring back some happy memories.

This year’s lilacs

Spring has definitely sprung in Hooterville. The air is softer and full of birdsong, and fruit trees are foamy with blossoms and buzzing with busy bees. Lilacs, irises, and California poppies are blooming. I am still wearing a coat to work, buttoned up in the morning and unbuttoned* in the evening, and in the mornings, I have the heat on in the car, while in the evenings, I have the car window open. Seasons here are a little more subtle than in most of the country.

I have found over the past few years that I appreciate spring more and more. At this point, I would rate the seasons from best to worst as: spring, fall, winter, and summer. If I still lived back East, I think fall would come out on top, because of the glorious leaf colors and the delightful, cool respite from the horror of summer, always my least favorite season. I hate the heat. I always have.

When I was a kid, we were lucky enough to escape the muggy and buggy summers in upstate New York by fleeing to Maine the minute the school year dragged to an end. There we enjoyed the cool, foggy summers, much like the summers in the Big Town on the Mendocino Coast. Very often, the Big Town is fogged in all of my working day, while back home in Hooterville, it is sunny and bright. The sunshine comes at a cost, though, making it up to 20 degrees warmer than it is on the foggy coast.

Fortunately, my current abode is insulated and less of an art project than my previous Hooterville home of many years, which was like living in a tent. It was freezing cold in the winter and boiling hot in the summer, especially up in the sleeping loft, where the heat went to party and after party. Despite the quirks of the house, and the beauty of the house I live in now, I still miss the old house. There were a lot of great memories there, and it was such a cool and unusual place.

I do enjoy the winter, with the sound of rain and peeping frogs and the bright breasts of robins, who winter here, and the dramatic spouts of passing whales. It’s nice to read with a cup of tea and a scented candle, cuddled up with the cats. I enjoy the coziness and feeling safe. When I was a child back East, I loved skiing and playing in the snow and the violet shadows of the trees on winter afternoons and the distinctive, white light in the house after a snowfall. I have always loved Christmas, with its sparkliness and joy.

As for summer…well, it’s something to be endured. I used to love the long summers in Maine when I was a kid, that glorious feeling of freedom with three school-free months stretching ahead. I’m glad I enjoyed those days when I had them. And I do still enjoy the changing seasons, no matter how subtle.

*Also the name of my current favorite lip gloss, which I’m wearing right now while eating Lifesavers for breakfast.

A YEAR AGO: Some updates.

FIVE YEARS AGO: Some happy encounters.

TWENTY YEARS AGO: A bad mail day.

Happy Solstice!

We are well and truly into the madness of the spring time change, aka the hard one, when they steal an hour of sleep from you and plunge you back into darkness, just when there’s a glimmer of hope on the horizon in the morning. It makes me indignant every year, especially when facing the seemingly endless barrage of oncoming traffic, most of whom can’t seem to grasp the concept of turning off their high beams to avoid blinding other motorists.

A few years ago, Californians voted overwhelmingly in favor of stopping this senseless ritual. No one knows why it started or why it persists. Even if it’s entirely apocryphal, I love the story that Native Americans say, “Only the white man would cut a strip from the bottom of a blanket and sew it to the top of the blanket and think that makes it longer”, or something like that. But for some reason, the banishment of Daylight Saving Time has stalled somewhere in the lawmaking machinery, and we are stuck with the craziness and feeling jet lagged for days. Thanks, politicians!

The renewal of the morning darkness makes me appreciate even more the moonlight on the ocean, Venus beaming in the east, and the fact that Ledford House has kept an outside tree lit up long past the holiday season, where it can spark a little joy as I drive by on my way to work on a dark spring morning.

Little River Inn has kept its roofline lights aglow, a welcome sight as I crest the hill into Little River. And I look forward to the handful of scattered lights in the Village and the beams of light from the Point Cabrillo light station. Light in the darkness is especially beautiful this time of year.

A YEAR AGO: Jonathan and Rio’s desert adventures.

FIVE YEARS AGO: Remembering Dad.

TEN YEARS AGO: A look around my springtime garden.

FIFTEEN YEARS AGO: Waiting for the cable guy. And waiting. And waiting…

TWENTY YEARS AGO: Brush with fame! A brief encounter with my former neighbor, Nicolas Cage.

This was a year of milestones. Jessica turned 18; Jarrett turned 40; my blog turned 20; Megan turned 50; she and Rob celebrated their 30th wedding anniversary, and we mourned the 20th anniversary of our father’s death.

We also mourned the devastating loss of Megan and Rob’s beloved dog, Star. We knew she was sick, but the end was sudden. She has left a huge hole in their household, and we still miss her. But a new dog, Millie, brought joy to our lives in late summer, especially to Stella, who was missing Star much more than we expected. Stella and Millie love playing together, and it’s heart-warming to see how happy they are together.

I read 110 books this year, an improvement over last year’s paltry 86 (assuming my record-keeping was accurate that year), but falling short of the record high of 118 in 2010. I seem to have developed a love for Canadian graphic novels. I devoured all of “Clyde Fans” and every Michel Rabagliati book I could get my hands on.

This was also a year of successful culinary experimentation, in which I learned how to make my own Canelés de Bordeaux, Chinese BBQ pork, lemon chicken, har gao (shrimp dumplings), and pork and chive crystal dumplings.

Here’s all the news I saw fit to print this year:

January: The New Year begins. Come along on my commute. It’s a pretty one. I stepped down from my high office (or possibly my high horse) as the library board Chair, though I remain on the Board. High office is not for the likes of me. Also, it was completely perk-free, as far as I could see. I might be persuaded to try it again if a tiara and a limo were involved. Getting to work was an adventure. Swooning over Frank from afar, and remembering the inimitable Buddy, my first cat love. Frank is still doing well and is his fighty and adorable self. A magical encounter on my way to work. A friend told me that she thinks it was Dad checking in with me. I hope she’s right. And I hope he’s wrong and I see him again one day.

February: John’s rescued kittens. My proudest achievement. Thinking about love. Such an unusual thing to do around Valentine’s Day! A fun trip to the South Coast. I always love it there.

March: The heart-breaking news of our beloved Star’s terminal illness. Jonathan and Rio were off having adventures. When I heard how long they were going to be gone, I knew they would not be here to say goodbye to Star. Unfortunately, I was correct in this. Despite knowing she was ill, her death was sudden, merciful for our darling Star, but hard for those she left behind, including Stella. I still miss our beautiful Star. Megan’s place is not the same without her. I had not realized that she was the heart of their household until she was gone. Dad’s 90th birthday came on the heels of Star’s death.

April: Kitty updates. Getting my hair done and getting an Easter basket cheered me up. My blog turned 20! Can you believe it? And Jessica turned 18! Can you believe that, too? Remembering a wonderful visit with my beloved friend A at her home in Amsterdam in 1994. This month’s theme seems to be the swift passage of time and what we lose along the way.

May: Things were a little too exciting for Dodge. But it didn’t stop him from enjoying his 5th birthday. Making Tourtière from a friend’s family recipe. The joys of a beautiful spring. Megan turned 50, a reason to celebrate! A lot of milestones this year.

June: Enjoying some time off. An excellent birthday, including getting my hair cut and colored and a little trip to the beautiful South Coast. I looked around the small, but scenic, cemetery while I was in Anchor Bay. Summer crowds were out in force in the Village. An expensive flat tire. A lovely, but hot, trip to the beautiful Valley.

July: Orange is the new pink at my house. I love my house. The always amazing Flynn Creek Circus. Another milestone on this milestone-studded year: Megan and Rob’s 30th anniversary! A visit to the Valley, where you can taste cider under the very trees the cider apples grew on. A trip to Bodega Bay, to scope out locations from “The Birds” and remember family Christmases there with Dad. A glamorous stay at the Flamingo in Santa Rosa. The joy of a concert at the Music Festival.

August: My first attempt at making Canelés de Bordeaux was surprisingly successful. I fell i love with a giant ceramic apple (yes, you read that right!) and bought it for the garden. I love it. Some extreme (and extreemly delicious) take-out. Conventional wisdom seems to be wrong when it comes to my unconventional cats. A new deck and a new dog at Megan and Rob’s place! Remembering our much-loved father 20 years after his sudden and untimely death. I will never stop loving and missing him. Ever. Getting contact lenses again. Checking out some beautiful artwork around town.

September: Another successful cooking experiment: Chinese BBQ pork. Meet Millie, Megan and Rob’s new dog! She and Stella are so happy together! I seem to have been out of control with the make your own delicacies. This time: dim sum! A really fun family dinner in the garden. A horrifying (and horrifying expensive) root canal. Just one little thing can make a big difference in a room.

October: I admit it. I’m a scented candle addict. Rainy day baking. Some mid-week sparkles with a friend, and end of week Eggs Benedict at the amazing Queenie’s. Some small-town crimes, a little too close to home for comfort. And in the miscellaneous department…

November: John stepped up his rescue activities with caring for a batch of abandoned, newborn kittens. He had to get up every two hours to feed them for weeks. I am pleased to say they all made it and were safely given to a local rescue for adoption. Yay, John! He’s my hero. Redbeard was finally caught! And Suzy’s Dim Sum Palace was open for business. Yet another crown for my collection, and not the fun, sparkly kind, either. A drink with a side of view. A quietly thankful Thanksgiving.

December: A quiet, but delicious Thanksgiving dinner. The incredible sparkly beauty of the Festival of Lights. In which I learn to make my own lemon chicken while the Chinese restaurant is closed, and enjoy a drink or two with my sister at our local bar. Finally tackling the Closet of Doom. Putting up the Christmas tree. An unnerving earthquake on Solstice Eve. A pretty Christmas Eve and a quiet Christmas Day. Having fun watching Emily in Paris with my sister.

I have no idea what next year will bring, but as this year ends, I am grateful for my family, my friends, my cats, my health, my lovely house, my meaningful work, the beautiful place I live, and the small, special moments in life that are there every day.

A YEAR AGO: A look back at 2020.

FIVE YEARS AGO: Reviewing 2016.

TEN YEARS AGO: What happened in 2011.

FIFTEEN YEARS AGO: The year of the dog.

TWENTY YEARS AGO: The last day of the last year of my father’s life.

During one of my many recent trips to Petaluma, I noticed that part of the dreaded 580 is officially named the John T. Knox (whoever he is/was) freeway. This is not the kind of immortality I’d like.

Dad and I used to talk about everything, and one thing we talked about was having things named for one posthumously. Dad thought it would be nice to have a public garden or park named in his honor – anyone could enjoy it, and there would be the whole cycle of life and renewal thing. He was a devoted and talented gardener, like his mother and his youngest daughter, and in the midst of our preparations for his memorial service, the autumn plants he had ordered arrived, at once comforting and sad and hopeful.

As I drove for the nth time to Petaluma, to see a house I probably won’t get, it occurred to me that my perfect immortality would be a handbag.

I’d like to be the Kelly or Birkin of my time.

The Kelly was named for the iconic beauty, actress and real-life princess Grace Kelly, of course, and legend has it that she carried the roomy Hermès bag to conceal her pregnancy from the paparazzi. I don’t know if that’s true, but I do know that more than half a century later, it’s still so highly coveted that there’s a lengthy waiting list, and they start at $5,000.

The Birkin was named for Jane Birkin, sultry actress/singer and muse to Serge Gainsbourg. Versions vary as to how the lovely Jane got involved in the creation of her eponymous bag about 25 years ago, but it’s the most desirable of all the Hermès bags, and supposedly has a waiting list of two years. When Logan gave Rory a hot pink Birkin bag on Gilmore Girls, I was shocked that she didn’t know what it was, and wanted to grab it from her unappreciative hands immediately. Fortunately, she later understood the significance of the gift. I hope she kept it after they broke up.

I know I would.

Besides the practicality – you can use your namesake bag as often as you’d like – you’ll have something beautiful to live on after you’re gone, but not forgotten.

Apparently, those of you in Canada and/or the UK have a four day weekend to celebrate Easter (and hopefully, by now, the arrival of spring). Here in the US of A, we rarely, if ever, get a four day weekend, and we don’t get any long weekends from New Year’s Day to Memorial Day, in late May. No wonder people keep going nuts in public in this country.

Oh, well. Easter, like most things, isn’t as much fun when you grow up. Knowing that I’m not going to wake up to a basket full of candy (or a new bonnet, for that matter) on Sunday morning will just make it easier to sleep in, cats permitting.

In retrospect, it kind of amazes me that we could eat candy at 7:00 on any morning, especially when Marshmallow Peeps are involved. Now just looking at displays of them make me shudder and avert my eyes, teeth aching.

When I got home from work today, I discovered that the recycling hadn’t been collected, though the green bin and the garbage bin had been emptied. Clearly the recycling guys have a better deal and possibly even a four day weekend.

The mailman didn’t have the day off, either, since he had left me a surprise package. On investigation, it turned out to be from my former neighbor, who has my kittens’ mother and who often surprises me with little cutenesses. This package had flowers and drawings on it, and inside, there were fabulous things from MAC, including the sold-out Hello Kitty* lipglass in Mimmy.

It was a grown-up Easter basket.

*Yes, I did love Katy Perry’s Hello Kitty top, though not the leggings.

Why is it that even though I’m (technically) a grown-up, Sunday evenings are just as depressing as they were when I was a kid? I no longer have to worry about my homework being done, but that seems to be very little comfort when facing yet another week of work and worries. Seriously, kids: being a grown-up is not fun! It’s not eating pizzas and staying up late every night. It’s paying bills and wondering how on earth you’re going to pay your taxes and what horrible thing is going to happen next.

Forgive the gloom, but I’m crampy and crabby* and my living room is awash in countless boxes, giving it that just moved in look so few decorators can achieve. Yesterday, I met my brother at the storage, and we loaded up my brother-in-law’s truck with approximately a zillion boxes of my stuff, which are now sprawled all over my living room, making themselves at home.

The kitties, of course, are delighted, and are happily climbing on top of them, sniffing them, clawing them, jumping at them, trying to pry them open, etc., whereas I mostly gaze at them gloomily and then go make a drink.

Today I did go through a couple, and at least half of it can be trashed, but even that is problematic, since my trash can is positively petite, while the green bin is unnecessarily capacious. I could go the traditional route and dump everything under the freeway like everyone else around here, but I think I’ll try and find the real dump instead.

In the meantime, it’s girl vs. boxes. I think I know who’s going to win.

*This seems to get worse and worse as I get older, and an informal survey reveals that this is usually the case. I was pinning all my hopes on achieving menopause soon, but apparently you get all the monthly girl grossness plus added delights, such as hot flashes. For years. I don’t think there’s a man out there who could endure the amount of pain and misery we girls do, not to mention the indignity and grossness, and I’m not even counting the waxing or the mammograms here.

While I was making egg salad today, it occurred to me that it was basically eggs with egg sauce. Also that it may be the only food which is ever served with, as it were, a sauce of itself. Not just egg salad (eggs being an important part of mayonnaise), but Hollandaise*, too, the most delightful part of any Eggs Benedict or Florentine. If you are a fan of Hollandaise and find yourself in the picturesque town of Fort Bragg, California, go to Egghead’s. Theirs is magically delicious. I love their freshly-squeezed grapefruit juice, too.

I make excellent egg salad, by the way. I’d tell you how, but I never measure anything when I make it. So you’ll just have to take my word for it.

As I sliced and diced, I pondered other culinary conundrums, such as why you always have to buy huge bunches of herbs, like a bridezilla’s bouquet. Wouldn’t it be great if you could buy just what you needed? I can almost never use them up and I always feel guilty, though at least I can put them in the green bin and know they’ll be composted. Maybe other herbs will grow in the leftover herb compost, completing the circle of life.

Another mystery is why the hothouse or English cucumbers always come in shrink wrap, whereas regular cucumbers don’t. Why do the English ones need condoms? I mean, they have their own skin, which should be protection enough. Shouldn’t it?

When you order a dish in a restaurant that has shrimp in it – say, for example, seafood fettucine – why does it always have the tail on? It’s an uncomfortable reminder that the shrimp in question was once swimming happily around, minding its own business, until someone yanked it out of the water and killed it so you could eat it. That makes me feel even guiltier than the composted herbs.

Apart from cruelty to small crustaceans, there is the problem of actually eating the shrimp. You can either pick it up and de-tail it, thereby getting sauce on your manicure, or you can cut it off with a knife, possibly missing out on some shrimpy goodness. It’s a problem, I tell you. At least for those with shrimpy minds.

And if you’ve been wondering what kind of wine to serve with your Cool Ranch Doritos or Krispy Kreme donut – and who hasn’t, really – here’s your answer. Enjoy in immoderation!

*Does “aise” secretly mean “egg-based” in French? Enquiring minds and unreformed linguistics majors want to know.

An email from a friend yesterday bemoaned the horrors of looking for a bathing suit for an upcoming trip to the sunny Caribbean. Is there a girl alive who hasn’t suffered the indignities of bad lighting and mirrors that magnify every flaw? Bathing suit shopping in its current form should be forbidden under the Geneva Convention.

If I ran a bathing suit store, here’s how it would work:

1. Change all the sizes. If the bathing suit is really a size 12, for example, label it a 10. The shopper will try on her usual size, find it, to her delight, to be too big, and will be flooded with confidence, which is the ideal mindset for bikini shopping.
2. The entrance to the store will have a silver tray full of individually wrapped (these could be multi-colored, and/or have the store’s logo on them) valium, together with one of those crystal jugs of water with cucumber and mint you get in spas to wash them down with. So calming! So relaxing! The vitamin V will take effect while the shopper browses the store and selects items to try on.
3. At the entrance to the fitting rooms, there will be a little bar (maybe mirrored, or all glass) with an incredibly cute barman or two. Shoppers can then be armed with the cocktail of her choice before starting the trying trying on process. It’s like having the champagne before your plane takes off, when you really need it!
4. The fitting rooms will be lit entirely by candlelight, which we all know is the most flattering light. There will be a little table for your drink, and a cushy velvet sofa, and soothing music in case your nerves aren’t quite calm enough (though they certainly should be). There will be a call button to summon the staff to take away the size 12 and bring you the faux size 10, and a satin robe to put on while you wait for the smaller items to be delivered. Also fashion and gossip magazines to leaf through idly as you sip your drink and ponder your mysterious, yet welcome, weight loss.
5. The mirrors will be the most flattering possible. Maybe even a specially-designed funhouse one that makes you look thinner than you really are.
6. There will be a car service, with a handsome chauffeur, to whisk you home with your purchases. A DUI would really kill your bikini buzz.
7. It would be called Suit Yourself!

You all know I can find the cloud in every silver lining, so you probably won’t be surprised to learn that my emotions on the recent election are far from unmixed. Although I’m thrilled that Mr. Obama was elected (and to be a witness to history in the making), I’m equally disappointed that nearly half of my fellow Americans voted for John McCain. As Iggy Pop would say, what the hell? What the heck?

I’m also appalled that Proposition 8 passed. I am so disgusted with my fellow Californians for passing a law of intolerance and hatred. Shouldn’t the new Obama day usher in an era of tolerance and unity?

Of the kaleidoscope of strange dreams swirling through my pretty little head last night, this is the only one I remember:

A janitor is standing in front of me, leaning on his mop (also my preferred posture for mopping the floor), and says, “God really doesn’t like you.” He pauses for me to absorb this hot celestial flash, and then adds, “I’m not too crazy about you, either.”

Walking Rita behind the building last night, I couldn’t help but notice all the signs.

Signs, signs,

everywhere signs…

Do this…

Don’t do that…

Can’t you read the signs?

That’s what they should call it, instead of the dog days. I don’t know who started the trend of checking out in August, but it’s certainly popular:

5: Marilyn Monroe

6: The odd couple of Rick James and Harry Reasoner

7: Peter Jennings

8: Fay Wray

9: Sharon Tate & baby & unfortunate houseguests, Gregory Hines, Jerry Garcia

10: My mother

13: Julia Child

14: William Randolph Hearst

16: Two American icons: Elvis Presley and Babe Ruth

18: My father

25: Aaliyah

26. Lon Chaney

27: Stevie Ray Vaughan, Gracie Allen, Confucius (also born August 27)

28: John Huston

29: Ingrid Bergman

30: Two Charleses, Coburn and Bronson. Also, Cleopatra.

31: Diana, Princess of Wales

So I’m not a big fan of August. It’s a bit much when both your parents die in the same month. I hope I buck the trend and die another month, and I’m going to try not to write another funereal line for the next 30 days. Can she do it?!

Well, I am just exhausted.

First, I did my little bit to improve the economy, buying a bottle or few of wine and Calvados. The recycling bin is very happy. It has fancyass tastes and is somewhat greedy. I think we’ve been spending too much time together.

Then, I did my little bit to improve Me, having all my nails done and my eyebrows waxed and so on. Being a girl is just so much work. It seems like I’m always dyeing my hair, having it cut, washing it, styling it, putting on make-up and accessories, taking them off again, waxing, shaving, tweezing, perfuming, manicuring, pedicuring (though not curing cancer or any of my many less attractive character flaws).

Men always bitch about having to shave their teeny little faces (and I don’t know many who actually do it every day), but that’s nothing compared to the acres we girls have to shave. And just think how bad it must be if you’re a transvestite. All the girl work and all the boy work. Not to mention having to find size 12 stilettos.

Woman’s work really never is done, is it?

The recycling has really gotten degenerate these days. It consists almost entirely of wine bottles, with the occasional mineral water bottle and empty jars of olives and artichokes and other assorted delicacies. Granted, the wine is pretty good stuff – no Night Train or Thunderbird (yet) – but it’s really the quantity and not the quality that’s disturbing in this case. Garbage (and recycling) are quite revealing, aren’t they?

I wonder if the recycling collectors look at the dissolute collection with disdain, or wonder where the party is, or don’t even think about it. Probably the last option: just imagine what recycling and garbage guys must see. They’re undoubtedly some of the most jaded people on the planet.

The French have a saying (don’t they always?) which goes something like, “Il faut souffrir pour être belle”, which means something like, “One has to suffer to be beautiful”. Anyone who’s ever had her eyebrows (or anything else) waxed or squeezed into control top pantyhose or worn high heels for an entire evening would agree.

Now, cosmetic surgery is kicking that whole thing up a notch. I think I’m for it, even though my niece has forbidden me to even botox (easy for her to say when she’s half my age and wrinkle-free), which isn’t really surgery at all. I wonder if botox is a gateway cosmetic procedure and just leads to harder things like liposuction and breast implants?

Anyway, I realize there are risks involved in all cosmetic surgery, ranging from disfigurement to death (which would be worse?), but until a good friend of mine had some real work done, I didn’t realize there were other unlovely consequences and weirdness that go along with it.

So, as a public service announcement to my faithful readers, I will let you in on the secrets I learned from her:

1. The operating table looked exactly like the ones they use to execute people, at least in the movies. How unnerving is that?

2. The IV hurts, both when they put the needle in and then the plastic thingie, even though they say it only “pinches”, but since they pretty much knock you out immediately the pain is as short-lived as the careers of most American Idol contestants.

3. If/when you wake up, you have a sore throat of strep-like proportions from the tube they put down your throat to keep your airway open while you’re knocked out. For several days, it’s like swallowing knives. Suggested remedy is gargling with salt water {{shudder}}.

4. You have to stay in bed for a week, which sounds like fun to someone as terminally lazy as I am, but my friend assures me that after the first couple of days when the anesthetic wears off and you start to feel better, boredom sets in. I can’t believe that sitting in bed idly flicking through fashion magazines and watching mindless TV while on prescription drugs could be that bad, but in the spirit of truthful journalism, I have to tell you that this is what she said.

Maybe the key here is to get lots of diversions set up beforehand: visits and phone calls from especially amusing friends and relations, CD’s you love, movies you love and/or have been meaning to watch but haven’t had time because of that stupid having to work thing, and possibly a visit or two from a stripper of the sex of your choice. How boring can that be? Oh, and someone to answer the door, bring you drinks, etc.

5. You can’t take a bath or shower for an entire week, a positively Gallic and gross length of time (can’t get the dressings wet).

6. At least for the procedure she had, you have to sleep sitting up for the whole week, too, like the Elephant Man, only slightly more attractive. And I do mean slightly (see #5 above). Apparently this is harder than you would think, even though they give you painkillers and valium, which has to be the fun part.

7. It’s like practicing for being old, which is pretty ironic, when you consider that the whole point of cosmetic surgery is to retain or create the illusion of youth. There are a zillion pills to take, several times a day; the bedridden thing; and the fact that when you venture out of bed, you have to walk around as slowly and carefully as if you were made of porcelain.

8. This is what I would probably find the worst part: no exercise for 4 to 6 weeks. Though she found it the perfect, cast-iron excuse not to go to the gym, and I bet a lot of people would. I think it would be worse than the boredom, which I truly believe could be kept at bay with good planning.

So there you have it. The risks of cosmetic surgery you never before considered (or at least I hadn’t). Maybe I’m not all that for it, after all.

While lying on the couch the other night, annoyed by the patient ticking of the 250+ year old grandfather clock – yes, the same one I went through hell to restore and ship here from England, and yes, I realize it’s perverse of me to resent this beautiful heirloom, but lack of sleep can change a girl’s priorities, especially in the dark watches of the night – I realized that we have far too many clocks.

There are clocks in every room, and I’m not including those on the many VCR’s and other appliances. There are three in the living room alone, though only one actually works. None of the clocks that do work agree on what time it is, either, so my sense of time when at home (and most of the time, come to think of it) is extremely approximate.

When my nephew was here at Christmas, he took a look around, noticed all the clocks with their individual sense of time, and said, “Cool. You have your own time zones.”

Back in civilization (for now). No dogs, no Mom. Just cats and the city (new HBO series?). Mom is amusing herself by baffling the doctors with her will to live, so unless you hear otherwise, it is, as Talking Heads put it, same as it ever was.

Pretty much the first thing I did, after going through a week’s worth of mail, doing laundry, and other assorted domestic tasks that had accumulated during my absence, was go to the gym. Of course, it magically banished my stress, and my trainer got a good laugh out of my concussion Christmas.

While I was away, San Francisco got itself the first female fire chief in its history. Though I’m not a fan of the new mayor (and even less of the old one) and voted hopefully for his opponent, the great Matt Gonzalez, I think this is a great choice. Now all we need is a woman President. Hillary, are you listening?

We could use some good news in the fire department, since the Governator’s planning to cut the funding for fire departments all over California. Yes, in the wake of the worst fire in California’s history. Don’t tell me there’s no other way to balance the budget.

Fun fire trivia: my brother, who is a volunteer firefighter, told me that San Francisco is the only city in America to use wooden ladders. Everyone else uses metal ones, so San Francisco’s have to be specially made. Couture ladders! He says it’s because of all the overhead tram and streetcar wires. Not a good combo with metal. Oh, his town voted to tax themselves on a per house, per year basis to help fund their fire department.