Suzy Says

The two old ladies are alive and well, you’ll be glad to hear. And thanks to all of you for checking up on us, especially those who recognized the Oates quote and feared the ominous worst. I haven’t pulled an Oates (and would never be noble enough to do so), but there has been nothing at all amusing happening in my life, so I elected to keep the dullness to myself. Maybe I am, in fact, somewhat noble.

This must be an all-time personal high (or low) for posting, since this is only the third entry this month. I should get some kind of award for it. The Slothy: for outstanding indolence. Problem is, people would get annoyed with me winning it every year, even though I’d be too lazy to write, let alone read, an acceptance speech.

Rita must have wanted to keep up with my accoutrements of old age*, because the vet has put her on prescription dog food (it’s called G/D, which I prefer to think of as Good Dog, rather than what it really stands for) and treats to help keep her joints healthy and happy. She loves them and is prancing around like a little circus pony, charming one and all as per usual.

I?m sure Emily Post or Miss Manners would say that regifting is always wrong (and they’d probably have an aside explaining why the non-word “regifting” was so egregious, besides the idea of the actual regifting), but it was a total success in this case. I received a hat for Christmas which was cute, but not me. Apart from anything else, it had wooly braids, and if I’m going to wear braids, they’re going to be mine. I finally realized it would look great on my neighbor, and since I never know when I?ll see her, I put it in her mailbox. I ran into her a couple of days later, and she was not only wearing it, she was bubbling over about all the compliments she had received on it. Total success! And a gift that kept on (re)giving.

Glowing with regifting glory, I went to the store for some necessities (pomegranate juice for anti-oxidant martinis; shrimps and artichokes; coffee). On the lottery counter, some hopeful yet forgetful soul had left her wallet. It was black patent leather, with a big Pilgrim-y buckle on it (if she wins, I hope she buys a new one). I couldn’t resist peeping inside. There was money – not enough for a pretty new wallet, alas – and ID. I handed it over to the cashier, who was either surprised at my honesty or the ugliness of the wallet. She took it gingerly and stowed it under the cash.

On the way home, I amused myself by thinking of how happy the owner would be to get it back. Like ABC’s Wide World of Sports, only backwards: “The agony of defeat! The thrill of victory!”

*When I complained to a friend about how having bifocals makes me feel old, she said, “Having bifocals just means all your energy goes to your intelligence and your eyes don’t get as much.” I feel so much better. And smarter.

2006 was the Year of the Dog* in Chinese astrology. It was also the Year of the Dog for Suzy.

Round about February, I started taking care of Rita (or possibly the other way around) more or less full-time. As time went on, I became more and more enamored of her, and my blog became more and more about her as my life did. I am now totally in love with her and will never give her back to “Actual” Owner, even though we don’t have an official (or unofficial) agreement. She is such a joy.

As for last year’s resolutions, I kept all but one of them. I’m not yet divorced, but the paperwork is in progress. Rather like the Rita situation, there’s nothing official, but we have an agreeable understanding. I’m sure it will be wrapped up this coming year. I’m pleased to report that John and the fabulous cats are all doing well.

This year, I want to focus on physical health (complete ologist removal); mental health (not going back on the pills); and work (getting things formalized, working more & better).

Hope this coming year is a great one for everyone!

*Rita turns 12 next month, so according to Chinese astrology, she was born in the Year of the Pig. She does possess quite a lot of the Boar qualities: “Whatever they do, they do with all their strength…They have tremendous fortitude and great honesty…anyone having a Boar Year friend is fortunate for they are extremely loyal. They don’t talk much…They are kind to their loved ones.”

If I ran the world, Santa would look just like this.

As I drove to my friend’s house on Christmas Eve, I was filled with anxiety and apprehension. I soon learned that I should have paid more attention to this internal warning system.

After the long, rainy drive (though uneventful, with no mistaken OnStar calls this year), I arrived at my friend’s 120 year old apartment. Here’s where things started to get eventful, as she explained the vagaries of the ancient plumbing to me (“There’s a big stick by the toilet, in case you need to break things up so they’ll flush”), which almost sent Rita and me back to the car in horror.

Friend also is the owner of Dreadful Dog, a yappy, furry bolster of a dog disliked by everyone who knows him. People who can’t agree on any other topic under the sun all agree that Dreadful Dog is, in fact, dreadful. If he isn’t barking his high-pitched bark, he’s whining, which his deluded owner describes as “purring”. Among his other irritating features is his complete refusal to come when he’s called, which can be a problem if, for example, he runs across the road to annoy two stranger dogs. On that occasion, when I approached him with his leash, he kept backing away.

I thought of an alternative use for the big ol’ toilet stick.

You can imagine Rita’s horror at being bracketed with this creature. It’s like when your parents take you to visit friends of theirs and you have to play with their loser kid, who normally has to bribe people with toys to play with him. You can’t believe it, but you’re stuck with it. Also the grown-ups can’t seem to tell that there’s a huge difference between you and him.

Rita and I were mortified at being seen in public with Dreadful Dog, at least twice a day.

Awoke from fitful sleep on Christmas Day to learn that the great James Brown had died earlier that morning. A day that kicks off with James Brown kicking off is not going to be a good one.

Friend’s daughter has Christmas dinner at her elegant house every year. She is a wonderful cook (she even caters occasionally), and her house is always decorated perfectly. On the other hand, she also has an antisocial creep of a boyfriend who now lives with her. He threw a fit that would have embarrassed a four year old after we dared to visit for three hours on Christmas Eve, along with her friends and family. He kept her up all night with his theatrics, and then vanished to the basement on Christmas morning, leaving her to make dinner for ten people, all of whom were well aware of this drama and the many which had preceded it.

Unfortunately, he emerged to eat dinner and open gifts, which led to a complete pall over the proceedings and an almost total lack of conversation, since nothing anyone was thinking could be said out loud. Personally, I was thinking, “Heave ho, heave ho, it’s to the curb you go!”

Just when I thought it couldn’t get any worse, I called my brother and sister and learned that Jed the Wonder Dog is sick. Think good thoughts for her. Being without her is unthinkable.

Really, isn’t a day without weirdness…well, someone’s life other than mine?

Still in possession of all my blood (fun fact: despite the recent spate of bloodletting, I still have no idea what kind of blood I have), I took Rita for a walk. I expected the construction workers to admire her (and me), but I didn’t expect the Actual Owner.

No-one expects the Actual Owner!

We stopped to chat, and he only asked me about New York. Even though Rita was standing right there, he didn’t mention her, though he did, of course, pet her. It’s impossible not to. Also, I was secretly delighted that she didn’t fuss over him, just gave him the casual-to-enthusiastic greeting she gives the construction workers, who give her part of their lunches and otherwise fawn over her.

Rita soon got bored and started pulling away, eager to get on to the next smell, so we did. He didn’t ask when he was going to see her again, or anything.

Weirdness factor: about 5 or 6 on a scale of 1 to 10.

That night, I was watching the surprisingly dull biopic about the delicious Bettie Page* when someone knocked at the window. I figured it was Charlie, Rita’s sitter and purveyor of fabulous Italian gifts to Suzy, so I went to open the door.

Rita came with me. If anything, she’s actually more curious than I am.

I opened the door to a complete stranger, completely drunk and completely slurring, “Mind if I come in?”

I said, “Yes,” and shut the door forcefully before locking it immediately. Rita was barking loudly and scarily enough to have instantly sobered the guy, though I don’t think it did. I heard him mumbling as he wandered away to annoy someone else.

Weirdness factor: about 8 or 9.

It’s good to have a dog.

*Made me long for the real thing. I’m just going to have to go out and find Teaserama. The faux Bettie was nowhere near as cute as the original, and was lacking in La Page’s trademark sauciness and charm.

And speaking of adorable ecdysiasts, I valiantly resisted buying this pretty pink tome when I was out Christmas shopping. Also a pop up book of Graceland! Will virtue be its own reward?

…is already under the tree.

When I arrived home, I noticed that the scaffolding used by the brick grinders was conspicuous by its absence (yay!) but had been replaced with a giant skip full of old roof chunks, and the work wasn’t done yet (boo!). In fact, they’ll be right back.

When I picked up Miz Rita from Charlie (and rewarded him for babysitting with a cashmere scarf from the magic kingdom of Century 21), he told me that the tar’n’brick brigade had been at it since I left, so even if I hadn’t braved the madding crowds of Gotham, I’d have had the maddening crowds right here in the courtyard.

And speaking of maddening: Rita’s Actual Owner, he who has not seen her or called or emailed to inquire about her welfare for the past several months, swooped in to “borrow” her from Charlie while I was away, putting Charlie in an awkward position and confusing the hell out of the poor puppy. He further stated that he’d be spending more time here, suggesting that his relationship isn’t going too well, so he’s repo-ing Rita as a fallback.

That’s what he thinks. So I have one of those awkward Relationship Talks to look forward to, in addition to the construction.

Oh, and the doctor called me while I was in New York to tell me I’m seeing a cardiologist next month. I tried to get her to explain the ultrasound results, but I was on my cell phone and there was New York in the background, so it was hard to hear, but the expressions “regurgitating valves” and “whether the muscle is healthy or sluggish” were mentioned. Regurgitating never sounds good, unless you’re a baby bird, and as for sluggish, I fail to see how my heart can be too fast and too slow at the same time. I’m seeing her on Tuesday and she told me not to worry. Why is that as soon as someone says “don’t worry”, you do?

Welcome home.

The vending machine at Hotel Hell, consisting mostly of Kools and Newports

Honestly, can’t I leave y’all alone for a few days without all hell breaking loose? I notice none of you cleaned up or did your homework*, either. Next time, you’re getting a babysitter. I don’t care how old you are!

While you were raising hell, I was soaking in it.

A fairly huge error in judgment – and lack of local knowledge – led me to spending a memorable night in Hotel Hell. Thinking that I needed to be downtown in order to get to my 9 am meeting on time, I chose the only hotel which allowed the lovely Rita to accompany me. Little did I know what I was in for.

Arrived late in Detroit, as per usual, having been lost, as per usual, and stalled in traffic for over an hour, as per usual (for extra fun, the car started whining about its low fuel level while I was still stuck. That’s Halloween scary. Or as they call it in Detroit, Devil’s Night.) Found hotel, which was built in the 1920’s. The lobby retained vestiges of its former glamor, but the oddly assorted inhabitants didn’t. To give you an idea of the other guests, one of them informed me that he had lived there for a year, but it was better than being homeless (a few minutes later, I could have debated that point), and another was screaming “You fucking retard!” into his cell phone. Oh, and he had a tattoo of a spider on his face and neck. Yes, yes.

Braved the strange smell – something like old movie theater combined with despair and the reek of failure – to find the room. There was no lamp or overhead light in the room. I called the front desk in near darkness to inform them of this defect, and was asked if I was sure. To paraphrase AA Milne, either a lamp is there, or it isn’t, and I pointed this out to the clerk. She said I could try another room. This room only got one channel on the TV, and in looking for the remote (there wasn’t one), I discovered a half-eaten chocolate bar and “Destyni’s” phone number.

I didn’t call Destyni, though. I called the front desk again. She said that the cable had been turned off in some rooms, but she didn’t know which ones, and she was the only one on duty (for a 20 storey hotel!). However, the bellman(!), who came on duty at 11 pm, could tell me. I bet he could tell me which floors the hoes and crack were on, too. Finally, I moved to Room Three. There was cable, no remote, the usual strange smell (but windows I could and did open, resisting the urge to hurl myself out), a stain on the carpet approximately body-shaped, and as I closed the door, the front of one of the bureau drawers fell off. committing furniture suicide. I could hardly blame it. Rita was so horrified she hid all night, pretending she was somewhere else.

I called the Red Roof Inn, made a reservation for the following night, and poured myself a drink.

Nothing can scare me now. I spent a night in Hotel Hell and lived to tell the tale. Final irony: I had to give them a $100 deposit for Rita, so I’d keep the room, and I quote, “in tip-top shape.”

*Ah, Feasterville Trevose, my little enigma. Will nothing induce you to reveal your true identity? Are you millionaire Bruce Wayne of stately Wayne Manor? You can tell me.

Of my many bad habits (shopping when I can’t afford it; pathological laziness; trashy magazine addiction), the one that’s probably the easiest to change and should be, really soon, is my insane dogwalking attire, undoubtedly the snickering of the neighborhood. If I were a celebrity, that’s what I’d be wearing on the cover of a trashy magazine (I wonder if I’d still read them if I were in them?), with a huge headline like “Suzy’s Secret Heartbreak!”

In fact, it’s not heartbreak or drug addiction that leads to my odd clothing choices when I take Rita out in the morning. It’s a combination of morning stupor, lack of caffeine, and laziness. I just grab the first thing and head out the door.

Today’s crime against fashion was: pink pajama bottoms patterned with little white bows, white men’s v-neck t-shirt, cashmere coat, and kitten-heeled mules, worn with unbrushed hair jammed into a pony tail. Niiiice. Imagine my relief to discover that the cop giving a guy a parking ticket was a regular policeman and not from the Fashion Police. Rita the Slinky gave the cop the eye and he stopped in the middle of writing the ticket to pet her and admire her while I tried unsuccessfully to hide behind her willowy form. When she was bored with him, she kissed him on the nose and took off in search of the next smell.

My little Husky* Hussy.

All that medical crap just sucked the frivolity out of me, and I’ve pretty much spent the last week pondering my (possibly imminent) mortality and having such a raucous pity party that the neighbors threatened to call the police (not the fashion kind) if I didn’t keep my self-pity down to what my father used to call a dull roar.

In addition to the horrors I have already related, I had to endure an ultrasound. For those of you who have never been subjected to this, I will just say this: Stephen King couldn’t make this shit up. It was gruelling and gruesome in the extreme. Of all the medical intervention I have suffered (and I do mean suffered) the past two weeks, this was the total worst. Even the Pap Test and mammogram were more fun. Seriously. And that heart monitor thing was the good part.

Now I have to wait for the test results, and you know how patient I am at the best of times. I feel like I just took final exams. Only I hope my results aren’t, you know, final.

*Apparently Rita is part Siberian Husky, hence her aversion to the heat and extra-thick coat.

I think I interrupted a close encounter of the commercial kind last night.

Sometimes when I take the Lovely Rita out for a quick pee, we go to the alley behind the building between us and the halfway house. Last night, we strolled there, and I heard an apparently disembodied voice say, “We’re just talkin’ here.”

I looked around, and a door of one of the parked and (I had assumed) unpopulated cars opened. The guy in the car noticed Rita, as people do, and started telling me a story about his own German Shepherd, who had, according to him, been senselessly shot by his neighbor when the dog was 19. Further, the purported slayer had wrapped the victim’s body in a carpet and thrown it down a well, where it wasn’t discovered for three weeks.

This kind of anecdote is hard to cope with politely at the best of times, let alone when a much younger bleached blonde (the “We’re just talkin’ here” voice) is in the car with the teller of the tale, adding her own comments which had nothing to do with the sorry saga in progress. Of course, Rita was off exploring in the bushes and couldn’t be reached. Finally, she emerged from her epic sniffathon and I bailed as politely as possible.

I had noticed that there were previously enjoyed condoms from time to time in that lane (always colored ones, so someone was feeling festive). I told my sister about it once, and of course she trumped me. She was babysitting a friend’s kid and took her to the park in San Francisco. She turned around to discover that the child was happily filling a condom with sand from the sandbox.

This is probably why my sis always has hand santitizer on hand.

Rita wonders if I’ll ever come home.

Now that I’m back:

The Good:

Rita!!! She was so happy to see me! No-one makes you feel more welcome and wonderful than your dog jumping around you for joy and kissing you wherever she can.

Charlie and his friends spoiled her. Apparently, she had grown used to in-room massages in my absence, as well as hanging out with the guys. There were empty pizza boxes and beer cans in the recycling box, since they hung out at my place part of the time so Rita would know it was still her house and I would eventually come back. The guys did a few handyman things for me in my absence, too. There aren’t too many babysitters who also do unsolicited and unpaid chores. Now, that’s a girl’s fantasy of the perfect babysitter, though probably not a guy’s.

Rita had already received her daily ration of admiration by the time I got home. A girl jogging by as Charlie took Rita for a walk puffed out, “She’s – so – beautiful!” as she ran past.

The Bad:

There were no fewer than three break-ins in the building in my absence. One was the new-ish upstairs neighbors, who had both their laptops stolen, the second the feckless girl whose possibly pregnant cat got stuck in the freight elevator, and the third was someone I don’t know. The first two are a little too close for comfort, especially since my “office” is a desk in the kitchen, facing the front door, which I frequently leave open if I’m working or cooking. Those days are over. Good thing I have a dog. Better get a better lock, though.

The Ugly:

The Cruel Crushing Cold continues to torture me and keep the folks at Kleenex in business. Apparently, my sinuses are the cold version of a rent-controlled penthouse apartment overlooking Central Park: too good to leave.

As if that wasn’t enough, I am also suffering (and I do mean suffering) that unmistakable and unbearable reminder that (wo)menopause has once again passed me by. This ordeal seems to worsen with every month, and after 30 years of it, I’m done with it. Unsurprisingly, the alternative is at least as bad, as not worse. Being a woman ain’t for the weak.

I must have a secret masochistic streak, since I kicked off the week with a Monday mammogram* and have a check-up, including the always-delightful Pap test, scheduled for next week.

Why they can’t come up with a better diagnostic method than squashing your assets (and is worse to be a girl whose cups overfloweth, like me, or one who doesn’t and would presumably have to be mushed harder?) into agonized mush? Also am convinced that said squashing only helps gravity in its evil purpose.

There should be some kind of soft, comfy bra that you simply place your boobs into and voil?! Diagnosis! If men had to endure this, they wouldn’t have wasted all that money on the space program and dealt with this far more compelling problem a long time ago.

Other uses for science: some kind of electronic fence that won’t let in mosquitoes and other unpleasant bugs, but still allows birds and butterflies; teleportation, even though my brother is convinced that you might end up in the wrong place with all the wrong pieces.

*At 8 am! But why be any more conscious than you absolutely have to be?

Before I head off to the conference and the family reunion, here’s an update. Wish me luck with the flying portion of the adventure: Now With Even More Annoyances!

Appliances:

You’ve probably guessed by now that the guy who brought me the previously-enjoyed dryer wasn’t an axe murderer, or if he was, he was an inefficient one, since here I am, blogging away. He turned out to be a genial retired engineer who now amuses himself by being a handyman. He took away the dead dryer and installed the live one, which is approximately three times more efficient than the old one. To be fair, the former dryer was Harvest Gold, so you know it was at least as old as it looked and acted (unlike Me). When he asked for a sock or something to put over one of the mysterious dryer parts, he was taken aback to be given a silk stocking. He took it from my hand like it was atomic. It only had a run in it.

The coffeemaker has added an annoying variation to its peeing all over the counter. Now it keeps about half of the water poured into it in the little basket with the coffee, so it looks like a miniature La Brea Tar Pit in there. Amazingly, I can’t figure out what’s wrong with it, so it may join the Harvest Gold* dryer if it doesn’t straighten up and brew right. Of course, I could just give up coffee, but no. Which brings us to…

Detox:

Yesterday, my trainer told me I had a “glow” about me. I’m thinking it was the new lipgloss and dyed eyelashes, but of course I thanked him modestly. Later I wondered if it was “glow” as in my grandmother’s euphemism for sweat, or a sneaky way of keeping me motivated about the detox. Suspicious Minds, indeed.

Cautiously, I will admit that I do feel better. I still have trouble getting to sleep and wake up feeling drugged (not in a good way), but the withdrawal seems to have withdrawn. However, all this may be undone by the dehydrating effects of air travel and wine (upon arrival, if not en route). If I can be 80% good while I’m away, I’ll be glad. I’d hate to go through all this for nothing, and the thought of starting all over again fills me with horror.

Antidepressant-wise, I’m down to one big one (75 mg) and one little one (35 mg) a day. I’m hoping to be off them by Thanksgiving. That will give me something to be truly thankful for. Also, there’s no way I’m going on them again, so let’s hope the gym regime is enough to shore up my tenuous mental health.

I think the people on that website got better and/or additional drugs, ’cause I ain’t never been that happy unassisted.

I’ve shelved the weekend film fests for now, because, really, what’s fun about a Good Girl Good Movie festival?

Rita-Belle!

I don’t know why I call her that, but I do. Must be ’cause she’s so purty. Actually, she’s slightly less lovely than she was last week. On Friday, I noticed a hot spot on her shapely butt. Not the useful kind, or the fun kind, but the oogy kind. Called the vet in a panic and brought her in the next day. Poor Rita had her behind shaved around the spot, and poor Suzy had to buy special stuff to put on it twice a day, plus more ear stuff (also twice a day). What with blood test re-takes and other miscellany, guess how much it cost?

I’m beginning to think the vet is buying a small Caribbean island at my expense.

While I’m away, Charlie, the giver of fabulous gifts whenever he goes away, has agreed to take care of La Rita, so I wanted to make sure she was in excellent shape before handing her over. He’s been single since the Bush Senior administration, so maybe he’ll meet the girl of his dreams while walking Rita at the park. I should probably get him a present either way.

*Harvest Gold and Avocado Green were the favored colors of the 1970s, as I recall, but wasn’t there a sort of brick-red or brown one, too?

Not as fun as T & A, but here goes:

Q: Are you a comment tease?

A: No, I’m lacking in techpertise (or techpertease, if you prefer). I thought I had turned on the comments, but I was wrong. You know how that can happen. Turning on does not seem to be my forte. At least I can make hollandaise sauce. And a great big noisy fuss.

Q: Why is Rita like a box of cigars?

A: They cost the same. I bought a box of good cigars for our biggest client (it wasn’t for them, I’d be living in a cardboard box under the freeway) and it was a surprising $250. Yikes. I’m theoretically going to be reimbursed for them, but considering the theoreticalness of getting paid, breath-holding is not in order.

Turns out the Actual Owner has not taken Rita to the vet for 4 YEARS. That’s 29 years in dog years, and considering that Rita is now a venerable 11 ?, I thought it was inexcusable. So we went to the vet, where her records had to be unearthed from the basement, and had a thorough check-up, blood testing, the works. Rita enjoyed it about as much as I enjoy the annual ritual of mammogram and Pap test, but endured it with much less complaint.

She’s in good shape for a vintage girl, but she’s the Nicole Richie of dogs, weighing in at a mere 44 pounds. The vet said to feed her twice a day instead of once. She also had an ear infection, so I’ve been putting drops in her ears twice a day. My popularity with my almost dog is probably at an all-time low, but I’ll be finished with the drops in a couple of days. The cost of the whole thing was $250, just like the cigars*, but worth it. I’m so glad she’s OK.

I’m so annoyed that Actual Owner didn’t get her shots and check-ups done for so long. John and I used to use our tax return to get all the cats checked out every year, and if they needed something extra, like dental work, we just did without to pay for it. When you adopt a dog or cat, you get all the responsibility as well as all the cuteness, and it’s for the rest of their lives.

Good thing I haven’t run into AO. If he has the nerve to ask for her back, I’ll tell him he has to pay me back for the vet, the grooming, the dog food, and the cost of boarding her Chez Moi for the past three months. Say $30 a day for 90 days – $2,700. Also nice in theory.

Q: Why is a raven like a writing desk?

A: I haven’t the slightest idea.

*Apparently nearly everything costs $250. I just refilled my prescription for the Evil Effexor and it cost, you guessed it, $250. I hope it’s the last time I have to buy it – talk about an expensive drug habit!

I don’t know if it’s the dog days or the death days, but my creativity seems to have withered like the pansies in my windowbox during the heatwave. The heatwave is mercifully over, but inside my head looks like one of those bleak landscapes by Salvador Dali (of course, the watches have melted from the heatwave, and my landscape would be littered with martini glasses, lipstick, and a scattering of diamonds, but you get the picture). No movie nights, no reminiscences, no nothing.

However, all this should change this weekend, when I am finally able to attend my dear Kathleen’s Birthday Baseball Extravaganza. For the past two years, Mom was either dying or dead, so I had to send my truly regretful regrets, but this year, I can join a couple dozen of Kathleen’s closest friends and admirers at the Detroit Tigers game on Saturday! I’m also planning to take the Ford Factory Tour, only fitting for a girl whose only car was a Ford.

In construction site news, yesterday the big crane managed to hit an electrical wire, causing a power outage chez moi, and, less importantly, the entire block. Fortunately, I was out for several hours going to the gym and primping (I had my eyebrows threaded for the first time and the results are fab) for the Birthday Baseball Extravaganza. When I got home, the power was back on, and Rita thought I looked mahvelous. She should know.

Rita’s charm seems to be off the charts these days. Maybe it’s the grooming, maybe it’s just her native loveliness, but when I was walking her the other evening, an older gentleman came out of his house as we passed to pet her and fuss over her. When the construction workers convene in the morning, they fuss over her, too, and sometimes give her part of their lunches. She’s the Queen of the ‘Hood. Guess that makes me her Lady in Waiting*.

*Especially when she’s sniffing around in the bushes so long that I’m afraid she’s found a body.

In the stranglehold of the hideous heat wave, all I could do was whimper, like the Wicked Witch of the West, “I’m melting!”, only meaner and greener.

After I walked Rita, we’d both lie in front of the air conditioner panting and cursing global warming, or whatever had brought this hellish doom upon us. I don’t mind telling you that it made me one crabby little crab cake. I think it made Rita a little on the cantankerous side, too, since she:

• Got into a fight with a total stranger, which of course was a show dog, so the owner freaked out over my lower class mutt arguing with her upper class whippet, even though Snotty Dog started it.
• Decided to embarrass her lovely walking companion by leaving a modestly-sized, though not modestly-placed, calling card on the sidewalk. Right in front of an irate old gentleman, laden down with bags full of wine. I think he was red-faced before he started yelling at me, but I’m not sure. He had one of those career drinker faces. Unfortunately, I was temporarily without removal equipment, having foolishly thought that I had completely emptied Rita out at the park a mere two hours earlier. I apologized, and when he kept on ranting, I explained to him that the world was an ugly place and you had to expect these things if you left your own home. He was not appeased and exited stage right, muttering. Maybe I should have tried to convince him it was one of those alcoholic hallucinations, like pink elephants.
• Started calling the Neighbor Dog names when we were outside his house. They have always hated each other, I know not why, and insult each other vociferously on sight. Neighbor Dog’s owner had carelessly left her gate open, so I had to drop my grocery bags and try to restrain my pugilistic pooch while shutting the gate before Neighbor Dog could get out and get really physical. Didn’t work. I managed to catch Neighbor Dog and shove him back in and close the gate before blood was shed, but barely. They kept yelling the canine version of “Yo’ mama” insults while I picked up groceries and hustled Miss Rita home.

Hence the inability to plan any kind of movie fest this weekend, though I did catch a hilarious little gem called The Violent Years (1956) – “Untamed thrill-girls of the highway!” – in which bored teenage girls dress as boys to rob gas stations. When the fun of armed robbery palls, they attack a couple necking in their car, tying up the female half with surprisingly neat strips torn from her skirt and leaving her in the back seat of the car wearing nothing but a slip while they haul the male half into the woods to have their wicked way with him. Pretty racy stuff, but what else would you expect from a screenplay by Ed Wood? Turns out that the whole problem was caused by these misguided teens’ parents working and/or socializing too much and not spending time with them and explaining to them right (doing homework) from wrong (committing felonies). If you’re a parent, take note before it’s too late!

And if you see the Two Grumpy Old Ladies heading your way, flee. And your little dog, too!

I took Rita to the beauty parlor today.

I know what you’re thinking, but it’s not because I’m trying to make Rita as girlish as I am. I think if she were a human, she’d be like Ida Lupino: smart, tough, sexy – more of a tomboy than a glamor girl. But it’s been so damn hot lately that the poor thing has shed enough fur to stuff a sofa. I figured she was miserable in her disheveled fur coat, so I took her to the dog salon.

You will be relieved to hear that I drew the line at pawlish. Nor did I have her fur shaved and shaped into silliness. They did trim her nails, though. It seems that the Actual Owner never had her groomed, so there was a decade’s worth of dead hair to remove. The whole thing took more than two hours, so it really was a job for the professionals.

Now Rita’s all clean and shiny and ready for her close-up!

Rita and I were partners in crime today!

We both woke up early this Sunday morning, and the park beckoned. It was a glorious morning, the sky a cloudless blue, the sun warm and benign, but with a hint of the malevolence to come (is there anywhere in the entire US of A that isn’t too hot?). The air was cool and infused with summer flowers, and not one car drove down our street. It was as if we had the whole city to ourselves.

I could tell Rita was in a naughty mood, because she teased a cat – she usually ignores them, as if they are beneath her notice – and I had to convince her of the error of her ways. It’s not nice to tease cats, especially heavily pregnant ones, as this kitty was. Rita may have forgotten that cats have claws, and that mama cats are never pushovers, and I didn’t want her to learn the hard (or sharp) way.

Before we reached the park, Rita got distracted by the brick road leading to a long disused factory. Grass and wildflowers had grown tall in the cracks between the bricks, and as she followed her nose, I followed her, ignoring the ?No Trespassing? signs, caught up in the moment. I let her off the leash, and she pranced through the grass and flowers like a little circus horse. I laughed out loud with delight at her delight. She rolled around in the fragrant greenery, and I just kept laughing. It was a magic, sunny moment.

We were both young again, both happy. Together.

The overwhelming heat and the overwhelming amount of work I’ve had in the past week have resulted in stupor for Suzy. Looking at the weather map, it seems the entire country, except possibly Seattle, is either literally or figuratively burning up. In this case, I’m pretty sure that misery does not love company.

Here’s what been going on around here:

Work

Apparently, I am now a consultant. I find this slightly unnerving, since it sounds like a grown-up job that I may not in fact be grown-up enough for. Also, it reminds me of this New Yorker cartoon. Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.

Gym

Still going three days a week. Not obviously thinner – I feel I’m more Star Jones: the early years than, say, Kate Moss, but definitely stronger. My easily amused Self never gets tired of opening jars with her newly-acquired super-strength. I feel like a very minor super-heroine.

Pill rehab continues apace. I’m pleased to announce that as of next week, I’ll be down to two 75 mg pills a day. So far, so good. No psychotic episodes, crying jags, or tropical depressions. Now I can laugh carelessly when I pass the conveniently located nearby loony bin, confident that I will not be among their number any time soon.

Rita

Rita-Belle loves the heat as much as I do, i.e., not at all. Our strolls have slowed to moseys, as we drag our tails around (too bad owners don’t look like their dogs – Rita is Hollywood thin). When we get home, we hit the water with the alacrity of someone who has crawled across the Mojave.

Last week, the Actual Owner turned up on my doorstep, accompanied by a friend, and asked to “borrow” Rita for a few days. The presence of the friend made it impossible for us to have the Talk about our Relationship (normally something I avoid like housework), and AO left with the chilling words, “I’ll call you.”

Like every girl who hears those words, I spent the next few days wondering if it was the usual boy code for “You will never see me again.” Should I call him? What if he doesn’t call? All with no Rita to comfort me. It gave me a horrifying dating flashback. I wanted to rinse out my mind with minty fresh Scope.

Fortunately, she was returned to me just three days later, though with the caveat that AO’s friend would be taking Rita to the country for the month of August. I was jealous of the friend, happy for Rita, who could bound around freely and chase squirrels in relative coolness, and sad to know I’d be without her for a month. Will I get her back afterwards?

Dog days, indeed.

PS: Hey Raven – happy birthday, kiddo!

On the way to the park today:

A limo pulled into the parking lot of the slaughterhouse. I figure the driver must have made a mistake, but apparently not, since it was still there when Rita & I came back from the park. Why? Or more importantly, why?

Two cops were discussing the “bottoming out” party at the construction site across the street. They?ve had a long day, standing in the sun and directing traffic as trucks go in and out. One says to the other, “That beer sure looked good. Should?ve had us some.” The other replies, shaking his head, “Too many eyes, my friend. Too many eyes.”

A paintbrush was lying on the steps of the (closed) custom paint store.

A car was driving the wrong way down my one-way street. In an effort to avoid oncoming traffic, swerves onto sidewalk and knocks over construction-site related traffic cones. No injuries, but lots of in-car yelling and hand gestures.

At the park:

Rita finds a neon pink tennis ball and grabs it. An irate sweaty guy comes running out of the tennis court, yelling, “That’s my ball!” Rita, thinking he was playing, or just feelin’ mischievous, runs to the other end of the park, with Sweaty Guy in hot pursuit. I yell at her to let go of it, but she won’t. I think she’s laughing at the stupid, powerless humans. Sweaty Guy finally gets his ball, and stalks angrily and sweatily past my apologies. Rita and I slink away, both thinking, “Why didn’t he just get another ball out of the can?” and snickering.

Said the Lady of Suzy*.

It’s a beautiful summer morning. Sunny, breezy, perfect. Rita and I are walking to the park, when, WHAM! It’s her Actual Owner. He says he wants to take her back. I am horrified and too surprised to be polite. To the point where he says he’ll call me later.

He does, and my lack of enthusiasm for giving him back his dog is obvious, even over the phone. He finally admits that he has not yet discussed adding Rita to the menage of two small children with his fiancee, whose children they are. I suggest, as nicely as I can, that he damn well does before wrenching Rita away from me. Many mothers would not care to expose their babies to a German Shepherd who has not been around kids much and who is used to being the center of attention. Not to mention her lack of enthusiasm for relinquishing the ball. The potential for problems seems pretty big.

Really, his fear of confrontation is world-class. Can’t talk to his woman, can’t talk to his unpaid dog caretaker. Just lacking in girl skills? I’m thinking yes, since Rita was the only one in his life for 10 years. Excusable? No. If he’s going to be a husband and father, he needs to get over himself. Soon.

Fortunately, the lapse between the park encounter and the phone call was long enough for me to stop weeping at the prospect of a Rita-less life, get mad, and start doing some research to back up my belief that Rita and I are meant for each other and that we are both too old for toddlers on a daily basis. Visitors are welcome (especially Mike & Jennifer’s). I’m determined to fight for her.

Who knew the fun part of the day would be mailing in a request for a certified copy of my marriage license, so I can get the divorce going? That seems to be a sad comment on the state of my existence.

*With apologies to Alfred, Lord Tennyson. And for those of you about to point this out, I know I’m no lady.

Note to Self:

Do not, under any circumstances, leave bags of groceries on the kitchen floor and then go out again. You will regret it.

I abandoned my freshly-purchased foodstuffs on the kitchen floor in order to amble another errand. Imagine my surprise when I came home to discover that Rita had taken advantage of my absence and ignorance of dogs’ devious ways to eat:

– An entire bunch of asparagus; and

– An entire lemon tartlet.

She certainly has interesting (and luxurious) taste in food. Makes a change from the same ol’ kibble, I guess, but dang. I have a feeling that I will be seeing the tart and aspagus again within the next 24 hours.

On the bright side:

Rita’s alleged owner Phil called last night to see how she was (after 6 weeks). No mention was made of his taking her back, so maybe she’s all mine! Grocery-stealing and all!