Suzy Says

Well, my last day in the City did not go exactly as planned.

I packed my bags and the car and otherwise managed to kill a couple of post conference call hours in the early morning. Around 9:30, I set off for Swan Oyster Depot, knowing that they open early. What did not know is they don’t start counter service until 10:30, a new and unwelcome scheduling change.

I walked back to the modest motel, stopping in at Bob’s doughnuts on my way:

I checked out, packed the final few things in the car, and headed back to Swan’s, parking the car in a garage around the corner. It was about 10:45 at this point, so I was kind of shocked by the length of the line at Swan’s. It used to be that if you got there before 11, you’d be OK, but apparently that has gone the way of early morning counter service.

Figuring on a half hour’s wait, I was wrong – it was closer to an hour, but by then, I’d invested so much time, there was no way I was going to leave. Eventually, I perched on a tiny, uncomfortable stool, elbow to elbow with total strangers, and ordered a half cracked crab, which comes with sourdough* and butter and a smile.

It was sparkling fresh, as always, and I enjoyed the ballet behind the counter, as the brothers cracked crabs, shucked oysters, poured wine, and rang up bills – one of the charming things about eating there is telling your server what you had, which he rings up on an old cash register – in the narrow space.

After that, I picked up some extreme take-out from Victor’s:

and headed to the Legion of Honor to the Cult of Beauty exhibit:

where the views of the Bridge:

and the City:

and Sutro Tower:

were lovely.

Inside, not so much. Another line to buy a ticket, much like an airport check in line, where those ahead of me took forever and I took about 30 seconds. How can it take so long to buy a ticket? Arriving at the exhibit, another line to get in, and then I was awash in hordes of tweens, chasing each other around, screaming, giggling, texting – anything but actually looking at the priceless works of art. Not for the first time, I congratulated myself on steadfastly refusing to reproduce.

Despite the tweenage horrors, the exhibit was full of lovely things. My favorites were a chair designed by Sir Lawrence Alta-Tadema (who knew he designed furniture as well as being a painter) in 1884, much more fabulous than any photo could capture:

A remarkably modern tea set made by the gifted Christopher Dresser in 1879:

And of course, Whistler’s Battersea Bridge Nocturne.

By the time I got on the Bridge, the Giants’ home opener was already in progress, and I listened to Matt Cain pitch a one hit shutout, 5-0, against the PIttsburgh Pirates as I headed back to Hooterville.

The sun vanished when I was a few miles over the County line, and there were some showers before I arrived home and greeted the kitties. They definitely missed me. Yesterday, the boys chose sitting with me over playing in the sun, and Audrey, never the most demonstrative of cats, sat on my lap all evening instead of going outside. I’m officially more fun than the Great Outdoors!

*It’s from Boudin’s Bakery, but they bake it longer for Swan’s, so the crust is dark and crispy. I highly recommend it. And remember: you pronounce it Bo-DEENS.

Storm clouds on Polk Street

Well, here I am, ending my trip as I started it, with a pre-dawn conference call. I’m drinking reheated coffee from the French bakery, which I bought just for this purpose, figuring that it would be better than the dreaded in-room coffee. So far, I’m right, though I managed to incur a small, cigarette-type burn on the lower part of the cup while yet leaving the coffee tepid.

Go Me.

I think you need coffee before you make it. Or re-heat it.

Yesterday was mostly a blur of meetings, though I made time at the end of it to meander aimlessly around boutiques in my old ‘hood, buy a birthday card for Megan, and get my nails done at the cheap and cheerful nail salon. I was surprised on this occasion that there were two men there, and they could not have been more different. One was the metrosexual poster child, who also got his eyebrows waxed (clearly copying Me), and the other was the rare to near extinction Gentleman, who wore a hat and carried a cane and not a single white hair was out of place.

In the evening, I gorged on delivery Thai food and hockey playoffs, which are getting unprecedented coverage on TV this year. I checked in with Megan, who told me that the kitties were fine, and that there had been a thunderstorm, garnished with lightning and hail. A couple of hours later, the storm showed up to my party. The thunder was so loud that it kept setting off car alarms. It’s a lot easier to hide from the storm in the modest motel than in the fishbowl of my hippie hovel.

[Update: It wasn't just my imagination: it was a hell of a storm. 750 lightning strikes in four hours, and nearly an inch and a half of rain. It's sunny now, though - hopefully a good omen for the Giants home opener on Friday the 13th.]

The real dilemma for today is what to do after the early morning call. There are three or four hours to kill before museums and Victor’s opens. What’s a girl to do? Stay tuned…

Conference day dawned cloudy, but not rainy, as predicted. I disguised myself as a responsible adult and hailed a cab. Other than the driver, the whole thing was computerized, with a disembodied voice informing me how to exit safely, and a printed out receipt which said “Happy Cabbing” on it.

Is there any other kind?

This particular shindig is always held in the swellegant Four Seasons in San Francisco. Every year, I wonder why it was built on such an iffy block of Market Street, especially when I pass the private lobby of the “Residences”. If you’re wealthy enough to stay or live there, I would think you’d prefer a more delightful neighborhood. Also, the doorman probably spends a lot more time shooing away desirables than greeting desirables. Still, it is just a few blocks from Sephora.

The doorman at the Four Seasons always makes me feel cherished, sweeping open the door and bowing with a smile as he ushers me into the marble hush of the foyer.

Once labeled and equipped with a very nice padfolio, I went into the conference room, where the view was not quite as lovely as the one from the deck:

The dress code in the invitation said “business casual”, which is the dress code no-one really understands, even the people who set it. When I worked at Nameless Corporation years ago, the Powers that Be instituted Business Casual on Fridays, but no-one, even the Human Resources people, could explain exactly what it was. Like pornography, they’d know it when they saw it.

My interpretation was velvet pants, a velvet-trimmed top (I guess I think velvet goes well with chandeliers), and heels high enough to be cute, but not too high to preclude walking to Sephora. I also brought my diamonds out for an airing. Other conference attendees wore: suits with and without ties; khakis and shirts; a couple of Hawaiian shirts; and sky-high heels with bare legs, which I think is an “only in California” look.

As conferences go, it was pretty good. I met some interesting and potentially useful people, as well as some I already knew. And I learned a lot.

Feeling virtuous, I headed out of the elegant enclave and strolled to Sephora among the businessmen, tourists, and crazy people, marveling once again at the length of the line waiting to board the Powell Street cablecar. Note to tourists: get on a block or two later, and there won’t be a line.

Being in Sephora is almost as good as being in the Four Seasons. They have cute girl greeters instead of a doorman, and some truly fabulous faux eyelashes:

Life in Hooterville doesn’t require false eyelashes, but it does require lipliner and eyebrow pencil, which were duly bought and put into a little black and white striped bag. I happily made my way to the St. Francis, where the last doorman of my day ushered me into a taxi.

Days that begin and end with taxis are always good.

Well, it’s been a long day.

It started at 5:30 am, when my Moonbeam alarm clock kindly flashed its rays over my sleeping face. I almost sobbed as I turned it off in the rainy darkness. Roscoe didn’t bother moving.

I was sufficiently caffeinated to hold up my end of a 6:00 am conference call. Following its conclusion, I got ready for the jobette, packed up the car, said goodbye to the completely unmoved kitties, and headed off.

After working at the jobette all day, I set off for San Francisco in the rain and fog. I lost track of how many times it poured and subsided, poured and subsided. All I know is, I’m sick of other cars’ splashy wakes and I cannot understand why rear window windshield wipers aren’t standard on all cars.

As I drove across the Golden Gate Bridge, the City looked like a pale mirage, washed by the rain and bathed in fog. The towers of the Bridge were swathed modestly in cloud, and the rain-swept gloom had robbed them of their brightness.

Still, my heart lifted as always at the sight of my loved one, no matter how inclement and inconvenient the weather.

I texted Megan to tell her I was here, and then ordered Indian food on the interwebs. I could even pay for the tip and save the receipt for my expense report. Now all I have to do is relax with an adult beverage or two and wait for it to arrive. Sometimes I love technology.

I always love food I don’t have cook. Or shop for. Or plan. Or clean up.

Sadly, my room does not have a bathtub, which kiboshed my Lush dreams of soaking luxuriously, but so far the bathroom seems to be bug and spider free, which is an improvement.

Other than the magic delivery of Indian food, there won’t be a whole lot of fun going on during this trip. Tomorrow I’m spending all day in a conference, then part of Thursday, followed by meetings. On Friday, I have yet another 6 am conference call, followed by the long drive home to Hooterville. I’m still hoping to squeeze in some fun, though, in the shape of this exhibit. And maybe a stop in at Sephora…

This year was about change: getting the jobette; swimming lessons; having to make peace with driving a lot more. Change is good, right?

One deleterious effect of working more is reading less. I read 118 books in 2011, vs. 140 in 2010. The favorites of the year were Sue Grafton’s “V Is for Vengeance” and Candice Millard’s tour de force, “Destiny of the Republic”.

We are also getting a lot less rain this season. Last year, we totalled about 60 inches (or 153 centimeters), and already had half of that by December 31, 2010. This year, we’ve gotten about 11 inches (28 centimeters) so far. I don’t think I’m going out on a limb here by saying there’s probably a drought in my future. Number of power outages: 3. So far this season: 1, and an early one at that.

It was a great summer, though: lots of sun, little fog, no heat waves.

As far as last year’s resolutions went: not bad. I did a lot of work on the garden, though there are more things I’d like to do, given time and money, always in short supply. I still worry about the cats, and probably always will, to some extent. The loss of the beautiful and beloved June was traumatic, and, as Jessica pointed out to me, I’m a worrier. Maybe I should just embrace my inner (outer?) worrier.

This year’s resolutions are to reinstate Thursday dinners for my overworked sister – they fell by the wayside with the increased busy-ness of my schedule – and to spend more time with my brother when there’s no project to be done or special occasion to be celebrated. I always have a great time with him, but I don’t see him often enough.

And, you know, keep working on the garden and trying to minimize Calamity Suzy episodes.

Let me know what your resolutions are. And thanks for reading yet another year!

January:

How to plant tulips. Logging road walk. A check-up for the kittens. A walk with Schatzi. The beginning of A’s life-threatening illness. Another vet visit. A walk through the Village. A surprise visit from Jessica! Falling off a log really is easy. Dealing with two broken fingers: not so much. They still look freaky and witch-like. A brief trip to San Francisco. A is improving.

February:

Back in touch with the outside world. A finally gets out of Intensive Care. And I get the jobette! The boys make a windmill. Week One at the jobette. A’s slow recovery continues. Beautiful new garden chairs. A rare and magical snow day!

March:

A quick tour of the jobette. A graduates from Intensive Care to the HIghly Dependent Unit. Tragedy strikes our sister city in Japan. Doin’ it Rob style. Signs of spring. My beloved father’s 80th birthday. It’s not snow this time, it’s hail! The painting saga. Flooding. The week in pictures. Spring arrives in the garden.

April:

The painting problem is solved – at least, for now. Power outages. Little salon in the big woods. A is finally in a regular hospital ward, while Clyde is a little limpy. A nice little burn to go with my broken fingers. Jessica’s birthday! My blog’s 10th birthday! First BBQ of the year. A sad and loving farewell.

May:

The fabulous circus. New contact lenses. A walk through town. Star’s birthday. My tulips in bloom. Countrified. Fabulous garage sale finds. Girls’ night out. A short visit to San Francisco. The magnificent Balenciaga exhibit. Back home. Megan’s birthday. Car troubles – and a birthday celebration.

June:

Car trouble and bad weather. Truly rural. Bi-coastal. Rainy birthday to me. Happy first birthday to the boys! Rob is scheduled for more surgery. An evening with Erica and Jessica. Rose’s chicken curry. Unveiling the clock of ages. Rob’s surgery is rescheduled. The operation. Back home. Houdini lives!

July:

Audrey turns four. Found poetry. Both Rob and A are on the road to recovery. Kitty updates. Home improvements. Jessica visits the jobette. Musical contrasts. Erica and Jessica move to Portland (~sob~). The last Harry Potter movie ever.

August:

Propane prettifying. Encore de car. A change of address. Garden updates. The tenth anniversary of my father’s untimely and completely unnecessary death. I love you and miss you, Old Bear. More car fixing (or not). The bliss of Brian. Star meets quail.

September:

Mark’s seizure. He has epilepsy and is taking meds for it. So far, so good. Thank goodness. Free palms. The Houdini dog expands her repertoire. Planting the palms. The joys of aquafit. The delights of the County Fair. Clyde takes it on the chin. A visit from the generator fairy. A total meltdown.

October:

The car is finally fixed. I hope. Swimming clinic doesn’t go quite as swimmingly as I’d hoped. Car-share begins (and is still going on). The plague descends. My second anniversary of moving to Hooterville. The arrival of Turbo, Mark’s horse.

November:

Pool problems. Feeding the family. Meetings in San Francisco. Too tired to shop. A delightful day. Back home. The lowdown on high beams. Star and Megan are both stars. Thanksgiving Eve. A happy Thanksgiving. An early season blackout.

December:

Sunny days and sparkling nights. A look around the garden. An amazing experience. Girls’ Night In. A sudden loss. Up with the tree! An adventurous evening. And a tree adventure. Christmas cheer. A magical evening. The wit and wisdom of Jessica.

That’s it for 2011. Wishing you all a happy and healthy new year!

The trip ended as it began – with work.

Right before I left, I got an emergency call from my boss/partner to set up a conference call for 6 am on Monday morning (there goes aquafit). As I stood by the car in the motel parking lot, the wild parrots flew overhead, calling out farewell and waving their wings goodbye.

After the traditional Extreme Takeout stops (Bob’s Doughnuts; Victor’s PIzza), I headed for Best Buy to buy a new printer. Mine is on its last legs and I figured I might as well replace it while I was in civilization.

I arrived at the Best Buy mall, but couldn’t find the Best Buy itself. I ended up at Office Depot, where I found the printer I wanted and a couple of other work-related things, like paper and labels. It’s going to be quite the expense report.

After I loaded up the car, I tried to go to the Legion of Honor. I did. But even with the GPS, I got lost. On the other hand, I noticed a Trader Joe’s, which I had no idea was even there. I managed to get in the crowded parking lot – they actually had a guy whose entire job was to wave in cars when other cars left – and fought my way through the maddening crowds. By the time I finally got out of there, I was sure of two things:

1. I am no longer used to crowds and traffic; and

2. I was not going anywhere else except home that day.

So I headed for the Bridge, got stalled in traffic in Petaluma and Santa Rosa, and thanked my lucky getting lost skills for not having to stop again in Santa Rosa.

All was well when I finally arrived at my little house. Rob had watered the garden and the ficus, tied up the passion flower vine and the trellis with the potato vine, taken the recycling to the dump, and, amazingly, re-hung (again!) the painting which Clyde knocked down about six weeks ago for probably the sixth time.

It was lovely to be greeted with the sight of the City after leaving it earlier that day.

He also cleverly attached the shelf (which he had removed to try and keep Clyde out of the painting) to the lower part of the frame to block Clyde from getting in:

So far, so good.

The kitties had managed to break one of their bowls, and after I swept that up, I fed them and petted them. They were far more interested in the food than they were in me, but I was glad to be home anyway.

Guerilla gardening

Yesterday dawned bright and clear. Polker’s was calling my name, and I answered happily by sitting at an outside table. It was delightful to sit in the fall sunshine and watch the people walking by, when I wasn’t flipping through Vogue’s Best Dressed issue or eating pancakes with pecan butter and drinking freshly-squeezed orange juice.

The green and red wild parrots flashed their wings in the sun, calling out a raucous hello to me as they flew overhead, a familiar sight and sound from the days when I lived here.

After dawdling over breakfast, I stopped in at Russian Hill Books, one of my favorite stores in the old neighborhood. I picked up a fabulous Film Noir calendar for the rapidly approaching new year, and it reminded me that the Film Noir Festival is also rapidly approaching. I hope I’ll be able to attend – and do a better job of picking the dates than I did this year.

I stopped in at the cheap and cheerful nail salon, where I was warmly greeted as always, relaxing in an overstuffed chair with my hands soaking in warm water with fresh mint and flowers in it. I was thinking of doing a French manicure with gold polish and glitter tips, but decided on just gold instead:

In the evening, it looked almost bronze. I really like it.

Today, I’m planning to pick up some Victor’s pizza to take home with me, and stop by the Pissarro exhibit at the Legion of Honor, possibly my favorite museum in the city, before heading back to Hooterville.

Yesterday’s meetingfest started downtown on Market Street, which is San Francisco’s Main Street. My firm rents office space from a firm called Regus, which has offices all over the world. You just let them know you’re coming, and you have access to conference rooms and all the other office-y things you need whenever you need them.

At the security desk, I told Guard One “I have an appointment with Regus.” Guard Two got really excited and exclaimed, “Regis? REGIS?! Regis got an office here?” Clearly he felt that someone had been holding out on him. Guard One was laughing too hard to speak and wordlessly waved me through to the elevator bank. As the car arrived, I heard him explaining the much duller truth to his co-worker.

I was a few minutes early, so I had time to take a picture of the view for you:

I could see ferries and sailboats on the Bay under the Bay Bridge (which actually celebrates its 75th birthday today), and, even on the 22nd floor, I could hear buoy bells, the rumble of the historic F Market streetcars, car horns, construction…the hum of the city, its pulse always beating.

The last meeting of the day was at the gracious oasis of the Four Seasons, which is oddly located near discount clothing outlets and drugstores. I enjoyed the graciousness of the doorman and the concierge, who helped me to locate the event I was attending. A girl could get used to this.

I couldn’t help noticing the view from the deck outside the Four Seasons conference room:

The orange building on the left is the Museum of Modern Art, and in the background to the right, you can just see the home of the formerly world champion, currently heart-breaking Giants.

It was probably already on Page Six, but after the meetingpalooza was finally over, I was actually too tired to shop at Sephora, which may well be a first. I even walked right by it on my way to get a taxi at the St. Francis – back where I started the night before.

Union Square palm tree in its holiday finery

I’m coming to you from my usual modest motel in my old neighborhood in San Francisco. It’s a sunny day, and I’ve already gone out to get bagels and coffee from the handy Notes from Underground. In a few minutes, I have to get dressed up to look like a responsible adult and head downtown for meetings.

At least I get to say one of my favorite words: Taxi!

Last night, I had a meeting at the Clock Bar in the historic Westin St. Francis Hotel, the grande dame of Union Square which survived the both the ’06 earthquake and the Fatty Arbuckle scandal. To this day, it employs a coin washer, a tradition dating back to the 1930s when most things – lunch, a drink, taxis, tips – cost a coin or two. The St. Francis’ concierge noticed that these coins soiled ladies’ gloves, and a delightful, civilized tradition was born.

Nothing takes the sting out of a business meeting like a cocktail or two in elegant surroundings. If only work was always like this.

After the meeting, I stopped in at the conveniently nearby Lush store, where I meant to just run in and get one thing – the Whoosh shower jelly that actually does wake me up in the dark, early morning hours – but of course I ended up with a couple of extra things, including a limited edition eucalyptus sugar scrub and a bath bomb in the shape of a golden gift which rattles alluringly, as all good gifts should.

As usual, the staff was wonderful and helpful. I love being surrounded by fabulous gay men with cool hair and fab manicures and joie de vivre, who make me feel as fabulous as one of the Sex and the City girls. There’s a serious shortage of them in Hooterville.

Also of delivery food, so as soon as I got back to the motel, it was time to call my friends at Lemongrass and enjoy the central heating and lack of sweaters, not to mention the blazing fast interwebs. Ah, civilization – how I have missed you!

From the country roads of Hooterville to the streets of San Francisco…

When we were in San Francisco for Rob’s surgery, we stayed in an area I didn’t know very well. When I lived there, I lived in Pacific Heights and worked in the Financial District. I walked to work through Russian Hill, Nob Hill, and a dash of Chinatown. In my free time, I didn’t venture much further.

It was interesting to be in a different part of the City, though also a little odd not to know where things were (or where I was). This area ranged from the Lower Haight to the Castro via Duboce Park. Conveniently, the N Judah light rail was just a couple of blocks from our friend’s place:

and it went right to the hospital with very few stops.

The Haight part of the neighborhood was characterized by tattooed hipsters, second-hand record stores, and beautifully maintained Victorians. Duboce Park was full of kids with their nannies, and the tree-lined streets leading to Market Street featured strollers chained to doorsteps in the way one usually sees bikes:

The tree-lined streets also had some mini parks, with benches and plants, where a girl could rest her hospital-worn feet. At one such parkette, I shared a bench with an abandoned briefcase:

Such was my weariness that I didn’t even think about opening it, remarkable in a girl who avidly sight-sees in lighted apartment windows and eavesdrops on public transit.

While walking down the briefcase street, I came across a piece of notebook paper with a sort of prose poem written on it. It looked to me like a teenager’s writing, and if so, there may be a poet to be on the streets of San Francisco:

“Waking up at this house is being blinded in the eyes by a stern sun’s gaze. Illuminating your resentment, a hangover and the twisted smile to these ways. Being smashed with the gross beauty of commerce like waking up to a slice of heavily frosted cake, at breakfast, wrenching your stomach in tandem with hangover, but oh so delicious in a sort of manufactured splendor. It’s seeing beauty you love, dampened.”

Evening in the Haight

I can tell I’m back home because I’m sneezing my head off. It was nice having a break from my allergies. Apparently cement sidewalks, skyscrapers, and Victorians are hypoallergenic. Who knew?

I also managed to sleep through an earthquake, centered about a mile from beautiful downtown Charlottesville. It was a relatively petite one, at 2.9 on the Richter scale.

Welcome home!

We left the hospital sometime between 10:30 and 11:00 yesterday morning. Dates and times became blurred this week. Somehow it seemed like we had been there a week after the first day, and the time between Rob being wheeled away and getting the call to the recovery room seemed interminable.

Originally, they said he would be moved to a regular ward from the neurology danger ward (I can’t remember its real name, but it’s one step down from intensive care. In Hospital World, being downgraded means you’re doing better), but a bed never opened up, so they released him from there. Just like the last time, when we arrived to pick him up, he was fully dressed and waiting. There was more waiting to be done, though: getting pain meds, getting paperwork, etc.

Waiting is something that does not get easier with practice.

But finally we were on the road, heading though the silvery wisps of fog on the Golden Gate Bridge to the oppressive heat of Santa Rosa and Cloverdale. Hooterville had never looked as lovely as it did in yesterday’s late afternoon sun.

So far, Rob is doing well. I saw him today and he said the pain was less than it was before the surgery. Now the hard part: making him sit around and do nothing for the next 6-8 weeks. He actually asked Megan to stop at the hardware store on our way home so he could buy some mesh for the beehive.

He seemed both surprised and disappointed at our immediate veto.

It’s going to be a long summer.

On my last day in the city, I decided to stop in at the de Young museum to see the Balenciaga exhibit, after picking up cat food, a cinnamon doughnut from Bob’s, and pizza from Victor’s. All the necessities. Oh, and getting gas. At $4.39 a gallon (as opposed to the relatively low, low price of $4.13 in the Big Town).

One thing I really noticed on this trip was the San Francisco types you never see in Hooterville or environs. The groovy Asian teenagers, with their hip hair, trendy clothes and accessories, generally seen in packs. The wealthy, nipped and tucked mothers with the giant shades, tiny cell phones, and huge, expensive strollers occupied by squalling trophy babies. The Financial District guys, with their shiny, clacky shoes and optional suspenders (on weekends, they all wear the same long, khaki shorts with a polo shirt and baseball hats with no team logo on them).

And then there’s the rarest breed of all: the San Francisco Matron.

These grande society dames never venture from their Nob Hill penthouses without a flawless coiffure and a purse matching their glamorous shoes. They are slim and elegant to the core. They are real Ladies, and they are fabulous.

Many of them were in attendance at the equally fabulous Balenciaga exhibit, and as an inveterate and shameless eavesdropper, walking around with my $2 yard sale purse, I enjoyed the following gems:

Of the dress (far left) with the beautiful, “petal” front in black silk:

“After you wore it, you’d have to press it, wouldn’t you? How on earth would one press it?”

Of the sculptural rose pink gown wore by the gorgeous Ava Gardner (the back of the dress has a surprise bow, vertical rather than horizontal):

“Of course, she could wear anything, couldn’t she?”

I imagine her magnolia beauty would have been breathtaking in this dress.

Of the (in)famous “caterpillar” dress, designed when the master was in his 70s – if anything, he became more daring with age:

“This was his statement piece. He made beautiful things, but this…this was his statement to the world.”

Wonderful.

I loved these two. The velvet one on the right was worn by the delightful and sophisticated Kitty Carlisle Hart, the wife of Moss Hart. The one on the left was worn by the perennially fashionable Claudia de Osborne, who wished to be buried in a gown by her dear friend, whose clothes she wore for more than twenty years. Those are ermine tails on the back of the black velvet dress.

Here you can see his playing with texture, color, and wrapping:

And here you see his magnificent “Crown of Thorns” embroidered gown worn by the Best Dressed Hall of Famer (and subject of unflattering photos by Diane Arbus), Julia Henry:

It was time well spent. Not surprising, since the exhibit was curated by none other than Vogue’s very own Hamish Bowles*. I felt like Frederick the Mouse, storing up all that beauty.

As I drove across the Golden Gate Bridge, I tossed a kiss to the city over my shoulder and set my eyes resolutely north.

I’ll be back.

*One of my very favorite Hamish Bowles articles was the one where he went to outdoor survival school. Do read it of you have the time – it’s hilarious.

View from my motel window

I thought I’d be blissfully blogging away while in the city, but I ended up doing a lot more work than I thought, and we all know work = no fun, and no fun = no blogging. Even the jobette has affected the number of my posts. Sometimes I ponder the fact that there is more to blog about when spending most of my time in Hooterville than in the Big Town.

Also, the interwebs at the modest motel have been capricious at best. Reception inside the room is spotty, so a few times a day I’d go and sit outside, where there was actual reception, to work and catch up on emails. The problem with this ploy is that you are in the way of the long-suffering cleaning staff and their giant carts. Also that people assume you are available for conversation, which means I know more about my temporary neighbors than I care to (i.e., the guy whose wife ejected him after 30 years of marriage and is now living here until he can find his own place) and have given directions to German and French tourists. I might as well be at the jobette, as far as that goes.

As I write, it’s foggy both outside and in. I actually threw on clothes and staggered two blocks to Notes from Underground to get some much-needed coffee. I am now drinking it and considering what to do with the rest of my day, besides Extreme Takeout.

I still haven’t been to the art museums, though I did find time to stock up on some dog supplies for my sis. Surprisingly, two kongs cost about the same as a fifteen pound bag of fancy Taste of the Wild dog food, which got heavier each block as I lugged it back to the motel. I might go back there and get some kitty food, though, since all pet food is significantly cheaper than it is in Hooterville.

I also fit in some power shopping, as my neighbor J puts it. It was nice to walk down the familiar downtown streets in the sunlight. Whenever I’m here, I feel lucky that I know the city so well and that it’s only a few hours’ drive from Hooterville, so it’s kind of in my backyard, unlike the German and French tourists.

It’s been great to be here, but I’m ready to go home and see the kitties, who have apparently not missed me in the slightest. Megan went by each morning when she came home from work, and all they wanted was to go out. The weather has been nice, so she left the door open all day until Rob went over at night to feed them and shut them safely in the house. I imagine Audrey has not been enjoying that.

Clyde takes a sunny bath in the garden

I was on the Golden Gate Bridge by 3:30 yesterday afternoon, leaving the city behind in a blaze of sunshine. The Bay looked like a postcard, with Alcatraz presiding grimly over blue water dotted with white sailboats. Traffic was fine, except for a minor slowdown near Santa Rosa. They’re adding a lane to the freeway there, so it’s a bottleneck during the construction phase.

The green hills of Sonoma were aglow in the sunset, touched with pink and gold as the sun left them behind. By the time I reached the majestic stands of redwoods, it was very nearly dark, and deep in the trees, it was dark enough to make me think uneasily of horror movies and things that go bump in the night. By the time I got to the ocean, though, I could see that it was still just barely pink at the very horizon.

When I got home, I discovered that Rob was there, working on another project. He was apparently more pleased to see me than the kitties were. Audrey seized the opportunity to run out the door, and the boys acted like they’d never seen me before and they weren’t too thrilled to be seeing me now. Rob told me that he’d had to wait hours for Audrey to come home the night before – she finally showed up around 9:00 pm. And one of the boys caught a mole and kept bringing it into the house. Both the kittens wanted lots of fussing and attention from their sitters, whereas Audrey barely tolerated their presence.

The usual.

I woke up this morning to still more sunshine and cloudless blue skies. At 3:00 in the afternoon, I’m still not wearing a sweater. Time to go and water the tulips!

Apparently the tracheotomy is because one’s esophagus gets (understandably) irritated by prolonged contact with the ventilator. I still don’t understand why A isn’t breathing on her own after three weeks in Intensive Care, but I’ll call C when I get home and ask. Sometimes the thousands of miles and difference in time seem so huge.

As for me, yesterday’s morning of work was followed by an afternoon of shopping. I had a commission from Erica to pick up something at Lush, and needless to say I didn’t get out of there with just the commission. Later in the evening, I had a delightfully long bath, lush with Lush products. A bath is especially luxurious when you only have a shower at home.

Well, world, I’m sorry to report that your favorite glam girl has officially become a country bumpkin. I know, I know. But the evidence is clear: number one, I have completely lost my ability to talk on a cellphone in a crowd of people and traffic. I had to cover my free ear, and even then, it was a challenge. Secondly, I am now extremely distressed by homeless people, especially the guy who was yelling at his dogs. I used to take it all for granted, but now the sheer number and visible craziness made me want to cry. Sad news on all counts, my friends.

Today I have a meeting inconveniently located at 2:00 in the afternoon. I’m hoping to keep it to under an hour, but I’ll probably still hit rush hour traffic on my way back and it will almost certainly be dark by the time I reach Hooterville. Good thing I’ll have some extreme take-out with me.

Next time I promise to pack my camera first. You have really been missing out, and I miss sharing what I see with you.

First, the medical updates: A has been moved back to the original hospital, since she no longer needs the special equipment at the second hospital. They are considering giving her a tracheotomy so they can remove the ventilator. C says this is a good sign, but it doesn’t sound like it to me. As soon as Megan wakes up, I’ll check with her and see what she says.

The horror hand is slowly deflating and is less painful. At least I can hold a shopping bag now, which I think we can all agree is a big step forward. It was nice to walk a couple of blocks in the bright sunshine, with the wild parrots clattering overhead, and buy kitten food and other things not readily available in Hooterville. It was also nice to have bare arms in late January.

I did an excellent job of forgetting things when I packed for this trip. I left my camera and my business cards behind, and mixed up the Noir Festival showings so I arrived here when the movies I have already seen were playing. There’s always next year.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Welcome Home!

Note: Looks like the Doc fixed the comments. So comment away! Don’t be shy!

My last morning in San Francisco was nothing but a foodapalooza. I started out with breakfast at Polker’s, where I had eggs scrambled with fresh herbs, zucchini, and tomatoes, and enjoyed the parade of passers-by. I walked back to the motel in the sunshine, packed up the car, and headed back to Polk Street. First stop was Bob’s Doughnuts, with its perennially cheerful cashier, and next was Victor’s, where I picked up Thursday Night Dinner. Not exactly new, but the first time we’ve had it this year.

The last stop was the gas station, where it cost $41 to fill the car. Gas in the big city is $3.31 a gallon, instead of the relatively modest $3.03 in Fort Bragg. Good thing I can expense it.

I set off across the familiar Golden Gate Bridge, feeling a pang as always as the dreaming spires of San Francisco dwindled in the rearview mirror. I don’t think I’ll ever really feel that it’s not home.

I stopped off at Gowan’s fruit and vegetable stand. Here you can see some of their many apple trees:

This is the view across the road. I love the rolling hills and the live oaks.

When I got home, the cats were definitely happy to see me, even though Rob and Megan had spent time with them and petted them while I was gone. They have all slept with me every night since. This morning, I woke up to Roscoe sleeping against my chest (I sleep on my side, and he stretches out full length along my body), Clyde curled around my head with his head on my ear, and Audrey at my feet. I love hearing them purr until they fall asleep. The purr gets slower, then patchy, then there’s a big sigh and it’s dreamtime.

Yes, these sneakers cost the same as my used Manolos

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

Guess what I did yesterday?

I bought a pair of sneakers!

That’s the sum total of my achievement.

And somehow, it took all day.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nope.

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

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

It was the imperfect end to an imperfect day.

Well, I committed a serious Tourist Error yesterday. Even worse than calling the city “Frisco” or “San Fran”, but not quite as bad as asking who the heck the Giants* are. I forgot to bring my camera with me when I met up with Erica and Jessica last night.

Needless to say, they looked lovely, Erica in a skirt she had made herself, and Jessica in a pink flowered dress and pearls. We relaxed in the lobby, with its deep, soft sofas by the fire, Erica and I having wine and Jessica a rare soda (she didn’t even know what Sprite was, and looked a little surprised after her first sip). Apparently, you get a free pizza with the drinks, so a good time was had by all.

The theater was right across the street, and it turned out to be same one I had gone to the last time I went to a play. This play was a musical, based on Neil Gaiman’s “Coraline”.

Since my addition to the party was last-minute, our seats weren’t together. We were expecting that, but we did not expect to be told that Erica’s and Jessica’s front-row center seats, bought before the tickets went on sale to the public, had been ripped out to make way for a prop well.

Their new and unimproved seats were several rows behind mine, in the second row. As the play progressed, I noticed that there were three open seats in front of me, so they could have corrected their error. As it was, Erica spoke with the Executive Director after the play, mentioning that Neal Gaiman himself had told Erica about the tickets in advance and said that Jessica would enjoy it.

Guess who’s getting front row tickets for a later performance?

This performance was a special one. It was a preview, so we were the first audience to ever see it (it opens on Saturday, officially). And as I said before, it’s a small space, so it feels very intimate and you really feel drawn into the story.

It was two hours past Miss Jessica’s bedtime, so I hopped in a cab and sped back to the hotel through the busy streets. It’s good to be home.

*So many windows, cars, and trucks have Giants signs displayed. Fire trucks are flying Giants pennants. So the excitement lives on!