Suzy Says

Crowds on Market Street. AP photo

The sun shone down on the Giants’ victory parade yesterday, as it wended its way past the iconic Transamerica Pyramid in the Financial District to City Hall, where baseball great (and native San Franciscan) Joe DiMaggio married Marilyn Monroe 56 years ago. The parade route was the same one the Giants took when they were welcomed to their new home in 1958.

Hall of Famers and former Giants players Willie Mays and Willie McCovey rode in classic convertibles at the head of the parade, symbolizing the team’s storied past. Mr. Mays, who is considered my many to be the best all-around baseball player ever, had also been in that same welcoming parade back in 1958, so I imagine his was a particular joy.

Following these legends were the current team, a scrappy assortment of misfits who somehow managed to pull off a feat that had eluded this town for more than half a century. The crowd exploded as they caught sight of playoffs heroes like 25 year old Tim Lincecum, nicknamed “The Freak” for his flowing locks and unusual pitching style, and rookies Buster Posey (23) and Madison Bumgarner (who turned 21 in August and said that he was so calm during the World Series because of pitching for the high school championships in his hometown of Hickory, NC*). Edgar Renteria, who was teetering on the brink of retirement at the ripe old age of 36, drove in a three run home run in the final, winning game and was greeted accordingly. Brian Wilson, whose infamous playoff facial hair and stellar performance as a closer led to the slogan “Fear the Beard”, jumped off his motorized cable car to get closer to the crowd, which roared its approval.

Estimates placed the crowd along the mile and a half parade route at a million, and the crowd in Civic Center Plaza at hundreds of thousands, truly remarkable in a city whose entire population is around 800,000. But that’s the spirit of San Francisco, one of the most beautiful places in the world, and truly one of the most special. To know it is to love it. And to be embraced by it, as the Giants were yesterday, is something you’ll never, ever forget.

*Fellow players have told the press that Madison asked them to stop playing hip hop in the locker room and play some country music instead. He found the language upsetting.

Well, I’m back in Hooterville.

I couldn’t afford to stay in the city today, or even pick up a pizza on my way to the Golden Gate Bridge, which made me a crabby little crabcake, I can tell you. Especially after discovering that gas is $3.17 there instead of the $3.03 it is up here. Still better than the $3.35 I noticed as I passed the Navarro Store. Yikes.

It was a postcard perfect day as I drove crankily across the bridge. Sailing ships and merchant ships were tootling around on the blue water, the city sparkled in its pastel glory, and Alcatraz looked like an incongruous resort. The city didn’t seem to be at all sorry to see me leave, though I felt the usual pang crossing into Marin, putting San Francisco behind me.

I had the Oakland A’s game on the radio to keep me company. Amazingly, I got reception all the way to Yorkville, when it finally faded at the top of the 8th inning, with Oakland ahead 4-0 (for those who are interested, they won 6-2 to sweep Seattle). By then, I could receive the Coast, which saw me all the way to the local store, where I stopped off to check the mail and get a bottle of wine.

It was so windy at the store that I could barely get the car door open, but bright and sunny.

All was well at my Henry-less hippie hovel. I wish June and Audrey were as excited to see me as I am to see them (Henry Etta was always happy to see me, and ran to the door to be petted). I always miss them when I go away, no matter how short the trip. And this was too short.

Market Street, San Francisco

Yesterday I had a few errands to take care of in town before setting off for San Francisco to attend an annual conference. Since I was already in town, I took Highway 20 instead of 128. I’m not sure if I’ve ever driven it before, but it’s as least as curvaceous as 128, and much hillier. When I arrived at Willits (home of Seabiscuit and not much else), I could see snow-capped mountains. I couldn’t help thinking of the time that Megan had to drive the ambulance, with a patient inside, through blinding snow on Highway 20. No snow tires, either. No wonder my sister is my hero.

It was the first sunny day in nine days. The ditches along the Ridge were actually flooded in places. It was good to have a change of weather and change of scene after the past few traumatic days. I checked into my usual modest motel in my former ‘hood, had Thai food delivered, and relaxed.

This morning, I dressed up, applying perfume and diamonds – a nice change from my usual ensemble of sweaters and sneakers. I enjoyed flagging down a taxi, especially since I can expense it. It was really too warm for a jacket, but it was a key part of my grown-up façade. A girl must keep up appearances. As the cab climbed Nob Hill, I noticed a man walking his teeny toy dog was allowing it to pee on the coat-covered head of a sleeping (or otherwise unconscious) homeless person.

Welcome to San Francisco.

At the Four Seasons, the doorman ushered me into the hushed splendor of the lobby. I felt the usual pang of jealousy at the discreet sign for the Residences. In the conference room, there was a sea of dark suits under heavy crystal chandeliers. I occupied myself with stealing the pen and stationery provided and making notes of conferencespeak. These are actual quotes from today’s session:

• “Inordinately impactful”
• “We sourced and due diligenced it thoroughly”
• Vertically integrated”
  And my personal favorite:

• “Bigger disparancy”

Is that a combo of discrepancy and transparency?

During the break, I enjoyed the view from the outdoor deck, and so can you:

And enjoyed eavesdropping even more:

“It’s not my fault. I was over-served.” (I’m storing that one up for future use.)

“I used to weigh 300 pounds. My Dad died in Redwood City and never saw me thin.” I don’t know what’s sadder, really: dying in Redwood City, or reacting to a parent’s death with utter vanity.

I played a few hands of business card poker and was out of there.

All in all, it was a pretty successful event.

Dazzled with glittery splendidness, I headed to 19th Avenue to start the trip home.

As I sped through the retro tunnel on Park Presidio, I tried (and failed) to remember the last time I had approached the Golden Gate Bridge this way. It was fun to take a different route, though it was sad to bid farewell to the beautiful city, gleaming in the pale, watery winter sunshine.

I have to say that it is so much easier and faster to go from Hooterville to San Francisco than it is to Oakland. Going to the East Bay adds anything from half an hour to an hour to the trip. And it’s much less scenic.

I stopped off in Boonville to give Erica and Jessica their long-delayed Christmas stockings and presents. Being Me, I managed forget my own gift for Jessica. Yes, the one I finally did a good wrapping job on. But she hardly noticed in the blizzard of gifts from Megan and Rob, Jonathan, and Lu. I noticed that she opened each one, spent some time looking at it and showing it to her friends who happened to be on hand, and then went on to the next one.

She also asked her mother if she could have a chocolate coin from her stocking, and then shared the remainder with her friends.

Their schedules are so hectic these days that it’s hard for them to visit. Meg and I are planning on going to get Jessica and keep her for a weekend soon.

Hugged and kissed, I went on my way. I noticed that it was not yet dark at 5:00, and that there were daffodils in the grass by the side of the road. The river had definitely receded.

When I got home, I was disappointed at the lack of greeting committee. Henry Etta didn’t bother getting up, and June and Audrey were nowhere to be seen (they didn’t reappear until 10:00 that night). I called Meg to tell her I was home, and of course her greeting and Rob’s made up for the cats’ lack thereof. Humans: picking up cat slack for thousands of years and counting!

We all enjoyed the extreme pizza delivery extremely. I think I’ll try and do that every time I go to the city.

View from the Legion of Honor, January 28

With my trunk full of pizza, I headed west, young lady.

West to the California Palace of the Legion of Honor, to give it its proper (long) name. It’s one of my favorite places in San Francisco, perched in a beautiful setting overlooking the Marin headlands (and the good bridge), and having a small, yet exquisite collection.

But the lure for me that day was the special exhibit Cartier and America, celebrating the jeweler to the stars’ century on these shores. And what a celebration!

The exhibit was arranged chronologically, starting with the fabulous tiaras worn by American heiresses while shopping for titled husbands in England in the early part of the 20th century. An elderly lady saw me admiring an emerald and diamond necklace belonging to Lady Granard (born plain old Beatrice Mills in San Francisco), and asked me if I’d ever wear it. “Absolutely!” I replied, without thinking, and she burst out laughing. I would, too. After all, it might as well have stayed in the ground if it’s never going to see the light of day.

Jewelry was made to be worn. And worn it was. By Gloria Swanson (the diamond bracelets from “Sunset Boulevard”, no less). By Grace Kelly (her elegant, 10.47 carat diamond engagement ring, worn in her final film, “High Society”). By Elizabeth Taylor (a set of diamond and ruby earrings and necklace, given to her by then husband, Mike Todd). By the Duchess of Windsor (her famous panther bracelet, and equally famed flamingo brooch, its first public showing ever). By Vanderbilts, Barbara Hutton, and Marjorie Merriweather Post. There was even a wristwatch belonging to Al Jolson.

I wandered from room to room, gasping at the splendor and occasionally moaning with covetousness. You can see some of the pieces here.

It was the Suziest thing ever. If I can, I’ll go back and see it again before it ends in mid-April.

When I first moved to San Francisco many years ago, I found an apartment in Russian Hill (not coincidentally, the same ‘hood featured in my beloved Tales of the City series). It was in a pre-1906 Quake building, and on the top floor, reached by a spiral staircase. When I think about the clawfoot tub, hardwood floors, formal dining room and wood-burning fireplace all at a now laughably low rent, I feel very lucky to have lived there.

Megan and Rob, who lived on a boat at Pier 39 in those days, helped me to paint the place before John arrived with the furniture and our fabulous cat, Buddy. We were starving by lunchtime, so I headed out to Polk Street in search of food. After a couple of blocks, I smelled something utterly delicious. Following my nose, I found myself at Victor’s Pizza.

I brought the pie back to the apartment, and an addiction was born. I always lived within the Victor’s delivery area when I lived in San Francisco (indeed, the apartment we bought a few years later was only five blocks from that first place on Jackson Street), and back when I used to work 50-60 hour weeks, would often have Victor’s and champagne on a Friday night.

Victor’s is more than just pizza, though. When Dad used to visit, we’d have at least one dinner there, in its dark little dining room with wooden booths, decorated with grape-shaped lamps. The service was always wonderful – Victor’s has career waiters, and delivery boys are often promoted to waiters – and it was a delightfully comfortable atmosphere. Every meal comes with soup or salad and house made rolls, and we always had to get a box to take home the leftovers.

When I lived in Oakland, I’d get Victor’s every chance I got, so this visit to the city was no exception. On my way to the Legion of Honor yesterday morning, I was lucky enough to get a parking space right out front. I went in to collect the order I had phoned in earlier, and as the cashier made out the sales slip – by hand – I told him that the pizza was going all the way to Mendocino.

He put down his pen and gazed at me in amazement. “You’re not serious!” he exclaimed. “Yes, I am,” I told him, handing over the money. I told him how I used to live in the neighborhood and still missed the place. “Don’t they have good pizza up there?” he asked, making change. “Not like yours,” I said, putting it away. “Thank you so much, ” he said, holding the door open for me. “Wait ’til I tell the guys.”

By the time I escaped from the conference, the skies had cleared. Sun! I didn’t even mind taking public transit for the second time that day, even though it’s now $2 each way. Still not as much of a fan as John Waters apparently is (who knew?).

I got off the bus a few stops early so I could stroll down Polk Street. It was fun to see which stores were still there and which weren’t, and I have to admit that I did in fact do a teeny little bit of shopping. Oh, and I got a cheap and fabulous manicure at the still-there Merry Manicures. It did make me merry.

As for shopping: a birthday card and giftlet for my dear friend Patrisha; a stop in at La Boulange de Polk for cannelés de Bordeaux, a treasured indulgence; and a near-set of espresso cups from the wonderful Molte Cose (see above). I’m sorry to say that my beautiful Swedish cup has broken*, as predicted, and I can’t find another one. Good thing there aren’t any cup actuaries.

There are five espresso cups (and saucers!) in the set, one having been stolen, so I got the remaining five and its adorable box for less than half price. So if I break one – and I will – I have four more to go.

Shopping bag in hand, I was heading back to the hotel when I passed a mother holding her son’s hand. He had a halo of blond curls and was looking up at his mother earnestly, saying “Mommy, I love the whole world.”

*Though Rob might be able to glue it back together with special ceramic glue.

Last night, I was sure that my dreams of the city would be washed away in the rain that pounded away at my roof as I prepared for a possible power outage and anxiously scanned the National Weather Service advisories.

When I went to bed, the power was still on, and the rain had stopped.

When I woke up, it still wasn’t raining! I called Caltrans and learned that the road was open. I threw a few things in a bag, did a conference call, and just after noon, I was on my way.

The road was still dotted with yellow FLOODED signs (probably staying nearby to be ready for the next one), and the Navarro river was pretty darn high. The brown, muddy waters reached high up the tree trunks on its banks. But the sun actually peeked out, and traffic was a breeze: I made the trip in three hours.

I have to admit that I enjoyed crossing the good bridge. Also that I feel like much less of a loser coming in from the country than I did from the suburbs. I’m now safely ensconced in a modest motel about a block from my old apartment (is it weird/sad/pathetic that I always stay in my old neighborhood?), enjoying the lightning-fast WiFi, Thai delivery menu at hand.

I called Meg to tell her that the Mouse had done its job and I had arrived safely. This is another of our family traditions, like waving until the departing person is out of sight. If one of us goes to the city, or, rarely, ventures further afield, we always call when we arrive.

Now neither of us has a thing to worry about. When I lived in Oakland, I was always worried about someone breaking in when I was away, in addition to worrying about the kitties. Now Rob is hanging out at my place during the day while Megan is sleeping. He can watch TV, play guitar, and listen to music with no fear of waking his sleeping wife. The cats have company, and so does Schatzi, since she goes with him. It makes me happy to know that Rob can enjoy himself there, since he does so much for me.

My lovely friend L came to visit, all the way from chilly Toronto. She was accompanied by (or accompanied, depending on how you look at it) her beau P, who was on a business trip. He’s one of those esoteric software guys who do things that are far beyond my limited intellect. We met up at the new and allegedly improved Academy of Sciences on a sunny Saturday afternoon.

As I waited for L & P to arrive, I gazed at the new and allegedly improved De Young Museum*, which is right across the way. It is, to my mind, quite hideous, and I miss the old, neo-classical building. P observed that it looks like a high security prison, complete with guard tower and no windows.

The Academy, on the other hand, is full of windows and light. It also, on a sunny Saturday afternoon, is full of screaming children and their keepers. We peered into the madhouse that was the café, and turned to each other with a single thought: No. P asked the hostess of the Moss Room restaurant if they were still serving. She said no, but he begged her to call the kitchen and see if they’d make an exception. He was so charming that she couldn’t say no, and neither could the kitchen, if we agreed to eat at the bar.

We made our way down the stairs, past the moss wall and into the serenity of the restaurant. We perched on stools and ordered delightful delicacies, such as Dungeness crab salad with Meyer lemon vinaigrette, and sipped organic wine. Everything on the menu is organic, sustainably farmed, and/or biodynamic. What’s not to love about guilt-free chocolate mousse?

Body and spirit rejuvenated, we headed back upstairs. The lines for the rain forest were as daunting as the Powell Street cable car lines at the height of summer, and when you finally get in there, it’s so crowded you can hardly admire anything. We were also disappointed to learn that the albino alligator was on the DL, so the swamp consisted of nothing but two immobile turtles and a dry ice effect à la any metal band you care to name.

I figured the penguins would make up for the missing alligator, and they were delightful, with their funny, rolling walk and ungainly manner of flopping into the water. But the rest of the room they inhabit has the old African dioramas I remember from the former building, and it’s jarring and depressing to go from the penguins’ antics to the dead, stuffed zebras. Sigh. Outside the morgue was a stream with bridges, from which we could admire the graceful rays as they flew elegantly through the water.

We checked out the much-touted living roof,which P pointed out was much like that on his condo in Mississauga, and the aquaria, including the tide pool where we could and did touch the sea urchins and sea stars, which is just as fun as it was when I was a kid.

To be fair, we didn’t see everything, but on the whole, I have to say it doesn’t seem to be worth nearly 10 years and $500 million. But it was great to see L again and meet P – they are a beautiful and charming couple. They gave me a ride to BART in their rented red Mustang convertible, and I was sad to see them drive off into the sunset, but happy to have spent time with them. They love it here, and I suspect they’ll be back.

*There are two exhibits I want to see there, no matter what it looks like: Warhol Live, and a retrospective of Yves St-Laurent’s work. At the still-beautiful Legion of Honor, I’d like to see the Fabergé, Tiffany, Lalique exhibit. So much beauty, so little time!

The apartment has finally been sold. Other than the breathtaking rudeness and generally unpleasant personality of the woman who bought it, the most shocking thing about the entire depressing process was the fun-filled discovery that the seller gets to pay the buyer’s real estate agent, too. The grand total for both agents was $35 grand. Grand for the agents, that is.

I can’t help resenting paying the Other Agent, when all he did was make a spacious apartment in Pacific Heights with a view of the Golden Gate Bridge from the roof garden and beautiful period details sound like a tenement in Hunters Point. A really good agent can make you totally ashamed of your place in under five minutes.

So let’s take a farewell tour of the place I lived in and loved for well over a decade.

Here’s the outside of the building which dates from 1927.

It’s three blocks from Nicolas Cage’s house
and the famous Haas-Lilienthal House, now a museum.

Guess we all just love to slum it.

This is the living room, which I painted a sunny yellow.

You can see the 250 year old grandfather clock, which has been in my father’s family ever since it was made. The rocking chair was made by my mother’s grandfather from cherry wood, with mother-of-pearl inlays. The plant is called Frank.

Another view of the living room, looking toward the kitchen.

The desk was my beloved godfather’s.

The kitchen, showing the wonderful old Wedgewood stove (it’s more than 50 years old and the best stove I ever had).

Behind the stove and sink are the handmade Italian tiles I had put in. The counters were made by my brother from quarter-sawn white oak. I really hate it that the new owner appreciates none of these things. She complained bitterly that there was no dishwasher. Undoubtedly, she’ll yank it all out and replace it with stainless steel everything and never cook in it, just show it off.

The bathroom has William Morris wallpaper (the frieze is called Willow Bough, and the rug matches) imported from England.

The doorknob on the closet is lead crystal, as are all of the doorknobs in the apartment. The tub is a real cast-iron clawfoot, dating from 1890. I painted the outside green and the feet silver.

Last of all, the bedroom, with another Morris rug and the 1920’s dressing table I got at a yard sale 20 years ago. It turned out to be surprisingly valuable.

You can also see the bay window with a glimpse of the garden.

So there you have it. It doesn’t look that bad, does it?

Found still lifes on the streets of San Francisco:

A bus boy’s cry for help? A server’s prank? Or art? You decide.

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.

Yesterday’s incident affected me more than I thought. In a matter of seconds, a total stranger destroyed my peace of mind in the selfish desire to fulfill a passing whim. It seems deeply unfair that his caprice had this effect; also, that just because I’m a girl, I have to worry about my physical safety in the simple act of walking to work.

I used to really enjoy the walk to work. It was not only what Buddhists call “walking meditation”, but a pleasure. I enjoyed the beauty of the city, its remarkable buildings, secret parks and gardens, the different vistas of the Bay and its bridges, for our city planners knew enough not to obstruct the waterfront with high-rises. I enjoyed the exertion of walking up and down the hills, aware of my body and breathing, present in the moment.

But this morning, I took a different route, however irrational. Perfectly innocent joggers passing me prompted a pang of fear, as did a gentleman in a suit who stepped from the shadows of a building to hail a passing cab. I looked nervously down dark alleys as I walked by them, and over my shoulder every block or so. Never before had I realized how inadequate the street lights are to their task. Many streets only have them on one side, and there are deep pools of darkness in front of many buildings. I felt like a child dared to walk through a graveyard at night. And though it has been many years since I was actually a child, I have always retained that childish fear of the dark, along with other childish qualities, so the walk this morning seemed even more fraught with hazard than it was in reality.

But I can’t live in fear. The truth is that nothing really happened, though it did make it clear that something easily could have. Even had I been armed with any of John’s suggestions, the guy would have been too far away for me to use any of them by the time I got them out of my backpack or pocket, other than the gun. Though I don’t think even Texas considers groping to be a capital offense. I hope that the passage of time will lessen the fear, though I doubt if it will ever completely eradicate the awareness it caused.

I also hope that the flu I came down with yesterday is passing, since I still have way too much work to do and not enough time to do it in. Isn’t it ironic that when you feel really horrible it keeps you from sleeping, and that’s when you need the sleep the most? Here’s hoping that I am both psychologically and physically better real soon.

96 years ago, the buildings I live and work in hadn’t been built yet. On this day in 1906, the city was awakened at 5:12 a.m. by an earthquake that measured 8.25 on the modern Richter scale (compared to 6.70 for the 1989 quake). Three thousand people were killed, 225,000 were injured, and most of the city burned. Though the quake itself lasted only a minute, it is still considered one of the worst natural disasters of our time.

Here’s how the Financial District, where I work, looked after the quake.
I would have been a little luckier in where I live: the great mansions on my street, particularly the Haas-Lilienthal House, three blocks away, survived. Legend has it that the H-L house’s inhabitants stood on their balcony and watched the city burn. The house preserves a crack in the wall from that disastrous Spring day almost a century ago.

People who don’t live here often ask how we can, when there have been the two “Big Ones” in the past 100 years, countless little ones, and more to come. I wonder the same thing about people who live in places that are routinely flooded, or destroyed by hurricanes, tornadoes, blizzards. I guess the answer is that you live with the natural disaster you can handle.

I don’t worry every day about the big quake that is supposed to send California back into the ocean from whence it came, though I know there’s the possibility. We keep a good supply of bottled water, candles, canned food on hand at home, and have a plan for what to do if it strikes while we’re at work.

So while we know it could happen, it’s at the back of our minds, not the front. For us, it’s worth the small risk to live in such a beautiful, temperate, tolerant place, where 96 years later, it looks like this at the dawn of a new Spring day.

Man, it’s hard to go to work in the dark and cold when there are kittens in your house! I spent about 10 minutes playing with the kittens this morning before finally heading out the door. Megan’s husband Rob is coming to pick up all his girls tomorrow, and I’ll miss them.

It was less than 50 degrees this morning, which equals freezing, so I wore my long black coat, and I felt like Angel with it flying out behind me.

It’s surprising how many people in the city either don’t have curtains or blinds, or don’t use them. With the lights on, they are like little stage sets: the guy sitting at his computer, already at work (dang!); the woman feeding a baby; the obviously single guy, walking around his living room in his underwear while eating a bowl of cereal; the elderly woman, already dressed, sitting in a chair by the window. In just a glimpse, you can imagine their lives.

Yesterday, I had lunch with my long-time friend Richard (I am now refusing to say “old friend” because forty is way, way too close* and believe me, “old” takes on a whole new meaning when you get to this stage of the game). We met up at Mario’s Bohemian Cigar Store, which is neither a store, nor sells cigars — smoking is illegal in restaurants and bars in California — but is a little sliver of a restaurant in North Beach.

We caught up on each other’s lives while eating delicious focaccia sandwiches (frittata for me; grilled chicken for him, and Orangina for both of us). His romance is going very well and he’s happy, which is great. He asked me for shopping advice for his Mom, who has everything, and his girlfriend. About the only good thing I could come up with for Mama was promising to do something around the house for her, or have dinner with her once a month or something, but she is married and therefore has a live-in handyman. Any suggestions are welcome, just e-mail me!

I’m more confident in my suggestion of elegant/beautiful lingerie for the girlfriend. What girl doesn’t love that? And there are at least two fabulous lingerie boutiques in our neighborhood, so he can get something really special. And after all, it’s a present — or at least wrapping — for him, too!

*Less than 6 shopping months left, kids!

I hadn’t realized how much I enjoyed walking to work with Rufus in the mornings, until now, when I can’t. I guess that’s human nature for you, both in great and small matters. Now that I’m alone and it’s still pretty dark, it’s a combination of boring and slightly creepy, because I feel so conspicuous on my own. Isn’t it unfair that women feel that way, just because they are women?

I have been walking the most direct route the past couple of weeks, and it’s probably almost the hardest possible walk: down Franklin (heading south, but mostly uphill), then east on California. This way consists almost entirely of hills. You know how people say that walking downhill is harder than walking uphill? Well, all I can say is, I’m not breathless once I start downhill on California.

When I first moved here, I remember that my legs hurt from walking up and down the unaccustomed hills. Now streets that I used to struggle up hardly even seem like hills to me. Today, for example, I walked east on Jackson Street instead of California, and it hardly even seemed like a hill at all. We used to live on Jackson, but I hardly ever walk that way now. It was fun to see what had changed and what hadn’t. The guy who has spotlit mannequins in his window still does (today’s theme: somewhat naughty Santa), and when I passed the cable car barn, the cable cars were yawning and stretching, their bells clanging softly as they prepared for another day of going up and down the hills.

The first car of the day was coming out of the barn as I passed, and the brakeman called out, “Need a ride, young lady?” Despite the fact that I was really, really tempted to (I could get to work in half the time! No effort at all! Yesss!), I said, “Not today, thanks”. I love being called “young lady” and “miss”, especially as age advances. Partly because, well, it’s flattering, and partly because I still think of myself as a girl, and feel like one, too. It’s like that episode of “Ab Fab” when Patsy gets called “Madame” on the plane to Paris and she goes crazy, yelling, “‘Selle! MademoiSELLE!” That’s how I feel, too.

As I headed down Jackson and away from the temptation of the cable car, I saw the twinkling lights on the Bay Bridge, reflected in the dark waters of the Bay, and noticed that the sky was changing from a deep midnight blue to that unearthly shade of cerulean favored by medieval artists. The sky was still scattered with stars and the very last crescent moon, and it shaded to pink at the edges of the east, where the sun would soon be making its daily debut. I thought, “What a beautiful city this is.”

It’s been too depressing inside and outside to update this for the past few days. All tragedy and no comedy makes for a boring little blog, n’est-ce pas?

It’s been pouring ever since Friday afternoon. Our (fortunately hilly) street looks like a young river, with the water rushing down it faster than the cars, and the area outside our building’s basement is flooded. The power has been out for two days where my brother and sister live, so everyone’s been congregating chez Jonathan, because he has a generator. I can imagine them all sitting by the fire, playing cards and listening to my old Atwater Kent radio. They could be living 50 years ago.

Here the wind is howling outside, so strong that there are warnings about crossing the bridges. There are high surf advisories, too, and the rain just keeps on coming. It’s dark all day, so we have just curled up with the cats and watched Stephen King miniseries. Yesterday, it was the appropriate Storm of the Century and today, The Stand is our scheduled matin?e. It’s probably an upopular view, but I’d rather have this Charles Addams type of weather (the caption to this cartoon is “Just the kind of day that makes you feel good to be alive”) when it’s the weekend and going out into the elements is optional. I hate being at work all day in storm-tossed attire. Damp nylons are especially unenjoyable. So I hope the storm goes to spread the wealth somewhere else by tomorrow morning. In the meantime, it’s showtime!

Well, things went pretty well yesterday. Number one, the rain that had been forecast with consistent gloom to be here from Wednesday through Sunday has yet to appear. In fact, the sun even peeped out coyly from time to time. Our stove seems to have recovered from its temporary fit of diva-ness, and roasted the turkey to perfection and turned out several batches of Suzy’s famous cheese biscuits (which, if I could figure out a way to market them, is definitely my million dollar idea).

Dinner was fun and stress-free, and no-one cried. I had my brother, sister and brother-in-law here, as well as my brother’s wonder dog Jed and his friend Carrie, who is expecting her first baby on Christmas Eve. I hadn’t met her before, but I really liked her, and it was a happy and relaxed evening.

Of our four cats, only Hannah was brave enough to approach Jed and smell her curiously. Jack, who thinks she’s so tough, barely looked at Jed for a split second before vanishing for the rest of the evening (later, we found her wedged under the couch). However upsetting this may have been to Jack, it did mean that for the first time since Jack entered our lives, we were able to eat a meal in peace, without her whining and demanding food, or possibly even jumping onto the table, which would have been really embarrassing in front of someone I had just met. So that was good, too.

We left the house at about 12:30 this afternoon with the intention of seeing “Harry Potter”, along with most of the city’s population. Insane traffic snarls, parking problems, crowded theater lobbies, and sold out show after show later, we finally bought tickets for the 4:00 p.m. show at 2:00 p.m., went and had a weirdly late lunch (hey, everyone’s eating habits are all screwed up now anyway) and finally got into the movie. By the way, all the shows up to 11:00 p.m. were sold out when we got back to the theater for the 4:00 p.m. show.

I liked the movie, but they fucked with some plot points for no reason (i.e. Norbert the dragon), and I didn’t like Hermione, but other than that, the casting was great. But Harry’s scar was lame (as my sister said, it looks like someone put it on with eyeliner) and I don’t understand why they didn’t give him green contact lenses when the books make such a big deal about his green eyes and this kid has the standard-issue English blue ones. But, having nit-picked and griped (and you just knew I would), it looked absolutely spectacular and the actors were wonderful. I guess with any beloved book, it’s very difficult to translate it to the screen and win everyone’s approval for how you did it. Definitely worth seeing, and worth seeing in the theater.

So I stopped at Whole Foods on my home from work today. While searching for an acceptable peach (they were mysteriously red but unyielding), two of the guys who worked there had the following conversation:

Guy One: “Do we all look the same?”

Guy Two: “What do you mean?”

Guy One: “Maybe the aprons make us all look the same. That lady” [pointing] “said I told her these peaches were sweeter than those peaches, but I never saw her before. Did you talk to her?”

Guy One: “I never look at the customers.”

I had to go and giggle behind the salad greens. Even if he didn’t look at me, he could hear me.

I was a bad citizen and went through the express line with 11 items instead of the permitted maximum of 10, but nobody said anything.

Remember the “Dont Be an Asshole” graffiti? It has taken on a life of its own. Under the original exhortation, someone else has written “Don’t be an asshole? Don’t be a HOMO!” Following that is the perfectly reasonable question, “What does being a homo have to do with assholes?” which just led the way to the observation “Being a homo has EVERYTHING to do with assholes.” I can’t wait to see what happens next. They’re going to run ot of space on that bus stop pretty soon, though.

This looks to be the second foggy day in a row. Sometimes you can tell that it will be sunny by noon, but not yesterday and not today. Good thing I like the fog. If you don’t like it, get out of the city.

Foggy nights make me feel like I’m in a Bogart movie or a novel by Hammett or Chandler. The streets are slick from the moisture and the fog swirls around the streetlights like ghosts, making them look mysterious. Very film noir.

The fog seems to muffle all the city noises, even the cars speeding down the hill in front of our place and the birds in the tree outside our window. It makes everything seem like a dream — the pastel buildings on the hills misted over, the bay full of what looks like white clouds just sitting on the water and allowing peeks of the famous orange bridge. And of course, the low, deep sound of the fog horns under it all, the bass line of the song.

The hush is all over my apartment, too, except for me typing and Jack the Siamese kitten. She is explaining to me in loud piercing Siamese that she is either bored or lonely or about to throw up, so I better go and see what’s going on.