Suzy Says

Post office cows

If you mail me a present – and I hope you do – I’ll pick it up at the local post office, about five miles from my house. It’s in the same building as the hardware store, and beside the grocery store and deli, where you can also get propane* for the house and gas for the car. It’s one of those old school gas pumps where you have to flip down the handle before the gas comes out. I wish it was still accessorized by a team of attendants rushing out to fill ‘er up, clean the windshield, and flirt – those were the days.

Though lacking in gas pump jockeys, it’s not lacking in bucolic charm. Across the road is a field full of cows (see above), and across the highway is the Pacific Ocean. Slightly more attractive than the BART station of death.

Over the post office door is a swallow’s nest, with a thoughtfully provided cardboard shelf underneath. Every spring, there are peeping babies and proud parents greeting everyone who enters the post office.

Post office apples

This time of year, when there’s an abundance of apples, people drop them off at the post office, so those who are apple-deprived can pick them up. Not everyone is as lucky as we are, having a tree to pick apples from and make into pie for Sunday dinner. Last Sunday, we had a barbecue, roasted potatoes sprinkled with herbs (both from Megan’s garden), salad, and apple pie. It was so fun! We have decided that we’ll all have dinner together every Sunday from now on.

*I already got a bill for the tankful of propane. Guess how much it cost? $435! To paraphrase Eric Clapton, she don’t like, she don’t like, she don’t like…propane.

Feeding time at the zoo

The kitty detente continues. Honestly, a week ago, I would never have thought this was possible.

Exciting news of the day, part one: Rob is getting a continuous glucometer! This should prevent the scary ups and downs as experienced on Moving Day and keep his sugars on a more or less even keel. Better for him, and better for my sister, who won’t have to worry as much on her long overnight shifts. Yay!

Exciting news of the day, part two: My brother is getting a muzzle of bees! A swarm of bees, plus all bee-keeping equipment. By Fed Ex. Who knew that Fed Ex delivers bees? The bees are coming from someone in San Francisco whose neighbors complained about the bees and were going to call the police unless the beekeeper relinquished the bees. What kind of charge you can get for urban beekeeping is beyond my limited knowledge, but there you have it: free bees! Free Fed Exed bees.

Exciting news of the day, part three: The Amerigas guy showed up while I was on the phone with the internet support guys in far off India. Newsflash: You may call yourself Jack or Sam, but the accent gives you away, my friend. Does it make me a Limbaugh that I would totally pay extra to talk to an American in America? I spent half the call asking the guy to repeat himself. Later I realized that I still posted yesterday despite technical difficulties and now I wonder if I have a problem.

Anyway, I now have a full propane tank to make my heater and dryer run. Did you know that they never fill propane tanks all the way full, so the gas has room to breathe and move? Or something? Also I’m supposed to make sure there’s still 20% left in the tank before I call them for a refill, and if possible, I should try and combine it with Mark and Citlali having their tank filled, too. I can’t say I blame the guy. Driving a propane truck down the narrow, rutted driveway with its potholes and other hazards must be quite a hazardous undertaking. Especially while transporting hazardous materials.

Not only am I a semi-invalid with housemaid’s knee* (or housework’s revenge), I’m semi-invalid as a person, too.

I didn’t get that job. They called me early on Friday morning, when my sibs and brother-in-law had gone to return the truck. it took a convoy again because my heroic brother was going to work, so he drove the truck, Megan drove his car (so he could get home from work later) and Rob drove Megan’s car (so they could get home).

So I was alone when the call came. I was so taken aback that I didn’t ask why, which is what everyone else asked me first when I told them about it. I asked them to keep me in mind if anything else came up, and that was it. I just sat there stunned.

It doesn’t really matter why they didn’t hire me. The fact is they didn’t. I could (and have) imagined countless reasons: thought I was over qualified; didn’t like me; concerned about my current job; hired their cousin, etc. Even if they had told me why, it might not have been the real reason anyway.

It does annoy me that I risked life and limb to interview with them and then they rejected me. I thought I had done well, and clearly I hadn’t. It all comes of interviewing once every twenty years. I can’t say that this experience has really improved my self-confidence, and it definitely won’t help if/when I get another interview.

It’s also humiliating because I told all of you about it, and they called all of my references and spoke with them exhaustively and exhaustingly. Two of the references are current colleagues, which makes it even worse.

I have to wonder how how open and honest I should be when I blog, especially when you hear about people being fired for what they say on their blogs, or prospective employers demanding access to Facebook profiles, etc. I think one’s blog should be a personal place to write thoughts and feelings, and blogs and Facebook are none of your employer’s, or prospective employer’s, business.

But it’s hard for me to know that you all know I’m a failure. I guess that’s the flip side of the love and support you always give me. Although I’m a Gemini, sometimes I wish things were one sided: the good side.

*I wonder how real housemaids managed when afflicted with the Knee. I can’t imagine Victorian employers allowing their maids to stay in bed for days. Maybe they just fired them and got new ones back then.

My brother the truck driver

I’m home!

Details to follow. Let’s just say it was an adventure.

Everyone’s OK, and we’re settling in. Thanks for all the love and support!

In case you have to move sometime in the future – and I dearly hope you don’t, since I love you dearly – here’s how to do it the nouveau pauvre way.

Craigslist is key. Since you all know that much of my life is brought to me courtesy of Craigslist, you won’t be surprised to learn that it’s where I turned to first. I got all the boxes and bubble wrap (which is surprisingly expensive when you buy it new) for free from people who were unwise enough to move to Oakland. One guy moved here from Boston, and it was really hard not to tell him what a huge error in judgment he’d made. He’ll find out for himself. He’ll probably be looking for moving boxes on Craigslist himself within the year.

Save up your newspapers to pad the valuables and to cushion the items that don’t rate bubble wrap, even free bubble wrap. There’s a definite caste system to my packing. Two hundred year old Wedgwood gets bubble wrap. Dishes from Target get newspaper. Don’t forget to cancel the paper before you move!

Reserve your truck ahead to get the best rate, and don’t be afraid to negotiate. Think of it as an unpaid internship at an embassy. If you can, get your brother to drive it and help you pack it, or a boy who’s trying to impress you. It’s free that way, though reasonably priced Rent-A-Boys are available in select locations.

Around here, it’s Moving (or at least Packing) Eve. I got a kind of fireworks send off by the house across the street being on fire last night (when my camera battery was exhausted and taking a nap, so no visual aids for you, my friends. The camera battery gets exhausted faster than I do.). And this morning, I was awoken by a call from my close personal friends at U-Haul telling me that the truck has to be picked up in Hayward, which is at least a half hour drive from here. Neither the waking up nor the news made me very happy.

I have to remember my sister’s wise advice: “Don’t worry about all this. You just pay it for it twice that way.” She also pointed out that our brother will be with me every step of the way, so how bad can it be? He is, after all, an incredible Number One Groover on Life.

I love my family.

Megan (center) at the protest today.

My sister is.

Her week started with the usual twelve-hour night shifts from Monday through Wednesday. On Thursday, she took her husband to Ukiah for a medical appointment, a four hour trip. On Friday, they went to Willits (home of Seabiscuit!), another long drive, to see the neurosurgeon and determine if Rob’s spine has fused properly (thank goodness, it has) after his surgery earlier this year. On Saturday, she gave CPR classes all day and then went to the shelter to help in getting the last two available puppies adopted*.

On Sunday, she and several friends drove to Oakland to protest Michael Vick, who was playing his first road game with the Philadelphia Eagles. I planned to join them, but my plans got derailed by work-related matters, so I wasn’t free to go until the protest was over. Imagine my surprise when I checked sfgate.com for coverage and saw my sister extensively quoted!

I immediately called her and was able to read it to her before her cell phone cut out on the long drive back to Albion. She was astonished.

I am incredibly proud of her. She had such a long week, but nothing would stop her from spending eight hours in the car to spend two hours protesting. Pit Bulls of the world, you have a pit bull of your own on your side. And she will never stop fighting until every single one of you is in a safe, loving home.
UPDATE: The story has been picked up by the Associated Press, including the LA Times!

*It’s official: Lu is adopting Harlow! So we can watch her grow up!

If you look carefully through the plum tree, you can see the remains of Oxycotin Girl’s former abode. The destruction started a few days ago, when I thought they were merely replacing the roof. But after peeling off the roof, they started to tear down the supports, and are now slowly tearing down the walls. Surely there must be a faster way of razing a house? I can’t tell you how hard it is on a girl’s few remaining nerves to hear nails being wrenched out of boards (squeeakkk!) for hours on end, then hammering and sawing on walls. It’s a discordant symphony.

With the Destructo Symphony in the background, I packed up a few more boxes. I never thought I’d say this, but I’m running out of newspapers. I’ve been saving them up for this very purpose, but like all people who move, I discovered that I underestimated the amount of things I have – despite the fact that I packed and unpacked them less than two years ago.

Slow learner, I guess.

One thing I did learn was the reason for the demise of the American newspaper. It’s simple: the newsprint comes off on your hands. By the time I had packed up my champagne glasses, decanters, and the heirloom Wedgwood salad bowl and biscuit jar, my hands were black. Even my Sweet Heart nails were smudged. I had made the mistake of scratching my nose and pushing my hair back, so I looked like a pre-Prince Cinderella. How do these folks expect people to read the paper on the way to work and arrive in a presentable state?

My dear friend the Lipstick Gardener sent me a gift certificate to a day spa. It was an un-birthday present, which we all know is the best kind. I saved it for a couple of months, savoring the pleasure of knowing I could use it any time I wanted. I perused the web site, deciding how to get the most luxury for the money (and deciding what I’d get if money were no object – how I’d love to say that and mean it!).

But time was running out, so I figured I’d better use it before I move to Hooterville next week. I booked a mani/pedi, and set off this morning for my date with primping. It was a perfectly sunny day, and it was hard to believe that just two days ago there was a mini typhoon here. I enjoyed driving on dry pavements more than I ever thought possible.

I thoroughly enjoyed being buffed and polished. I had a heated buckwheat and lavender filled pillow on my shoulders to relax me as I was prettified, and Ella Fitzgerald and Billie Holiday sang to me as I was sugar scrubbed and painted. My toes are now OPI Maliblue, a sort of iridescent blue that changes colors in the sun and has a subtle sparkliness, and my fingers are OPI Sweet Heart, a discreet, yet shiny neutral. I love it when cosmetics have names instead of numbers. It’s much more fun to be Maliblue than, say, number 42. Sometimes I think that Cosmetic Namer would be one of the most fun jobs ever. I bet I’d be good at it, too.

My mental state is as improved as my feet and hands. I wonder if it’s too late to add a proviso to the health care bill to entitle us girls to mani/pedis twice a year or so, and massages all around? We’d all be prettier and more relaxed, so we’d be happier. And isn’t happier always healthier?

My timing really is excellent – I was driving through the worst October storm in nearly 50 years. Oakland got four inches of rain yesterday, or 20% of what we usually get in an entire year.

Yikes.

I’m not going near the car today. I imagine it’s sighing with relief at being safe and sound in its own driveway again.

As I write, the sunny day is indeed chasing the clouds away, and yesterday seems like a bad dream. Tomorrow I will have to brave 580 again, but for the best of reasons: a free mani-pedi. Yes!! A friend sent me a surprise gift certificate for a surprisingly generous amount at a local day spa. I’d been saving it for a rainy day, but it doesn’t get much rainier than it did yesterday, and I should definitely use it before I move to Hooterville.

I have such great friends.

My father traveled a lot for work*. When we were kids, we used to compete to see who could spot Dad first when we picked him up at the airport**. I can still see him, in his characteristic navy blue raincoat, his eyes lighting up when he saw us.

My sister is considerably younger than my brother (6 years) and me (9), and she took a less blasé view of these comings and goings. Being Megan, she decided to do something about her concerns.

I believe she was about five at the time she made her first Mouse. It had a fuzzy front with googly eyes and a pink felt nose (hmm, mine seems to be missing its nose), which matched its pink felt backing. There was a tail, and a bobby pin, so the Mouse could be secured inside a pocket. I think she figured that if Dad had something she made with him, he’d always find his way home safely.

The Mice never failed him.

Now, Dad was a fatalist when it came to flying. He figured there was no point in worrying about it. If it crashes, you’re dead. If not, you wasted hours of your (apparently precious, or you wouldn’t be worrying) life fretting over nothing. “Have a drink and hope for the best” was his motto.

Having said that, though, he always took a Mouse with him when he traveled. There were One Mouse and Two Mouse trips. Twos were long haul: London to San Francisco, for example. Ones were things like taking the train from London to Paris.

As I got older and started to travel more, my sister made me my own pair of Mice. I used to carry them in my pocket, but girls’ clothes are frequently pocket deprived, so I had to come up with an alternative. Let’s just say I keep my Mice close to my heart. They have never let me down, either, in spite of my dislike of flying.

I’m driving up north today instead of yesterday, and I hope I make it on time. It’s a One Mouse trip, I hope. I’ve never had a Mouse at a job interview, but I’m guessing that its power will be as effective there as it is on the road or in the air. I feel like I have a secret weapon.

*Although technically retired, he still did. He was scheduled to chair an OECD meeting just weeks after his death. He loved his work. He used to say he’d work for free!
**Back in the halcyon days when you could meet your friends and family at the gate.

Well, the lawnlord never did stop by yesterday, so my diatribe on the evils of lawns and water bills remains undelivered. I used the energy to take my things out of the shed, where I discovered yet another Box. Is someone trying to gaslight me? I dragged it into the driveway, and in the bright light of day, its mildewed and smushed condition was immediately apparent. It looked like my soul would, if I had one.

Sighing, I dug into the paper. It was, not surprisingly, full of crap. What else would you expect? They say one man’s trash is another man’s treasure, but for me, the reverse seems to be true. The treasures have mostly turned out to be trash, at least as far as monetary value goes. Having said that, though, it warms my Grinchy heart every time I see my grandmother’s copper Liberty Bell Jell-O mold hanging on the wall of Erica’s store.

The box contained ugly vases; mysterious plates hysterical with cut glass patterns, too small for any use I could think of; a seemingly endless supply of saucers, mostly cracked and/or glued back together, all of them without cups; and the things I kept.

Above, you’ll see a glass platter with pictures of Presidents Grant, Washington, and Lincoln, with “In Remembrance” in big letters. A ribbon below the Presidents says “God Reigns; Charity First; Liberty for All”. I have no idea what it’s for, but it’s so cool I had to keep it. I also kept a relish tray in clear glass, patterned with raspberries and leaves. My grandmother used it for celery and olives at Thanksgiving (I don’t remember relish trays being used on any other occasion, but maybe they were). I also kept an aquamarine medicine bottle, and a matched set of amber bottles with “Otis Clapp & Sons” in raised letters. The unfortunately named Mssrs Clapp are, remarkably, still in business.

I placed the rejects in a box by the curb, and they were gone within the hour. How’s that for recycling? Who knew that cracked china and orphaned saucers had such a hot market?

I felt a passing pang of pity for my heirs, who will not inherit any treasures, at least from me, though they will get more trash than they’ll know what to do with. I picture them sitting amidst the wreckage, wondering what the hell I could possibly have wanted with the entire series of Dr. Dolittle books, or all those vinyl albums, or all those lipsticks. I guess what each generation really bequeaths to the next is the task of going through their stuff. Kids, I’ll make sure to leave you a few good bottles of wine to make the task easier. To paraphrase my father, I hope you’ll raise a glass to me and say “The old girl wasn’t so bad”.

My landlords showed the house yesterday, even though it’s a total mess. Boxes are everywhere, and things to be packed or sorted or otherwise disposed of are piled up all over the place, making it seem even smaller than it already is. I haven’t been particularly diligent about housekeeping in the face of chaos, either, so it’s going to take a remarkably imaginative potential renter to see the potential. Given all the potential buyers on HGTV shows who can’t look past ugly furniture (which will leave with the sellers), lurid paint jobs (which can easily be changed) or shag carpeting (ditto), it seems a waste of time all the way around, but who am I to say?

One thing I need to tell them is that the water bill is now insane. I am using three times as much water as I did this time last year: 9,700 gallons vs. 3,400, and I’m appalled. Not just because of the increased cost, but because of the horrifying waste of resources in an almost perpetually drought-ridden state. Having a lawn where it doesn’t rain nine months of the year is just wrong.

To add insult to injury, the lawn looks like complete shit, Ferris. In keeping with their lame ideas of maintenance*, they just seeded the dead-looking parts and added the sprinkler, instead of tearing out the whole thing, grading it properly, and re-seeding it. Now it’s just clumpy, with several different kinds and textures of grass, liberally sprinkled with weeds, and still has dead blotches. Honestly, it would look better if they just paved it over. Needless to say, they disregarded my plea for replacing the whole mess with native plants and drought-toleramt ground cover.

I finally emailed her earlier in the week and asked her as nicely as I could to let me know when she was showing the house and when she was planning to stop by. I’ve had it with the surprise attacks. So she did tell me she was coming yesterday and is stopping by today, though no time was specified.

It was unnerving to wait around while she showed the house to people. I had to be there to make sure the cats didn’t get outside, but I kind of didn’t know what to do with myself as total strangers peered in my closets and judged my lack of housekeeping expertise. I wish I could move right now!

*None of the kitchen cupboards close properly, because the hinges are too big; none of the doors other than the front and back close; the bathtub taps don’t work; the doorbell doesn’t work; some of the windows don’t open…

The girls were hard at work last night.

Hmmm. I seem to have a Paul Simon theme going on here lately.

When June and Audrey were kittens, one of their favorite tricks was unrolling the toilet paper, shredding it, and leaving it draped around the room like a punk wedding gown train. I stored the toilet paper in the cupboard under the sink, which was not particularly convenient, but was more convenient than replacing the roll every day.

Getting the house ready for public viewing, I decided to put the toilet paper back on the roll. I figured that the girls were old enough now, at more than two years, to leave the toilet paper alone. They deceived me by leaving it alone for a few days, and then I woke up to the above this morning. Surprise!

But it’s hard to believe their super powers of super naughtiness when they look like Audrey does here:

While packing yesterday, I heard June playing with something clacky. It turned out to be a toy tiara, about an inch long:

I have no idea where it came from. Maybe whoever lived here before me had a well-accessorized Barbie. I wished I could put it on June’s head and take a picture. She’s a beauty queen if I ever saw one. But she’s also impatient with my nonsense, so she ran off, shaking her head at my silliness, to find trouble somewhere else.

My car registration was due (almost $100 for the ennui/horror combo that is driving in California), and had a little love note on it saying that I had to have the car smogged, too. This was mysterious to me, since I bought the car less than two years ago.

I called my brother, who is my source for all things vehicular (also science-y), and he said that as far as he knows, you only have to do it when you buy the car.

Hmmm.

I figured it would be much easier to go to the DMV in Fort Bragg than it is in Oakland, and as usual, I was right*. Instead of a miles long line full of despairing people yelling into their cellphones and/or swatting their kids, there was one guy ahead of me and the whole thing, including waiting for the guy to be finished, took about ten minutes.

I also needed to change my address, and it was the perfect time to do it, because it turns out that if I stayed in Oakland, I would have had to pay to smog the car before they’d renew my registration. As if it’s not bad enough that it costs $45 to fill the car and the registration is nearly $100. Apparently, the rule is that in places with grubby air, like Oakland, you have to get your car smogged every year and a half, but in places with clean air, like Albion, you get a free pass. Another good reason to move!

On our way home, my sister amused me with Tales from the Ambulance. Today’s chapter: Ambulance Abuse.
Example One: A diabetic guy who lived in Mendocino and had a girlfriend in Fort Bragg but no car repeatedly called the ambulance, faked a diabetic episode, and when the ambulance arrived at the hospital, hopped out and took off for his lady’s lair. Free taxi! Well, he called a cab one too many times, and the EMTs cut his clothes off and dumped him in the parking lot wearing only a gown.
He never called 911 again.
Example Two: A woman felt she had been waiting too long in the Emergency Room waiting room. She went home, called 911, and the ambulance picked her up. When you arrive by ambulance, the EMTs take you straight to a room, bypassing the waiting room completely. It’s basically the VIP treatment. So her bad behavior was rewarded.
Can you believe it?

*Also, no-one stole anything out of the car in the DMV parking lot in Fort Bragg, unlike the time someone stole my GPS out of my car at the Oakland DMV. They also took a pack of matches and a pen. Somehow, stealing the pen bothered me more than the GPS. I mean, you couldn’t even leave me the pen?