Suzy Says

Yesterday was almost entirely occupied with moving-related tasks. I cleaned out the freezer, feeding the mysterious, the aged, and the unrecognizable items to my enormous green bin, increasing my plastic dish supply by about 200%. Most of the plastic dishes hail from the fabulous Dhaba and always-reliable Swiss Chalet*, back in the halcyon days when I could get great food delivered. It’s amazing that they have endured repeated use, including microwaving, for years and still are as good as new.

The future really did turn out to be plastics, didn’t it?

I also emailed everyone I could think of to tell them that my email address is changing. Once I move, I’ll have to use satellite internet, so I’ll have to change my email address along with it. Not surprisingly for a dinosaur like me, I still have my original email address, so I’ve never had to do this before. Also not surprisingly for a tech tard like me, I couldn’t figure out how to do those mailing lists where you can’t see everyone’s email addresses, so I had to do them individually.

If I missed you, my new (though not necessarily improved) email address is sjpeakall at gmail dot com. Don’t forget the J! I was amazed that speakall wasn’t available. There are so few Peakalls in the world, I figure it must be someone who likes the speak all thing. Or else is impersonating me.

I also posted a bunch of furniture for sale on Craigslist, but so far, not a nibble. If I don’t get any takers, I’ll have to schedule a big garbage pick up. Sigh.

This afternoon, I’m heading into the City for some meetings. I’m driving in, so I can try out the new (though not necessarily improved) Bay Bridge, which now apparently has a wide curve near Yerba Buena Island and a lower speed limit. Ha.

I have a some kind of something this evening at SFMOMA, which is why I’m driving. That, and because I’m planning to get Victor’s pizza after the thing, whatever it is. My boss asked me to go to it, and when I called to RSVP, they said they’d email me an agenda. When I got the agenda, all it said was the place and time. Hmmm. I asked Boss about it, and he said it was some kind of software thing, so we’ll see.

I’m already wondering if I can sneak out and check out the Avedon exhibit. And whether they’ll validate my parking.

*Their slogan (“Try it once, love it forever”) turned out to be entirely true in my case. My friend K took me there for the first time, and I loved it. I wonder why they haven’t expanded into the US?

It is a truth universally acknowledged that no job has less accountability than that of weatherman (weatherperson?). If the predicted snow fails to fall, or the sky is resolutely sunny rather than partly cloudy, s/he doesn’t get fired. Angry mobs don’t descend on the station waving pitchforks and demanding forecasting reliability. No-one stands on a soapbox at Market and Powell declaiming, “Give me accuracy or give me death!”

No, we just get on with our lives, wishing we’d brought an umbrella or hadn’t lost that last pair of sunglasses, reflecting that Robin Williams’ method of weather forecasting in “Good Morning, Vietnam!” (“You got a window? Open it!”) has much to be said for it.

Weather predicting in the Bay Area should be less challenging than it is in places with real weather. There are no blizzards, tornadoes, or hurricanes. There’s rain only in the winter. There’s a little more fog in the summer months. That’s about it.

But the one area in which local weather oracles seem to have a disturbing level of accuracy is heat waves. Every single time a heat wave is predicted, we get it, and it’s usually hotter than advertised. Not once have I heard the weather people say, “We never did get that forecast heat wave. In fact, temperatures are about fifteen degrees cooler than we thought!”

We on the wrong side of the Bay are in the throes of a third day of 90 degree heat. If you’re unfortunate enough to live even further inland, you’re suffering through 100+ degrees, but you probably have air conditioning.

My house is performing its magic trick of being hot and stifling long after the outside air has cooled off to a humane level. In the great Bay Area tradition, my house also has microclimates. As I write, in the early afternoon, my bedroom is unbearable (and will stay that way until about 11 tonight, in spite of window fan and floor fan), the bathroom is oddly cool (June is sprawled on the floor in there), and the living room is the least overheated.

It’s supposed to cool off tomorrow, but don’t bet on it.

A dear couple I know are celebrating their forty-ninth anniversary today. This remarkable occasion – and the discovery of my mother’s parents’ wedding announcement the other day – reminded me that both sets of my grandparents were married for more than half a century, and that they were devoted to each other. Indeed, my mother’s parents (known to us as Nana and Hoho*) asked to buried the same way they stood in front of the minister on their wedding day, she on the right and he on the left.

I was lucky enough to spend the last summers of my grandparents’ lives with them. I was always interested in the past, and loved to hear about when they were young, in the early 1900s. During my visit with Nana and Hoho, I was looking through a box of photos that dated back to my grandparents’ high school days, and found one of an unknown brunette. I asked my grandmother who it was. She took one look at it and grabbed it from me, tearing it up and throwing it away, to my surprise.

My grandmother was the kind of woman whose shoes always matched her handbag, and who made sure to be wearing nice undergarments when she left the house, “just in case anything happened”. Her nickname in the small town where she and my grandfather spent their married lives was The Lady. So her behavior was a little unusual.

My grandfather looked up from his paper, and Nana said to him, “Katie Shaw! I saw her at the church picnic, and she was fat, Ernest! She was fat!” Bustling off to the kitchen, she added, “You and your Katies and your Violets!” Apparently I had unearthed a photo of the now portly Katie Shaw, along with memories of girlfriends past.

Hoho just giggled and winked at me.

The summer I spent with my Dad’s parents (Grammie** and Daddy’s Daddy*), my grandmother gave me a book on decorative handwriting, which I also came across during my recent book purge. After giving it to me, she asked Daddy’s Daddy if he knew where she had gotten it, with what I can only describe as a flirtatious look.

He guessed a couple of names, which have now escaped me, one of whom he’d “seen looking at you in church”, and another who apparently tried to cut Daddy’s Daddy out by waking out of church with Grammie. Clearly, churches and their picnics are dangerous places (and/or hotbeds of romance – you decide). He never did guess the right name, to her great amusement.

Grammie, true to her Victorian upbringing, set aside one day a week to do laundry, and another to bake. On baking days, Daddy’s Daddy would bring his armchair (the one no-one else was allowed to sit in) into the tiny kitchen to watch her. He couldn’t bear to be away from her the whole day. And if we were late coming home from the shops – Grammie didn’t have a refrigerator, so shopping was a nearly daily event – he’d be hovering in the front garden, looking anxiously for his beloved wife.

It was wonderful to be in the presence of such long-lived love and devotion, and it’s a gift I have treasured ever since. Here’s to another happy couple on their very special day, and wishing them many, many more.

*Hoho because of his laugh, and he laughed a lot. And Daddy’s Daddy because we were so amazed that our Daddy had a Daddy of his own.
**Just last night, I was thinking how much I’d love to hear her call me “my pet” again.

Taken from my front porch yesterday evening. I’ll be trading power lines for redwoods soon enough. And freeway traffic for the wind in the trees. And if there’s a siren…it will be my brother.

Audrey supervises

Well, I spent my Labor Day laboring. I went through my boxes of books yet again and ruthlessly culled the herd. I emptied no fewer than eight boxes, though there are still plenty left. Now I just have to decide what to do with the rejects.

The problem is that book stores have become much more selective about what books they’ll buy these days, and they give you hardly anything for them. The worst part is enduring their disdain for the books they don’t want. They make you feel like you have absolutely no taste in literature, and that you have offended their delicate sensibilities by exposing them to your tastelessness.

I’d probably get $20 for all of them, not to mention the gas to go to Berkeley, where they keep all the used book stores, and the cost of parking. I think I’ll just give them to the library and be done with it.

I did make a couple of fabulous discoveries, though. One was my maternal grandparents’ wedding announcement, and the other was my maternal grandfather’s drill handbook from World War I.

I also brought six garbage bags of clothing to the Goodwill box at the nearest of the three gas stations. You know how girls look in their closet and say, “I have nothing to wear!” and their guys roll their eyes and point out the dozens of garments right in front of them? Guys, here’s what girls mean when they say this:

• That doesn’t fit now, but I’m hoping to lose five pounds so it will.

• That’s too big, but I like it too much to throw it out.
• It might come back into style.
• My grandmother gave it to me.
• A guy in a bar once said I was beautiful when I was wearing that.
• It looked good in the store – it might look good again.
• It just needs hemming/alteration/repairs. I’ll do it/bring it to the tailor’s soon Not today, though.
• It doesn’t make me feel cute when I wear it now, but it might one of these days.
• I hate that color.
• Too dressy.
• Not dressy enough.

Once you eliminate all these things, you have nothing to wear.

When I was in college, some girlfriends and I used to get together from time to time with all our clothes from the above categories, and swap them. Suddenly, you had a whole new wardrobe! I’m hoping whoever gets mine feels the same way.

Chanel’s new rain boots. Clearly a necessity for a girl just starting out on country life. A mere $350!

I wonder if there’s a matching umbrella.

Come to think of it, no-one up there seems to use an umbrella. They just wear hats or put up their hoodies. When I’ve used an umbrella up there, I look and feel like a tourist. Maybe I’d better cancel the umbrella and just go with the boots for now.

In other news, the house next door rents for $1,700! Any takers?

Clearly, it’s been a while since I’ve been to the city.  The BART fare to my office has gone up 40 cents, though it’s not notably faster or more fun.  It is, however, more crowded, since the Bay Bridge is closed for the next week for a complicated maneuver relating to its ongoing and expensive face-lift.  So it’s BART, the ferry, or a convoluted combination of highways and other bridges, or stay on the wrong side of the bay until the operation is complete.

I may be imagining it, but there seemed to be less traffic downtown than usual.  It made me wonder how much of the traffic in San Francisco is caused by suburbanites like Self.

When I boarded the train to the city yesterday morning, each empty seat held the flyer shown above. It breaks my heart to think that those were the last words Oscar Grant heard on this earth, and that no-one at BART has been held accountable.

Well, a sign has appeared next door, but it says “For Rent” rather than “For Sale”. If/when there are flyers in the little box, I’ll let you in on how much rent they’re asking for the former Casa di Yappers. Enquiring minds want to know.

I felt kind of bad about breaking up with my landlords on a Post-It, the way Berger dumped Carrie on “Sex and the City*”, but I doubt they’ll be equally upset. I wonder if there’s etiquette for this: “The renter should hand-write the letter on his or her best stationery, and be clear and concise. A Montblanc pen is an excellent choice. Personal delivery is not required, but can be a thoughtful touch.”

A couple of days after I sent off my informal missive (it was a nice Post-It, though), my sister called and said, “I guess I’d better tell Mark you’re taking the place.” I burst out laughing. I had already told my current landlords I was moving out, but had neglected the minor detail of telling the new ones I ‘m moving in. And when. Good thing I’ll have Megan around to be the token grown-up, even though I’m nine years older than she is.

It’s a funny thing: she’s the baby of the family, yet she holds it all together.

*The sequel to the movie has just started filming in New York! Yay!

Hmm, what else can I do to drive the Girl crazy?

Audrey can find trouble in the most unexpected places.

I had a lampshade on a table, awaiting my brother-in-law’s repair of the matching lamp. Audrey decided to investigate, peering inside, then pushing her head further and further in, until she was wearing the lampshade like someone who had rung in the new year not wisely, but too well. Instead of being happy like the reveler, though, she was horrified to realize she was stuck inside her latest accessory.

She shook her head to try and dislodge the lampshade, which made her fall off the table. She scrabbled around while I tried to help, and finally extracted herself and ran away in horror. Then she sat in the corner and had an emergency bath, which is cat for “I made a total fool of myself and now I’m pretending it didn’t happen.”

Despite the return of the heat from hell the past couple of days (92 yesterday; normal high is 73), she’s been bonkers, racing around the house and breaking glasses, clawing madly at The Boxes to try and make enough space so she can get into the fireplace, and making a run for it when B brought over the tomatoes. Fortunately, she is easier to catch than June, being considerably less smart and sneaky than her sister.

Her newest annoying habit is pawing at the clacky metal blinds when I’m outside, and meowing at the top of her voice. Her voice is much more Ethel Merman than you’d expect from her Twiggy body, and I can hear it all the way to the sidewalk, where I pace around when I’m on the phone (one of my annoying habits). When I come back in, she mills around and meows for a while. I wonder what she’s trying to tell me? And do they make ritalin for cats?

I hope that when I move, she’ll use up her crazy energy playing outside, and will be calmer when she’s inside. Maybe I can actually have a vase of flowers without her eating them or smashing the vase!

My new downtown

Well, it’s official.

Vogue and Vanity Fair have received my change of address. Oh, and I put a note in with the rent check notifying my landlords that November 1 is the day I am movin’ on up to the coast.

Above, you can see my new town. When I tell people it’s a small town, they ask me how many bars and churches it has. Answer: zero. Here’s what it does have: hardware store and post office (building on the left) and grocery store (with gas pump and a place to buy propane behind the store) with deli and baitshop (building on the right). ‘Cause you’ll want a picnic when you go fishing.

Across the street (well, highway) is a fancy restaurant* which is too good for me. Across the bridge is a fancy inn which has a reputedly fabulous restaurant, which I’m assuming is also too good for me. But it’s nice to know they’re there, providing a little touch of luxury to their rural surroundings.

It’s pretty much the anti-Oakland. And since I am, too, we could be made for each other.

*Is it just me, or is it odd and ironic that they’re equally proud of being vegetarian friendly and having a famous cassoulet? I mean, you can’t get much less vegetarian than cassoulet, mes amis.

My neighbor B came by to bring me some cherry tomatoes from her garden. Apparently, the big tomatoes haven’t done well this year, but she has more of the little ones than she can use. I love how she’s always bringing me little treats. It makes me feel special.

I asked her if she knew what the story was behind the mystery move, and she didn’t. There’s one of those combination locks realtors use on the front door, but there’s no For Sale sign on the lawn.

She said that the family had lived there for fifty years! W, the elderly gentleman across the street, has lived in his house for fifty-four years, probably a neighborhood record, and according to B, the Mexicans never talked to him, either. So their total ignoring of me, other than when June clawed the son, is apparently not personal. I thought they were annoyed with me because of June invading their “yard”.

They didn’t even talk to each other. I’ve seen the kids, who are in their late teens or early twenties, cross paths on the driveway or the front porch and not acknowledge each other. Once, the daughter went in the house with the son behind her and apparently locked the door behind her, since he had to ring the bell. They were quite the enigma.

It seems a little ironic that they and their canine prisoners moved out just weeks before I probably will. I can enjoy the peace and quiet while I pack.

Well, that was quite the little diatribe, wasn’t it? It might have partly arisen from my heat-induced crabbiness. You all know I’m a summerphobe (well, a heatphobe), and the last few days have not been kind. It was a record-breaking 95 degrees in Oakhampton yesterday, and that’s not the kind of record I personally enjoy breaking. The most shoes? Sure. The most outstanding handbag collection? Absolutely. Richest woman in the world? Mos def. But not the hottest. At least, not in that way.

It was still 81 in my house at 2 am, when I finally sweated my way to bed last night/this morning. I knew I was doomed to another day of hell, because, let’s face it, if it’s still that hot in the middle of the night, it’s going to be really hot by noon. It’s only 10 am and it’s already 80 out there. I have all the fans going, to little or no avail. I’m seriously thinking of packing up the girls and going to an air-conditioned motel. I’m fantasizing about lounging in air conditioned bliss, ordering room service, and finally triumphing over the sun (nyah, nyah, you can’t get me!). At least for a little while.

That is one of the big pluses about moving. It never gets as hot up there as it does here, and the houses are shaded by redwoods, so they stay cool inside. If it does get hot, the ocean is just five miles away, an easy drive. And it always cools down a lot at night. I actually needed a sweater – and blankets! Oh, the bliss of blankets! – when I was there last.

If I move, as God is my witness, I’ll never be overheated again!

People often ask me why I’m not on Twitter. You will be amazed to hear that it’s basically my slothfulness rearing its pretty head. The truth is, it takes all of my muselette’s limited creative powers to write this blog. I also try to write a hundred words a day. And I can barely come up with anything interesting for my Facebook status a few times a week. My life isn’t that all that interesting, so it’s unlikely that I could could come up with pithy or poetic bon mots for the Tweeters out there. I may be one of Oakland’s few ennui-related deaths one of these days.

Also, I dislike the high school popularity contest aura of following or being followed on Twitter. I’ve been writing this blog for eight and a half years, and although I don’t currently have a site meter (the Doc is working on that), I have the feeling that my readers are a select and exclusive club, like all the best ones. I’m not interested in trolling for followers or comments, and that seems to be a big part of the Twitter experience.

Twitter posts, emails, and comments from viewers on news sites, such as CNN, appearing on the “crawl” at the bottom of the TV screen instead of the day’s headlines is an appalling development. That’s not news. It’s bad enough that newspapers are vanishing and we’re forced to read them on line, with a plethora of ads ever-increasing in size and number (and difficulty getting them off your screen and sending them back to hell, whence they came), without television news being full of people’s opinions instead of actual news. I’m interested in Anderson Cooper’s views, or Keith Olbermann’s opinions, but not in the opinions of some unknown schmo who probably knows nothing about the issue s/he is commenting about. Leave that to your personal blog or Twitter account and delight your many followers with it. Just keep it off the news.

I seem to be falling behind on technology, despite being a pretty early blogger. I have no interest in iPhones, and marveled at the folks who waited in line overnight to get one of the first ones (and then whined when the price went down the next year). I don’t want to play games on it or watch movies on a teeny screen. I can barely stand having a cell phone, and I use it primarily, almost exclusively, for work. You will not find me walking down the street and blathering to someone about what I had for lunch or what a hideous top Madison was wearing today. It’s a necessary evil which is useful if your car breaks down or you can’t find the person you’re meeting at the movies, and that’s it.

I never text unless someone sends me one. It makes sense to me that my boss will send me one when he’s in a meeting, needs some info, and doesn’t want to talk on his phone or have its ringing interrupt the meeting. But it doesn’t make sense to me to sit there pressing tiny buttons 5,000 times instead of just picking up the phone and calling the person. Or sending a quick email. Either one would be more efficient than texting.

When I take BART to the city, I’m amazed by how nearly everyone is plugged into their iPods, texting away, or on their cell phones. No-one is engaged with their surroundings or even taking the time to enjoy the sunshine and blue skies for the above-ground part of the journey. It kind of makes me sad, like the cars that have DVD players you can plug your kids into on a long car trip. God forbid they should enjoy the scenery, or talk to their parents, or play “I Spy” or try and collect license plates from different states. We used to drive from New York state to Maine (a 12 hour drive if you didn’t stop) and back every summer, and we got along fine without movies in the car. We didn’t have a TV or phone when we got to Maine, either, and we didn’t miss it, even into our teens.

With all these technological advances, though, can someone explain to me why no-one has figured out a way to send your home phone straight to voicemail, instead of having to let it ring? Now, that would be an improvement.

My new teapot

They were playing “Boys Don’t Cry” at the Safeway today. It was kind of unnerving to hear The Cure while you’re in the produce aisle. It just seemed wrong, like the first time I heard a Talking Heads song Muzak-ized in an elevator. Maybe you know you’re getting old when the bands of your youth are played in supermarkets and elevators. Imagine how weird it will be to hear a Muzak version of “My Name Is” or “Single Ladies”.

I’m pleased to announce that I finally have a new teapot, to replace the one the kitties broke* two months ago. It was remarkably difficult to do this. I went to Emeryville, which is basically a big mall, and looked in five different stores. Williams-Sonoma only had tiny, expensive ones. Pottery Barn only had tiny, hideous ones (which were also expensive). EQ3 was sold out, and the West Elm employee looked at me as if I asked for a flying saucer or a hoop skirt when I asked her for a teapot. I even went into the Starbucks section of Barnes & Noble, and found nothing but long lines and commuter cups.

I gave up and went home, where I found my teapot on line. It matches the microwave and coffeemaker, and, as it happens, the kitchen cupboards in my possible house-to-be. I might have news on that as soon as tomorrow.

*On the other hand, Audrey smashed the lid of my garlic house today. I’d had it for many years. Is a house any good without a roof? And is the rate of breakage an increasing trend?

“My” puppy and her mother

Luckily for me, Friday was the day Megan works with the pit bulls at her local shelter. Not only did I get to hug Davis and Tulley again (I’m pleased to report that Echo, Tulley’s puppy, has been adopted!), but I got to spend some time with a pit bull mama and her eight puppies.

Armed with my nearly-decade old digital camera, I went into the big enclosure with my sister and her dear friend Lu, who also works with the PBs every Friday. I soon appreciated the expertise of certain photographers in taking photos of wiggly, busy dogs. These pups would not hold still for their close-ups, so you’ll have to forgive the quality of the photos and focus on the incredible cuteness of these little guys.

The mother had been very abused, so we were careful in approaching her and her babies. Having said that, she was so affectionate and leaned against me, looking up at me with her big, beautiful eyes. How anyone could hurt such a lovely trusting creature is completely beyond me. I’m glad she has a chance to find a loving home and is safe now.

There are eight puppies. They came out of their little igloo and started staggering around like drunken sailors. Some of them still had blue eyes, and I think they’re around three or four weeks old. When they wagged their tiny tails, they fell over!

Beautiful Lu with mama and puppies

We were there to socialize the puppies, since they were very fearful of people at first. They have made a lot of progress since they’ve been at the shelter (the mother chose to give birth at a neighbor’s, knowing her own home wasn’t safe, and the neighbor brought them all to the shelter, probably saving the lives of all involved), and when I picked them up, they cuddled into my neck and made me giggle with their tickly puppy snuffling.

It was pretty much heaven, to tell you the truth.

My favorite was this little girl:

I love her worried little face (I’m a worrier, too), and her French manicure. When we left, she followed me to the gate and poked her little nose through, watching me as I left. I may be in trouble if I move up there. Megan says she’s going to name the puppy after me. How cool is that? I have had a goat named after me, but never a puppy.

Wow, guys. Thanks for all the supportive emails and comments. No wonder I love you all!

Dad used to refer to the collection of little houses where my brother and sister live as “The Compound” (on the 40th anniversary of the Manson murders, it sounds a little ominous, doesn’t it?). Before I give you the latest on the potential Green Acres Experiment, I’ll just fill you in on The Compound’s configuration.

You follow the rough, curving two-lane road from the store and post office for about five miles. You turn onto an even rougher dirt road, with obstacles such as pipes sticking out of the ground, holes, extremely forward rhododendrons, and the occasional deer. The road is pretty narrow, and just forget about your car’s paint job.

On your left is the front house, the biggest house and also where I slept with Tubby a couple of Thanksgivings ago. Keep going, and when you see a water tower, that’s where my sister’s house is, although it’s hidden from view at this point. Continuing down the dusty (or muddy) road, you’ll come across a biggish house with a balcony. This belonged to the landlord, neighbor, friend, and builder of all the houses, James, and his wonderful, artistic, warm-hearted long-time girlfriend, Rose. Both Rose and James passed away recently, and are much missed by all.

Keep going, and you’ll pass the house where Rose’s daughter and her family live. Further on, right at the very end of the road, is my brother’s house, which is more or less vacant now that he’s living on the land just down the road.

The latest idea is that I could move into James and Rose’s place. It’s empty now, and it’s bigger than the house I live in now. It has propane heat, so I wouldn’t have to chop wood in the winter, which is a definite plus. The balcony I mentioned earlier is off the bedroom, or sleeping loft, which I remember as being bigger than my current bedroom/office. I haven’t seen the house since Rose built a new bathroom, but I hear it’s really nice. There might actually be enough room to get all my things out of The Boxes! And what there isn’t room for can go into my brother’s huge storage container. The thought of having more room and no boxes makes me positively giddy.

Of course, the rent will be higher than it is for my sister’s little house, but it would still be around half of what I pay now. Rose’s daughter is happy with the idea of someone who knew and cares about her mother living in the house, so I think it could be good all the way around.

I’m off tomorrow to have a look at it. I’ll be back on Saturday with a full report.

Dad and his faithful friend Jesse* on Wimbledon Common.

I think of my Dad pretty much every day, but today, the anniversary of his death, I think of him a little more than usual, and maybe a little differently.

Now with the Green Acres Experiment greenlit, I’m second-guessing myself and wondering if I’ve made the right decision. When Dad was alive, I’d ask him for advice, and he was always right. Always. Whether it was a personal matter or a professional one, he knew what to do. Whereas I am the world’s oldest teenager and never know what to do.

Maybe I should be like George in that “Seinfeld” episode where he does the opposite of his instincts and everything starts going great for him.

The thing is, moving to the country is doing the opposite for me. I’ve always been a city girl, despite the fact that my sibs and I grew up on five bucolic acres and our nearest neighbors were farmers. Being somewhere without a Sephora or taxis kind of fills me with horror. But it makes financial sense, and I’ll have family and friends to support me in my new, muddy life.

The way things have been falling into place kind of makes me think that it’s meant to be. Dad didn’t believe in an afterlife, but maybe he was wrong for once and this is his way of telling me I’ve finally made a good decision on my own.

*In death, they were not divided: both Jesse’s and Dad’s ashes were scattered under a certain tree very near where this picture was taken. I said a final good-bye there after I cleared Dad’s things out of the house he and Margaret had shared during their happy years together.

I’ve been psyching myself up for weeks to talk to my boss about moving.

For the past couple of weekends, he’s been saying he’ll drop by – I had some articles for him about Goldman Sachs and the Madoff scandal, but he hasn’t shown up, or called. If I were dating him, I’d be devastated, but as it is, I know he just got busy doing other things. And after all, he does have a wife and children.

Finally, he stopped by a couple of days ago. We talked about a few work issues, and I was about to broach the subject when my phone rang. It was our tech/finance person with my paycheck (for some reason, she refuses to mail it, so I end up waiting around for her, or she shows up unexpectedly, like this). I went out to her car to get it, and when I came back in the house, Boss was on his cell phone, talking with a client. He covered the phone and told me he’d see me later. Waving from the car, he took off, and I just stood there for a minute. It all happened so fast.

I guess I’m going to have to talk to him on the phone instead of in person. It doesn’t seem right, but time is running out. I’m really nervous about it, even though I don’t really think he’ll say no or get mad at me or fire me or anything. Still.

Found this tucked into my screen door when I came home from seeing Safeway Ray today. On closer inspection, it turned out to be a tract from the religious rovers who patrol my neighborhood. Someone should call an exterminator.

Yesterday, I went to the city to pick up the check for my late lamented ring. It was fabulous to get a break, however brief, from the hellacious East Bay heat. As I drove across the Bay Bridge, passing the “City and County of San Francisco” sign, the air was delicately silvered with fog and deliciously cool. The city never looked lovelier.

I even found a parking space right in front of the jeweler’s. In the window, there was an eight carat diamond ring. Yours for a mere $195,000!

I deposited the check, and spent the first of the proceeds on a pizza from Victor’s and a doughnut from Bob’s before heading back into exile.

I thought I’d feel relieved as I deposited the check, but I didn’t. A third of it was slated for overdue bills, exchanging beauty for necessity yet again. It made me almost as sad as parting with the ring in the first place.

After paying the overdue bills, I planned to buy a couple of books which I wanted to read and the library didn’t have. But when it came to checking out on Amazon, I was so horrified by the shipping costs that I returned them to their virtual shelves. I’ve been so broke and so desperate for so long that even the thought of spending that money was unthinkable to me. I had thought I’d enjoy the novel sensation of purchasing a novel, but even that has been beaten out of me. I hope it’s not forever.

I’m going to see my sibs for a couple of days next week to see if a more reasonably priced life could be feasible for me. Maybe it will restore my joie de vivre – or joie de shopping, anyway.