Actually, I would have been doing better if I had been living back East. I was talking to my colleague in New York and he told me that it was about 60 degrees there, whereas it was a paltry 45 here. In the afternoon.

Making my way through the short cut to Megan’s house, I noticed how much storm damage there was: trees uprooted or fallen, bushes battered to their knees. Threading my way through the detritus made it a little less of a short cut*. Arriving at my sister’s, I just left my coat on. She had surprises for me: another $400 Amerigas bill** (the gift that keeps on giving!), some ribollita soup from Sunday night dinner, and a hat made for me by Lu. Just in time for winter’s comeback appearance!

I have to say it amazes me that one can take what is essentially a string and make it into a hat or sweater.

It rained like crazy last night, and I feel lucky that it wasn’t snow, since it’s 32F (0C for the Fahrenheit challenged) this morning. I piled on two quits and three blankets besides wearing my customary sweater to bed. I discovered that my Lu hat tends to come off in the course of a restless night’s sleep, but adds just the right note to my morning ensemble of pajamas, socks, and two sweaters. I’m writing to you with a quilt on my lap and all of us girls are huddled by the heater.

On the bright side, it is sunny out. Rob and I have a date today. He and my brother spent some time on Sunday trying to figure out why my car’s indicators have gone on strike. They seem to have narrowed it down, and if it’s not what they think it is, I’ll order a $100 part and hopefully that will fix it. It’s practically illegal to actually use your indicators in California, but I’d like to get it fixed before I go to the city next month.

Update: Rob came by and did some things and stuff, and now it all magically works again, including the hazard lights, which never did before. Come to think of it, I should have hazard lights on my person at all times. Just in case.

*I was reminded of our friend Paul, who specializes in taking “short cuts” that actually add an hour or more to driving time. He is always surprised when this happens, though no-one else is.

**Surely propane is the only utility where you have to pay a huge sum of money and then use it up, instead of paying as you go. All in all, not a good system.

I actually went out on Saturday night! Can you believe it? It may well be the first time I have ventured out past sundown since I moved to Hooterville. Alert the media!

I am the anti-vampire. Guess I won’t be starring in any super-popular teen movies any time soon. How very disappointing.

The occasion called for dressing up, if you count Converse skull high tops, Urban Decay’s culty Midnight Cowboy eyeshadow, and a citrine choker, which I do. I was considerably outdressed by two vintage ladies, one of whom wore a splendid ash-grey wrap coat, clasped with a fabulous brooch and paired with matching suede heels, and her equally well-dressed friend, who would turn out to be one of the stars of the show.

Megan, Rob and I met up with Lu and Rick at Eagles Hall in Fort Bragg to attend a night of magic and music.

We hardly had time to settle into our folding chairs before the musicians appeared: drums, cello, violin, bass, saxophone, and conductor/pianist. Robert Goleman, the star of the show, appeared at center stage resplendent in a tuxedo, and began singing “It’s Magic”. He had no microphone, and his rich, warm voice filled the room to the rafters.

Robert is a multi-talented gentleman who runs one of the best nurseries in the West as well as being an actor, singer, magician, and total charmer. This show focused on his amazing talents for magic and singing. Besides putting his lovely assistant into a box and folding it up before piercing it with swords, he also sang the entire aria from the “Barber of Seville”. I hope you enjoy the photo of him above, since my taking it caused a public outcry. Well, one obnoxious woman gave me hell for forgetting to turn off the flash, but she got embarrassed on stage later, so maybe there really is karma. Ha!

My favorite trick was when he called for a happily married lady to join him on stage. This request was greeted by “Good luck!” or similar from a wag in the audience (possibly Obnoxious Woman’s spouse) and answered by the elegant lady I mentioned earlier. The magician took her ring and put it in a scarf. He asked her to hold the ring with one hand and a ring box in the other. He pulled on the scarf, and we all heard the distinctive sound of metal hitting wood. The magician was embarrassed and the lady visibly upset.

While the musicians sought the lost ring, the magician brought out a gum ball machine full of prizes in little plastic balls and gave the lady a quarter. She opened the prize and it was a plastic ring with a gorilla on it. She didn’t consider it an adequate replacement, even though it glowed in the dark and was adjustable. She tried again, and got a fortune saying something like “Magic is a girl’s best friend”, a sentiment with which she clearly didn’t agree.

The magician got a quarter from the audience, telling the donor that he wouldn’t get it back, and the lady tried again. This time, it was her ring in the little plastic bubble!

How did he do it?

It was a wonderful show, all the more so for being a small venue – we were four rows back – so the magic seemed truly magical.

Afterwards, we were standing outside talking about how amazing it was when the two ladies passed by us. I heard the brooch lady ask the ring lady if it was all planned beforehand. “No!” she exclaimed. “I was as surprised as you were!”

It was a dark and dreary day yesterday, the perfect weather for a film noir, especially one from my favorite decade, the 1940s. I love the luscious lines of cars back then, the elegant clothes and hairstyles, the ability to wear furs and diamonds with impunity – pretty much everything except, you know, that tiresome war thing.

Last night’s feature was 1949’s “East Side, West Side”, starring a fabulous cast: Barbara Stanwyck, James Mason, Ava Gardner, Van Heflin, and Cyd Charisse. Not to mention Williams Conrad and Frawley in minor roles, ditto Nancy Davis, not yet Reagan. It’s set in New York’s Upper East Side, which is filmed lovingly in beautiful black and white. It even has a scene where models wander around a dress salon, showing off the latest styles. I wish they still did that. The salon had uniformed maids asking the patrons whether they’d like a cigarette or a drink. Just try smoking at a couturier’s now when they’re showing the new line and see how fast you get ejected.

Stanwyck plays the long-suffering socialite wife whose husband is having an affair with Ava Gardner. Art imitating life, since Stanwyck’s real-life husband at the time, Robert Taylor, also had an affair with Ava Gardner. When you see her sashay out of a phone booth in this movie, you really can’t blame either of them. I imagine Barbara really enjoyed that scene where she slaps Ava.

Mason plays Stanwyck’s tortured husband, torn between lust for Ava and love for his wife. While he’s struggling with that, acclaimed journalist Van Heflin is falling for the nobly suffering Barbara. They both fight their feelings through platonic parties and late-night omelette sessions, while Cyd Charisse pines for Heflin, who she’s had a crush on since childhood. Triangles within triangles.

Barbara has to decide whether to stay or go, and turns to her mother, played by Gale Sondergaard, for advice. Sondergaard refers to herself as an “old woman of 55″, which is slightly alarming to hear when you’re 47. Of course, playing someone’s mother when you’re only eight years older than your on-screen child can do that to a girl. Just ask Jessie Royce Landis, who played Cary Grant’s mother in “North by Northwest” when she was, you guessed it, eight years older than he was.

I’m beginning to be concerned that I’m nine years older than Megan. Does that mean I look like her grandmother?

One of the advantages of my house is there are doors everywhere, so I took the laundry room/pantry/cat dining room door (the one which is also used for the giant extension cord from the generator when the power goes out) into the garden.

Every time I walk through the garden, I mentally clean it out, though I never actually do anything about it. That’s the Suzy way. Maybe in the spring I’ll go through and purge all the weird hippie crap and detritus built up over thirty years.

Or not.

As I carefully placed the clothes on the rack to maximize the limited space (it supposedly has 25 feet of drying space, but it’s a very different experience from 25 feet of clothesline), I enjoyed the sun on my back and the company of Luna, who seems to be constantly wet and muddy without minding it in the least. I did try and keep Her Muddiness away from the freshly washed clothes, though.

As often happens when I do a routine task, my thoughts drifted, and they landed on my paternal grandmother, Grammie. Grammie hung out her clothes year round in her tiny, yet beautiful garden in Surrey. She never had a washer, boiling her clothes on top of her gas stove or washing them in the sink by hand. I was startled when spending the summer with her in 1977 to find her stirring her clothes with a giant wooden stick one morning. Dad finally convinced her to get a spin dryer, which took out most of the water, but she resolutely refused to get a washer and dryer. “Unnecessary,” she said.

She was highly offended when the parquet floor started coming up after 50 years of constant use. “In my day, we built things to last“, she sniffed.

On the other hand and the other side of the pond, my mother’s mother embraced new technology. She had escaped the farm to go to college, shingle her hair, and have a career – she had no interest in the past. She and my grandfather had a color TV years before we ever did, and they always had up to the minute appliances. She never hung her wash out.

Here I am, two centuries after they were born, a combination of the two. I work, I have a washing machine which mostly works, but I hang my clothes out to dry, either inside or outside. I like to think that my grandmothers are still with me in some ways. And they both inspire me.

Thoughts of Advil danced in my head as I started the coffee brewing, but I have finally learned my lesson that taking anything to offset a headache results in what I refer to as “aspirin tummy” as well as the headache. Better to keep calm and carry on.

On the bright side, there was no Henry barf on the rug this morning. On the down side, the flash heater was out again and refused to respond to my lame-ish ministrations. I have to admit that I didn’t invest a lot of time in trying to resuscitate it, partly because I was uncaffeinated and partly because it was a two sweater morning and standing outside shivering and ineptly assaulting an inanimate object was not the most appealing prospect. I’ll call Mark later.

The night had started out well enough. I finally had the new Michael Connelly, which I requested from the library in October, and the reassuring thought that there is another one coming out this October. I had changed the sheets and fluffed up the feather bed and feather pillows, so the bed was a haven of comfort. I just settled down for a cozy read when I heard a tiny sound. I put the book down and listened. There it was again. I got out of bed and peered down the stairs.

It was Henry Etta, sitting on the stairs and sounding tiny and sad.

I called her and she came up the stairs slowly, then jumped on the bed (thank you, metacam and Sea Flex!). June, who was already ensconced in her usual place, gave Henry Etta the stink eye until I told her to knock it off. She turned her back on me and huffily resumed her beauty sleep. Henry sat next to me for a while and I petted her and talked to her while I read.

I must have bored her, though, or else the heat came on, because after half an hour or so she repaired to her cozy bed by the heater. It was nice while it lasted and I hope she does it again. She hasn’t been up there in months, as far as I know.

Sleep was hard to come by last night, and when it finally arrived, I was woken up by a heavy storm, slashing rain against the roof/walls and wind howling through the trees. I was almost sure there would be another power outage and waited anxiously in the dark, listening to the storm crescendo and thinking about the precarious electrical arrangements on the property and the foolishness of not clearing enough trees around the houses.

The power didn’t go out, though I eventually did. I dreamed of Dad. We were making dinner for a party of unknown dream people, and we were marinating fish in lime juice. One of the party goers asked Dad if he’d take a drink from his wineskin, which he offered. Dad laughed and said no, he’d stick to his 1952 Margaux. He would have in real life, too, since excellent wine rarely, if ever, comes out of a bag. Or box.

In my dreams, Dad is never dead.

I was awakened by the balcony door slamming open in the wind. I lay in the darkness for a long moment, remembering all over again that he’s gone. That’s the worst thing about dreams: waking up to reality.

I got up and closed the door.

I was thinking about how Elvis named his private plane for his daughter and how cool it would be to have a yacht or a plane named after you. If only I had a more glamorous name!

Apparently surveys show that Susan is considered a sexy name. I’ve always considered it a boring one, and when combined with a middle name of Jean, it’s hardly a surprise that I ended up living in Hooterville. Even though the consummately glamorous Marilyn and Self share the same unglamorous middle name, it still makes me feel like I should be chewing on a piece of straw and scratching under my overalls.

Seriously, can you think of one gorgeous Susan? Can you?

While you’re thinking about it, I’ll go empty the gross green bin contents into the woods and see if I can find Lucky, who’s been scarce lately. I wonder if she’s looking for a boyfriend.

(Later)

I’m back and slightly disgusted. I bet you couldn’t think of a beautiful Susan. The closest I could get was my idol Suzy Parker (seen above), but her real name was Cecilia, not Susan, so I’m not sure if she even counts.

My mother’s father, he of the great charm and humor, used to be the only person in the world who called me Suzy. I always felt we had a close bond. We both had green eyes, though he wasn’t related to me by blood, and I loved to listen to his stories. When he was well into his eighties, nearly blind and walking with a cane, he would still attract clouds of pretty girls while waiting for my grandmother at the mall.

“Let’s go home, Ernest, you’re tired, ” she’d say, taking his arm and steering him away. “I’m not tired,” he’d protest, with a backward glance and wink at his audience.

I was fifteen when he died. I used to sleep in on a cot in my grandparents’ bedroom, and the night before his funeral, I dreamed that he was lying in his coffin (both of my grandparents had open coffins and three visiting days at the funeral home, some of the worst days of my life) with black plastic billowing around it. Peeking into the coffin in my dream, I saw that he was laughing. When we arrived at his grave the next day, there was the billowing black plastic of my dream. I knew it meant that he was happy to join my grandmother, who had died three months earlier. It wasn’t scary at all, it was reassuring.

I missed him so much that I started asking close friends to call me Suzy. It made me feel as if he wasn’t really gone forever. Now friends and family call me Suzy*, and work-related people and grown-ups call me Susan, so I have my real life self and my work self. Perfect for a Gemini.

*The other day, Megan and I were laughing about how she and Jonathan can call me “Floozy” or “Boozy” or variations on this theme and I always answer without even thinking about it.

Hey! I successfully lit the oven tonight without exploding it, or Self, or even burning off eyebrows or other valued body parts. This always gives me a feeling of accomplishment, especially since it’s a new month and so far I’ve gotten through a whole day without even a minor injury. Hopefully it’s not like “In like a lion and out like a lamb” and I end the month in traction.

Here in Hooterville, March came in more like a lazy cat than a lion or a lamb. it just kind of sat there, grey and unmoving, all day. Yesterday, however, it was sunny enough for a local beekeeper to come and inspect the remains of the hive.

On the bright side, the Queen is alive (long live the Queen!), but the population is pretty much decimated. I’m not sure if it was mites or the fact that the bottom of the hive is mesh (which the previous owner failed to mention) and they probably froze to death, the poor things. But the Queen is still reigning over her depleted realm, and there is a LOT of honey. I hope the bees recover and/or we can find a new colony to join the survivors.

We had a more festive dinner than usual last night. I had the genius idea of making Thanksgiving Lite, so I got a couple of turkey breasts (since none of us likes the dark meat and there’s no carcass to deal with) and roasted them. I made dressing/stuffing with leftover bread and et ceteras, including corn bread (score!) and herbs from Megan’s garden. I learned at Safeway that they don’t carry fresh cranberries after the holidays, so canned it was. Add in some fresh green beans and too many bottles of local-ish wine (from the next county over) and you have a fun dinner on your hands. The boys gradually dispersed, and Meg and I stayed up too late, listening to music and having just one more glass of wine.

Yesterday, the chilly morning turned to sun as Megan and I headed to town for the Adoption Day.

When we arrived at the Feed & Pet, Monica was already set up with a palapas-looking umbrella shading her table, which of course had a scented candle burning and a vase of orchids beside information packages on pit bulls. Because that’s how she rolls.

We had Harlow’s brother Trace with us that day, sporting his orange “ADOPT ME” vest. He was full of puppy energy, so I was walking him around the parking lot when I saw a family approaching. I introduced Trace, and I saw a look pass between the mother and her teenage son. We learned later that Trace Adkins is the son’s favorite singer. Kismet! They were clearly charmed by Trace, and we walked back toward Monica’s table as I told them everything I knew about Trace.

His foster mother, Carol, demonstrated Trace’s exceptional training (sit, stay, lie down, etc.) for the delighted family. They filled out the paperwork right then and there. I was so happy to take off the vest and hand the leash to Trace’s new family. They already have a 12 year old dog they rescued off the street many years ago (so emaciated you could see all his ribs), and Trace is his new brother. Trace settled happily into the waiting bed in the back of their car and drove off to his new life while we waved good-bye.

One thing Monica insists on is doing a home visit to make sure everything is OK in real life and not just on paper. We agreed to go over later that afternoon, giving Megan and me time to run errands (library, Safeway, bank, gas station – you know the drill). We met up with Monica and went to visit Trace’s new home.

They live on seven beautifully landscaped acres, with the two acres around the house being fenced to keep dogs in and unwanted animals out. The house itself is huge and lovely, and Trace and Max, his big brother, have free run of it along with their own luxurious beds. During the visit, Max and Trace played together happily, Max’s eyes bright with joy, and then collapsed onto the bed for a nap. No worries there.

Driving home in the setting sun, we agreed that it had been a great day.

As I watched the trees toss their heads through the skylight in my bedroom, I thought, “It’s just a matter of time until the power goes out.” I heard trees falling and things being blown over as I worked, but the power stayed on. I also heard a truck going down the driveway.

Peeking out the window, I saw the Amerigas truck driving slowly down the rutted dirt road. It stopped at Mark’s, where Luna announced his presence (”Hello, this is Luna, your doorman!”). He was afraid to get out of the cab, so I got an umbrella and ran down there in the pouring rain, shooing Luna away. I had to tell him about ten times that Luna wouldn’t bite him before he believed me. She’s all bark and no bite. I asked him to fill up my tank, throwing caution to the winds with the insouciance of a girl who had finally paid off her most recent $400 propane bill. I was down to about 20% and that’s as low as the gas limbo is supposed to go.

Feeling smug, I went inside to do the dishes. The water wouldn’t heat up, meaning the flash heater was out. I called Mark, and he came over to have a look. It was worse than I thought, though, because he had to take the bottom of the housing off to see what was going on in there. Apparently the wind and rain had both blown out and soaked the pilot light, so it took awhile to persuade it to work. This is why having your flash heater outside is a less than stellar idea.

While he was working outside, I went back to work inside. For about five minutes. Until the power went out.

I looked out at the clearing skies and wondered what was up with that, since the storm appeared to have blown over. Rob came by to get the generator going so I could continue my degenerate lifestyle, and he said there were other, bigger outages, so PG&E may have shut ours off temporarily to fix the others. It wasn’t out long, and all was back to what passes for normal by the time I went to bed.

She was so stressed and sleep-deprived yesterday that Rob took her to work last night and Jonathan picked her up this morning, bright and early at 6 am, once again making him the best brother ever. So the car’s presence here was even stranger.

Later I found it was because Lu thought she might drop off a load of wood at Megan’s so Rob moved the car to make way for the potential transaction.

And I thought it was because being seen in my driveway had such cachet.

Less mysterious, but still delightful, was the dozen Betty eggs she left on my table. Betty’s hens are laying again now that spring is closer.

In other mysteries, whenever I go to town and pick up an armload of books from the library, as I did yesterday, I almost invariably find more have arrived by the time I get home or check my library holds the next day. How do they do it?

And why do the cats claw the hell out of the wood on either side of the door when they have a woods full of trees all around them? It isn’t just Audrey clawing frantically to go in or out, either, since that is done by clawing the glass in the door for extra squeak. June claws the house, too, and Megan’s cats do the same thing at their house. Why? Why?

The ways of cats are inscrutable. I love it when I let them in one door and they walk straight to another door and ask to be let out of that one. Just because they can, I guess.

On Sunday, Meg and I went to help Monica, her partner in pit bulls, at her annual “purge party”. Monica has a store in town which sells flooring, carpeting and so on, but somehow also has fabulous items of cuteness, from candles to magnets to wallets and make-up. It smells like magic in there. Monica has great taste and always looks effortlessly stylish, which every girl knows is the hardest look to pull off. I totally Covet a lamp in her store, which is covered with vintage buttons. Every year, she organizes local merchants, among others, who bring things to sell and donate a percentage of the proceeds to the Daisy Davis Pit Bull Rescue. Together we raised almost a thousand dollars!

I held a board with pictures of different dogs on it and a sign saying “Can you guess the pit bull?” I’m sorry to say that I failed to identify the correct dog, but I was in good company – I’d say around 30% of the people got it right. The lucky few who did got a cookie, and everyone got a lesson in pit bull 101 from my dedicated sis.

I have to say I really enjoyed seeing her in action. Her passion just shines and affects everyone she talks to. She was able to correct a lot of misconceptions people have about pit bulls (the locking jaw, the pugnacious temperament, etc.) and even explained to one overalled hick that no, flicking a dog’s nose with a lit lighter is not a good way to stop a fight. Honestly, sometimes I despair of people. Today I was driving behind someone whose dog was hanging out of the back window to the point that both of his front legs were out. I beeped and gestured, but in vain. When I passed the car, I saw that the driver had another dog on her lap.

Whatever.

Meanwhile back at the yard sale, two of Harlow’s siblings were looking for homes. No takers yet, but we did give away some flyers about the puppies and Meg put some up at work. There is also an adoption day this Saturday at the Feed & Pet, so I might go with Megan and help out. You can see that her enthusiasm affects even the most slothful.

It wasn’t all work and no play, though. I did get a see-through corded phone ($4!), so I’m ready for the next power outage in style.

I wonder if Rose planted them.

Right outside the glass doors in the living room is a vine I thought was dead, but is an awakening honeysuckle.

Huckleberries are the eccentrics of the neighborhood. They are blooming now, but they won’t fruit until July. What’s up with that? And yet we’re still picking them – barely – at Thanksgiving. Go figure.

Between the age of my camera, my lack of skills, and the falling pine needles, you’ll have to take my word on this one. The manzanita flowers look like lilies of the valley. They were the favorite flowers of my mother and her mother.

I have no idea what this is. It’s planted in a big wine vat. And it’s been blooming like crazy:

“Now I see that my world has only begun” — Gene Clark

Megan was at my house, and we were making dinner from the Book of Dad*. I went to grudgingly throw my green bin contents into the woods (I still think it’s gross and will attract an undesirable animal element, but apparently it makes me a better person and I can use all the help I can get), and when I came back in, the house was dark.

“??”

“The power’s out.”

“Oh.”

I put on the battery powered lamps and Megan called Jonathan, who came over right away. He was slightly delayed by a freaky guy who walked right up to his gate and was ranting about nothing and everything. The guy wandered away, and when he described the guy to Megan, she knew who it was right away. Most of the local crazies end up in the ER at one time or another.

The oven, of course, was still merrily cooking away, being gas, but Henry’s bed, which was in the washer, was not.

Jonathan set up the generator, plugged things in, and soon we had heat and light. Then, like most super heroes, he was on his way.

The power came on before we went to bed that night. There was even enough time to finish washing Henry Etta’s bed and get her settled into it.

*Braised honey-mustard chicken, to be precise. Also broccoli and almond pilaf. It was great. Dad food is the best food.

So are the cats of our lives…

On Thursday night, I made yet another unnecessarily elaborate dinner at my sister’s house. My sis happens to have a much better equipped cuisine than I do, even though she – if you can believe this – has even less counter space. In fact, my very act of choosing to cook at her place led to a flurry of cleaning off the old wooden table in her kitchen to give me a little more operating room.

After the long-awaited dinner*, Harriet showed up with a mouse in her mouth. I opened the front door but she ran upstairs. Later, we discovered that Harriet had left the (dead) mouse under the coffee table Dad made out of an ancient door. Meg’s first step, unsteadily, was taken from that table, which she held onto before letting go and walking into her life. She never looked back.

Fearing for Jinx and my brother in almost equal measure, I went over to his place last night and called the cat with no real hope of success. I left an open can of very good quality cat food on an outside table for him, and called him for almost an hour with no results. As I walked around the bushes and the shipping container and the shed and the trailer with my flashlight, I thought, “Well, there’s a million places he could be.” I didn’t even raise Twilley, who was undoubtedly thrilled to be released from his unaccustomed prison.

I called my brother and told him of my lame efforts, and he was really touched. I told him how surprised I was to be so upset by the loss of a cat I never knew, and offered the hope of a Hav-A-Hart trap baited with something really good. The truth is, my brother does so much for me, and I can do so little for him. This was all I could do, other than locking the gate when I left, which he appreciated.

That’s another story, and it’s not a nice one, having to do with the kind of people who will knock down your gate and steal your redwoods for profit.

When I got home, I horrified June and Audrey by sweeping them into my arms and hugging them, making them wiggle frantically to escape my maniacal clutches. I was just so glad they were safe. All night my thoughts kept turning to Jinx, out there in the deep country darkness.

Henry Etta distracted me from these morbid thoughts (and the finale of “Monk”, which was excellent) by jumping onto my lap. I petted her messy fur and was glad she was safe forever from the perils of the Oakland streets. When the heater went on, she dumped me in its favor as usual, but she left a not so lovely parting gift. Unwisely putting my hand on the couch cover, I discovered an even bigger gift there. I took off the couch cover, changed into my pajamas, and threw the whole mess into the washer.

Then I got a paper towel, dampened it with warm water, and wiped Miss Henry’s butt with it. After I threw out the paper towel, it occurred to me how remarkable it was that she actually allowed me yank up her tail and undignify her like that without resorting to hissing or clawing.

I am now keeping a tea towel on my lap at all times in self-defense.

Note to Self: better throw that cat bed into the wash, too.

*It was manicotti, stuffed with turkey sausage and fresh spinach, etc. I deviated freely from the recipe. It turned out well, but stuffing the manicotti is a skill I didn’t pick up when I lived in Italy for a few months. If only I’d thought to ask!

At the best of times, the inside of my head looks like a particularly untidy attic. And since I seem to be coming down with a cold or similar (it’s hard to tell when you have allergies; they’re like an unending cold), it’s not the best of times for my two little brain cells.

My brother woke me up from weird dreams this morning (the kind which convince you that you are, in fact, secretly psychotic) to ask me what to do about his cats. Twilley is annoyed at being kept inside and may also be annoyed by the invasion of his petite domain by the new cat.

The new cat is still hiding in the shower, which, apart from hygiene concerns, is concerning.

I think new cats can hide for much longer than 48 hours, but does anyone have any experience with this?

Also, should we let Twilley out? I’m afraid he’ll be all annoyed and take off, but he does know where he lives now and where his food is, so hopefully his little tabby nose isn’t too much out of joint to come back home.

My brother was on his way to work for a 12 hour shift, so I said to leave them both in and I’d check on them later, so that’s what we did for today.

Do let me know your suggestions/thoughts/ideas as soon as you can, either in the comments or by emailing me at sjpeakall AT gmail DOT com.

Thanks from the kitties and the people who love them,

Suzy
Update, Friday, 7 pm: Well, they managed to get out while my brother was at work. ~sigh~ I just went over with a can of food and called them, but needless to say, no response. Left the open can of food on an outside table and hope Jinx will find it. Hope he isn’t too scared to reappear. I’m so sad and I never even met this cat!

In other cat news, my brother has adopted a young black and white male named Jinx. He used to have two adorable tuxedo brothers named Thing One and Thing Two, but they disappeared (in order, actually). After One disappeared, he adopted Twilley, a handsome tabby who agrees with Audrey about the importance of hunting at all times. Twilley and Two spent a lot of time together until Two also vanished. Twilley has been very lonely, especially when Jonathan works overnight, so getting a companion seemed like a good idea.

Jinx was quiet all the way from the animal shelter to Jonathan’s place. Released from his box, he went crazy, racing back and forth in the (very) limited confines of the trailer, leaping up on the counters, spraying pots and pans everywhere. I just called to check on him and he is now hiding in the shower while my brother attempts to restore order to his domain. Twilley is bemused. Keeping them inside for the prescribed two weeks is going to be…interesting.

By the way: I forgot to mention that I finally remembered to bring Jessica her nicely wrapped Christmas present (either really late or really early – you decide) on Sunday. She was so impressed with the wrapping that she was reluctant to open it, probably a first for both of us. As soon as she took off the snowflake pin, she put it on her coat (and later, when it warmed up at the fair and she took her coat off, she put it on her t-shirt). I’m glad I was momentarily mature enough to give it to her instead of keeping it. The light-up snowman pen was a big hit, too. She used it to write down all our cell phone numbers and put them in her pocket in case we got separated at the fair. This was her idea. What else would you expect from a six year old who reads at an advanced sixth grade level?

*If I had been old enough to have my own place in the 1970s, I would have had an “etc” sign on the wall, just like Rhoda. I loved her apartment on the first couple of seasons of “Rhoda”. The terrace alone! I also loved MTM’s little studio apartment. I love mentally redecorating both of them when I watch those shows, too.

My work ethic (such as it is) has really gone to the dogs lately. Yesterday, I bailed off work to go with Megan to meet Lu at Big River to walk the dogs, and today I delayed doing the work I should have done yesterday to walk Schatzi on the logging road in the unaccustomed sunshine. Before I left, I put my laundry outside in the sun to attempt to dry it, so I did accomplish something.

Now that I’m back, I’m blogging instead of working, so I guess I’m going to the blogs, too.

I guess I can’t list “amazing ability to procrastinate” under “special skills” on my resume. Imagine if I really did list my special skills? The ability to complain about anything, any time; unerringly select the most expensive item in the “New Yorker” estate jewelry ads; tell if someone is really a guy or a girl (that’s a skill acquired from many years of living in San Francisco); select just the right wine for any occasion. Really, is there a job on earth where a girl would get hired for these skills?

As work avoidance goes, yesterday’s walk was great. We were all reveling in the surprising sunshine. We met up in the Big River parking lot. I hadn’t seen Harlow, the artist formerly known as my puppy, since Halloween, and although she is still small (she was the runt of the litter), she has grown a lot. As you can see from the picture, she is still red and has retained her beautiful golden eyes, along with her worried wrinkles, which are cute on dogs. As befits “my” puppy, she is a handful! I decided to let Megan the disciplinarian deal with Harlow, while I took my old friend Schatzi and Lu took her huge, well-behaved Rottweiler Marco.

Lu’s ankle is still recovering, so we stayed on the flat road, and because there were lots of other dogs and people (it was one of those sorta holidays, where the banks and post office are closed, but you still have to work), the dogs were leashed. But a good time was had by all.

On our way home, there were no fewer than five cars making the turn to Hooterville in front of us, making six cars total. This may be unprecedented. At the store, we picked up a couple of their fabulous croissant sandwiches. Megan had hers in the car, but I made the mistake of taking mine home and microwaving it too long. It turned into mush, with the strange, intense heat of microwaved food. So my treat became unsatisfactory and weird. Oh, well.

Today, I couldn’t find Schatzi anywhere. I whisper-called her in the house and managed to wake up my poor sister, who had probably been in bed for all of three hours by then. It turned out that Schatzi was sleeping with her, so she sent the sleepy dog downstairs. She woke up when she saw the leash, though. Meg was a good sport about having her beauty sleep so rudely interrupted, though I suspect that if it had been for any other reason, she wouldn’t have been quite so forgiving.

I let Schatzi off the leash today, and she scampered around happily. Luna showed up, but when she started to bother Schatzi, I told her to beat it and she knocked it off for once, so it was a good walk for all concerned. When we got home, I surprised Schatzi with a pot of water in which I’d poached a chicken breast. The perfect after walk hydration in her opinion.

I left the doors open both yesterday and today, and I have to say, it’s nice to have a break from my real job as Cat Doorman.

I’d better get back to my other job. Finally.

Yesterday was a girls’ day out. At the 118th annual Citrus Fair!

Megan and I went to meet Lu in beautiful downtown Hooterville. While waiting for Lu, someone called out from her car, “Hey, Megan! I was never so glad to see you in my life as I was at that call!” It was the official paramedic from the call where Megan and Lu unofficially helped a week earlier.

We were getting a little cold waiting for Lu and reading the signs posted on the store’s bulletin board (do I really need a free, 14 year old ostrich who “like room to run”?), so we went in and chatted with the cashier. She regaled us with stories of shoplifters past, including a drunk guy who used to hide wine in his pants, deny it, and then get busted when the bottles fell out of the pants legs onto the floor.

Lu pulled up as we mused on how stupid you’d have to be to steal at the only store in town, and the only store for several miles, and we piled in.

In Boonville, we stopped off to pick up Jessica, who was anxiously awaiting our arrival. Erica was, too, because she had 200 pastries to make that day, and making 200 pastries is a lot easier when you don’t have to brat-bash, as my father would say. I traded her a “New Yorker” with an article on Neil Gaiman for her only child, and we both thought we got a pretty good deal.

Big news: Jessica is no longer subject to the indignity of the car seat! And she is tall enough to ride that ride.

Arriving at the fair, Jessica and I were thrilled by the sight of the Citrus Fair Queen in her red cape and sparkly tiara. We waved, and the Queen waved back very regally for a high school student. Jessica said that she thought she could be a Citrus Fair Queen one of these days, and I bet she could.

Even more exciting than the Queen sighting for Miss Jess were the rides, the more dizzying, the better.

All the grownups were either too scared (Me) or nauseous (everyone else) to accompany the kidlet on the rides. After all, I am the same girl who was horrified by the Ferris wheel at the Florida State Fair a few years ago. Though we did make sure that she was tall enough (she actually exceeded the height requirements) and that there were sufficient safety mechanisms in place. Then we just watched her be delighted. That girl is fearless.

She also caught a couple of toy fish, winning prizes, and wound up the ride experience with a relatively tame carousel ride (I tried not to think about that scene from “Strangers on a Train”, especially since they were playing the same song).

After that, it was time for a BBQ lunch with garlic fries while being serenaded by a mariachi band. Sitting at the picnic table in the sun, I said that I was actually afraid of getting a sunburn. Megan had a sunblock stick in her bag, and we all put some on. It was wonderful to bask in the sun and blue skies, which never did make it to Hooterville that day.

After lunch, we visited the pygmy goats, including twin babies:

We also petted the world’s softest rabbit. He felt like suede.

Megan and I went to a talk on beekeeping from a gentleman who has been a beekeeper for more than 60 years (his father was a life-long beekeeper, and so is his daughter, who gives classes we’re hoping to attend this spring). Among the many things we learned was that in the 1950s, the US exported 60% of its honey. Now it imports 60%. Also that most beekeepers are now 65 or older, so that just strengthened our commitment to truly learning this difficult art.

There was just enough time to watch Scotty and Trink juggle knives – and fire – on unicycles:

all while making the audience laugh.

It was a great day.

When we left Erica and Jessica, Jessica called after us: “Goodbye, enourage!”

Last night, Megan and I had a girls’ night in. Schatzi came, too, sporting a cute new collar* which unfortunately doesn’t really show up in this picture. Also it kind of gives her demon eyes, but it was so funny I had to post it anyway. After a couple of glasses of wine, Megan observed that it really was a girls’ night, since all three cats and the dog in attendance are girls. Coincidentally, Megan’s cats, Ramona (the Pest) and Harriet (the Spy) are sisters, but our brother has only ever had boy cats.

As we binged on “Sex and the City” and junk food, it soon became apparent that Henry Etta likes Schatzi.

Yes, this is the same cat who was so spooked by hearing dogs bark in a movie that she fled the room just a couple of months ago. Now, if Schatzi is curled up next to Megan and not me (dogs are always welcome on my couch), Henry will sit on her lap to be closer to Schatzi. She has sat close enough to touch the dog. If Schatzi is sitting or lying on the floor, Henry approaches her and sniffs her carefully. Schatzi is always polite to cats, so she takes this attention in stride, but I still think it’s funny that my stray cat has a crush on a pit bull.

When Henry went for a snack break, Schatzi seized the opportunity to try on Henry’s bed for size. Being a dainty-sized dog, she sort of fit, and clearly found it as comfortable as Henry Etta does. Though she gracefully gave it up when its owner returned. No wonder Henry has a crush on her!

*Just in time for Fashion Week**. It’s a soft yellow, and patterned with little flowers which might be daisies or might be sunflowers. Either way, it brings out her brindle coloring very nicely.
**Rest in peace, Alexander McQueen. So sad.

The floor of the shower is painted, so it’s a little slippery. I’m pretty sure that the resolution ending Calamity Suzy episode of all time is going to happen in there, sooner or later. To try and avert the inevitable, the last time I was in the city, I picked up some clear pebble Tub Treadz* and a matching bath mat. I thought the pebbly look was good for the country. And everything in this house is slightly (or extremely) irregular.

I was slightly stymied, as so often happens, by the instructions. “Apply to a clean, dry surface”, it says in a breezy manner, as if that were something easily attained. It’s almost impossible to attain either for me. The shower never drains completely, and there’s always renegade dirt and pine needles in there. I’m not sure how to achieve the requisite cleanliness and dryness, so the Tub Treadz are still cutely in their package for now, and possibly forever.

I have been using the bath mat, but I overlooked the fact that plastic doesn’t absorb either water or the aforementioned detritus of Nature the way fabric bath mats did. Although it’s a little cold and squishy to step onto, it doesn’t show the dirt or add yet another color to the tiny room.

The inside of the doors is red, while the outsides are blue. The floor is lime green. Electric lime green. And it extends into what should be the foyer, which has a blue door. One of these days, I’d like to put black and white tiles down and paint the blue door white. In the meantime, I try to avert my eyes. Though the lime green is somewhat toned down by the mud that is inevitably tracked into the house.

The bathroom itself is unheated, and the walls appear to be made of particle board or plywood mostly, as is the lime green floor. So it’s really not all that far, literally or figuratively, from the outdoor shower, which is on the porch right outside the bathroom. Especially when you factor in the wildlife that likes to congregate in there: spiders and bugs, and I once found a huge black slug in the non-draining shower and a tiny scorpion in the equally tiny sink.

It’s nice and warm when you’re actually in the shower – assuming that the flash heater doesn’t get blown out – and you can enjoy the view of the garden and the non-functioning hot tub as you shampoo. You might even see a passing PG&E meter reader or a deer. When you get out, though, it’s pretty chilly, despite the room being fogged up. But that’s easily solved by opening both doors: the one to the back porch and the one to the foyer.

*They reminded me of the rubber daisies we use to have in the bathtub when I was a kid.