Suzy Says

Mom seems to be doing better. It’s hard to know how much of her symptoms are because of the TIA and how much can be attributed to age, fighting the cancer, and radiation. But her condition seemed improve each day over the weekend, so maybe she really just needs rest and company while she gets her strength back. She is seeing her own doctor today, so hopefully we’ll know more after that. My brother is with her now and might take her back home with him to the country for a week if the doctor says it’s OK.

Can you tell I’m proud of my sis? Here’s Megan at work, with the ambulance she drives.

It’s the longest day of the year, and even if it weren’t, it would feel like it, ’cause I’m Mom-sitting.

John’s quick trip to Petaluma earlier this week may have suggested to the alert reader that there is something going on with my Mom, and indeed there is.

Mom had a TIA (transient ischemic attack) or mini stroke to the non-medically educated, last Sunday while visiting my brother and sister. She seems to have recovered, but we feel that isn’t safe to leave her on her own for now, so we’re taking it in shifts to Mom-sit.

My sister Megan brought Mom home on Thursday to keep an appointment with the local hospice to discuss the services available when Mom’s cancer gets more critical and to keep her doctor’s appointment on Friday. Megan has to work over the weekend – such being the life of an EMT – so John and I are taking turns and then my brother Jonathan is taking over on Sunday. The bigger question at this point is whether she can continue to live on her own. Megan thinks Mom will live longer if she’s independent, and her apartment does have pull cords to call 911, but it’s so hard to know what to do.

I got here yesterday afternoon, and so far, so good. She kind of leans to the left, but seems otherwise OK. I kept asking her if she was all right every five minutes, which probably drove her crazy, but she fell asleep last night holding my hand.

Vacation Suzy has definitely left the building. I’m no longer staying up late, sleeping in, drinking and eating with abandon, and getting exercise only from shopping and opening bottles of wine. I’m back to the every day or Puritan Suzy, who gets up unspeakably early and goes to bed &agrave la fermi&egravere (this early to bed, early to rise routine has yet to make me wealthy or wise, although it might have contributed to my general health). I have one wicked cup of black coffee a day, and otherwise drink spring water and green tea. Wine bottles gather dust on my wine rack.

I am amazed by how quickly a couple of weeks of self-indulgence can lower one’s fitness level, and also by how much I missed the gym while I was Vacation Suzy. I really should have brought my workout wear. I would barely give myself a passing grade on packing for the trip to Canada. I totally overestimated how much sunny and warm weather there would be, and hardly got to wear half of the cute things I brought. It would have been much better if I’d brought exercise clothes’n’shoes instead, but who knew? I will be better prepared next time, assuming they’ll let me back in the country, that is.

Anyway, I was back at the gym on Monday. I was surprised by how hard it was to do some things, though thankfully, not all of them. It’s not like I’m right back at square one or anything, but it is a little frustrating, especially to the patience-free. I can definitely feel it, too, but it’s good to be back. Who knew, indeed. I never thought I’d be the kind of girl who’d pack sneakers instead of kitten heeled mules.

We were so glad to be home, where it looks like this (no rain, no clouds, no thunderstorms and temperatures in the 70’s, where they belong), that we had to go outside immediately on Saturday morning and re-acquaint ourselves with the beautiful city we love. We had a new-found appreciation for the clean sea breezes, the lack of humidity and mosquitoes, the beauty of the buildings, the ability to buy booze at the corner store the way nature intended (I was still Vestigial Vacation Suzy last weekend, though as of yesterday I’m back at the gym and my boring, water-drinking non-vacation Self).

We headed to the North Beach Festival. North Beach is the Italian neighborhood and home to countless great restaurants, Molinari’s deli, where you go in, grab your bread, and hand it to one of the guys behind the counter, who will make you one of the best sandwiches you have ever had, and of course, Caffe Trieste, one of the oldest coffeehouses in San Francisco and supplier of caffeine to Me, making it possible for me to get out of bed as early as I do when I’m not being Vacation Suzy. Oh, yeah, and the oldest bar in the city, the functionally named The Saloon, which is small, well-used, and unpretentious – everything a bar should be.

However, we chose to do our drinking outside in the bright sunlight instead. We drank Margaritas which were being sold from a booth along with great street food (I love street food) to the strains of a fantastic band from Santa Cruz called SambaD?, a wonderful and unclassifiable mix of Brazilian dance music blended with reggae, funk, hip-hop, and who knows what else. They had no fewer than three percussionists and it was a blast (check out the MP3’s on their site). You have to love being able to drink and dance in the street.

Even SPF 45 wasn’t enough to stop me from getting a slight sunburn on my face and arms – to go along with all those Canadian mosquito bites – but it was worth it. It’s good to be home.

If you have a permanent record at airports, the way they threaten you with having one at school, I definitely have it at Pearson International in Toronto. Something always seems to happen when I go there. Here you have it, in chronological order:

1. In 1994, John and I went to visit his family (and that was the first time since we moved to San Francisco and the last time I visited them before the visit this month). The 1994 visit to his family was a pit stop on the way to the real destination, Maine, but it meant that we had to fly back through Toronto on our way home, too.

Our arrival coincided with the arrival of two huge jets disgorging hundreds of would-be Canadian citizens, who all had to be processed through Immigration. Most could not speak English and did not seem to have the necessary paperwork. The powers that be felt that John and I, although simply changing planes in Canada, had to go through Immigration with everyone else.

There was no way we could have gotten through in time to catch our plane to San Francisco, which was my only desire in the world at that point. So I threw a great big noisy fuss in Ramona the Pest style until someone in charge came over and asked if he could help me. John was mortified and stayed out of it while I loudly explained the stupidity of our position and my lust for the San Francisco bound plane. He was a wise man not to tangle with an enraged Suzymonster, and took us to the head of the line without comment. At Immigration, the guy asked how long we were staying in Canada. I looked at my watch and said, “Oh, about 15 minutes” with the greatest sarcasm I could muster. He stamped our passports and we ran to the Promised Land of the SF bound plane (and made it). As soon as I could speak again I told John I was never going back there again. Never turned out to be 9 years.

2. Made a brief visit to Toronto in October 2002. On arrival (at almost 9:00 p.m. after travelling all day), I got sent to Immigration, where they informed me that the law had changed in June and if you have or had the right to work in Canada and you move away for good, you have to give it up. They asked if I had done that when I moved, a dozen years earlier. I said I couldn’t remember. They said I had to answer yes or no or they’d deport me, so I said I would have to say no because I couldn’t say that I had. They said I either had to fill out a report that took an hour or go back to San Francisco, and though Option B was looking pretty good, I agreed to the report thing.

They kept making me drag things out of my wallet and bag and asked the same questions three different ways, and really, if I hadn’t had the requisite v’n’v, there probably would have been a repeat of the 1994 incident and they really would have deported my ass. About 50 minutes into this bureaucratic Theater of the Absurd, one of the other officers read the report and said I didn’t have to fill out the report or be deported because I am married to a Canadian. I pointed out that I am in fact married to a reformed Canadian who is now an American citizen, but as far as they are concerned, if you’re born in Canada, you’re Canadian for the rest of your natural-born life (and possibly beyond). So they let me go.

Before fleeing, I told them that we were planning to come back in June and would I have to go through this again. He assured me I wouldn’t, and it was all in the computer.

3. It wasn’t. Same crap when I arrived there a few days before John. I was definitely less nice this time, v’n’v notwithstanding, and told them that I had specifically asked just a few months earlier about this and had been told it was all in the computer. Got called “young lady” which didn’t help. I was so close to saying, “If you really think that someone who was not only born in the US but owns property in San Francisco is going to move here, you’re even more retarded than you look”, but held back. Maybe I really am a grown-up. Honest to GOD though. It’s like they think my one wish is to move back there, when in reality, they couldn’t pay me to.

This time, they stapled a certificate in the back of my passport saying that I promise not to move there. The bad news is that the certificate is only good until the end of the year, so if we go back again next year I may have to go through this again and there may be an international incident.

There you have it: why you may well see Me on a Wanted poster (or, more likely, an Unwanted poster: “Don’t Move Here, Suzy! We’re Begging You!”) if you dare to go there. You have been warned.

Remember how I said I was going to have a Birthday Week? Well, it’s turned out to be more like a Birthday Fortnight, if you’ll excuse the anglicism. I came home to tons of cards and presents, and you know I opened them before I unpacked. I may not be Birthday Suzy anymore, but I am still Suzy, after all.

I decided to display all the cards at once, since the ones I acquired on the road had mostly been packed and dragged along hither and yon instead of being admired as they should be, and I know how much I hate that. They also create a nice game of dominoes for the cats, who knock them over and run away, knowing that I’ll rack ’em up again in no time and they can play again.

So here they are, along with the absolutely gorgeous flowers from Candi which totally made my day. Though I give flowers fairly often, I rarely receive them, so it was especially thoughtful. But what else would I expect from someone who’s practically my sister?

However, my absolute favorite was in the long envelope in the front from Colin. It is an absolutely hysterical letter supposedly from Oprah herself, and with a gold lining in the envelope, no less. I laughed so hard I nearly cried.

I’m convinced that Colin is secretly an English professor from Yale.

We’re back, safe in body if not sound in mind (but were we ever?).

The series of planes, trains and automobiles required to get us from deeply rural Ontario to relatively* urban San Francisco were fraught with the usual annoyances and unpleasantnesses associated with any and all forms of public transit.

The train from Kingston to Toronto would have been great except for the guy sitting in front of me. He immediately jacked his seat back as far as it would go**, so I could admire the greasy lumps of what remained of his hair, and spent the entire time harassing the guy across the corridor from him. John figured the guy being harassed was some kind of minor Canadian sports-related celebrity (coach? reporter? actual player?) since John and the lunatic ahead of me had seen him on TV, and pretty much the only thing John won’t watch on TV is sports. We never did find out who Minor Celebrity was, but Lunatic was not only a lunatic but tanked and therefore far too voluble for normal human consumption. John said Lunatic also had a notebook full of bizarre writings with phrases of key weirdness highlighted, so we may have gotten off lucky with just boredom and annoyance.

The cab driver in Toronto who took us to the airport took us a very lengthy and stupid way, despite the fact that he was getting a flat fee. Surely he should have wanted to get rid of John, Bertha, and me as soon as possible to get another fare and make more money to help pay for the wear and tear Bertha caused on his shocks, but no. We meandered our way through the muggy grubby rush hour until getting to the airport hotel. Since I was still on my last few hours of being Vacation Suzy, I called Room Service on arrival and got some wine sent up to help banish the horrors du that particular jour. Oh, and food.

Our flight home was at the ungodly hour of 6:30 a.m., which is why we stayed at the airport hotel that night. The airlines require you to be there two hours – in this case, that meant arriving at the even more ungodly hour of 4:30 a.m. – before the flight, and we were. But they weren’t. So we got to stand there, sleep-deprived and bored, until one lone employee showed up, sometime after 5:00 a.m. She showed a remarkable ability to mess around with really important things, like lining up the barriers, instead of dealing with minor issues, like checking in the passengers. I’m telling you, every time I have had anything to do with the Toronto airport in the past decade has been bad news. But that’s another story.

Finally, we got checked in and went through U.S. Customs and Immigration with the greatest of joy. When we got to Security, our bags were searched thoroughly, though thankfully not Bertha, because I don’t know how/if we could have got everything back in. We repaired to the lounge to recover our frayed nerves, where I made the horrifying discovery that there was no alcohol served until 5 hours after our departure. The horror! The horror! Took two valium instead.

When we were boarding, they pulled me aside and searched my bags again. I must look deeply suspicious, or maybe they have heard stories about my bad behavior at their airport before. John had gone ahead holding Bertha’s hand and had a vodka & tonic waiting for me on the plane, but we spilled it while stowing the bags in the overhead bins and had to get another one. I think the flight attendants are still laughing.

In Chicago, we discovered that our seats were not together as originally booked. Flight was oversold and they were begging people to give up their seats in return for a prize, but forget it. We got on anyway and John convinced the guy sitting next to him to trade places with me, incomprehensible though this apparently was to the guy. It was a good thing, because we were delayed in Chicago for over an hour while they dealt with mechanical problems (!). Apparently, it was just something wrong with the internal lighting system and was in no way life-threatening (but would they tell you if it was?!). I took another valium and dozed through the boredom. If I had been alone I probably would have been having a total anxiety attack, despite all that valium. Finally, all was fixed, and it was the usual mix of boredom and bumpiness until we got home.

Now Vacation Suzy has to return to wherever she goes when she’s not being me, and I have to detox from all that de-stressing.

*Relative, that is, to the big city sprawl of Toronto.

**This happens to me every single time I am on a public conveyance that allows seats to be pushed back. I’m not kidding.

You can’t get much more contrast than this with the cement canyons of downtown Toronto. This is the deck at John’s parents’ house on Lake Kennebec. We’re here until Wednesday.

To review the past few days:

Friday
Train to Kingston. Train is the only form of travelling any distance that doesn’t scare me at all. Neither v is required, and although I carried my amulets with me, I didn’t actually drape them on my person. I was that confident. The worst part of the trip was carrying my bag, which, like me, had grown bloated from Birthday Week. I’m beginning to wonder how we’re going to get it home. We might have to name it and give it its own room.

Saturday
Official Child Duty, aka Dad Duty at retirement party for one of Dad’s former colleagues in the middle of Nowhere, Quebec. Discovered that stop signs, while in the traditional shape and color, do in fact say “ARRET” on them. Also discovered that Nowhere, Quebec is where they grow the world’s supply of mosquitoes. I was greeted by a cloud of them with great enthusiasm, and no amount of repEt actually repelled them.

I was greeted with mosquito-like enthusiasm by Dad’s former colleagues and friends, and gave away copies of two of my favorite pictures of him. I didn’t cry, even when I had to explain exactly why he is no longer here.

On the other hand, I got to eat lobster.

They did a really cool thing, which I’m planning to do at the next opportunity. They had made a pinata for the guest of honor in the shape of the pesticide molecule he had worked on. When he opened it, there were little brightly colored plastic Easter eggs inside, each with a letter or email or thought the giver wanted to share with the guest of honor.

Sunday
Spent the day with John’s brother Mike and his family, including John’s great-nephew Kyle. Kyle turns 7 next month, and this is the first time I had met him, which tells you all you need to know about the kind of wife I am. That, and abandoning the party to ride John’s friend Pete’s motorcycle with Pete. It was the perfect thing to do while wearing the jeans I got in London which are embroidered with sparkly pink beads. I mean, I had to. Also, it was fun. Made a deal with Pete for him to buy my Mustang, so she’ll have a good home and I can still drive her when we’re here visiting John’s family.

Acquired a slight sunburn and more mosquito bites and more birthday presents. My bag is named Bertha and is planning to attend UC Berkeley this fall.

OK, so the whole time I’ve been here it’s been dark, rainy, lightly sprinkled with thunderstorms, and sometimes even downright cold. Today, as I prepare to leave, it’s bright and sunny. I mean, I knew I was a force of nature, but this is ridiculous.

You won’t be surprised that a girl with a mind as deeply trivial as mine has been most entertained by signs noticed while walking around Toronto. Undoubtedly we have just as many weird ones in San Francisco – and, given the nature of San Francisco, possibly even weirder – but I guess they are the kind of things you don’t notice, or stop noticing, when you live there.

Whoever is in charge of this town appears to think that its denizens are, well, “challenged”. In the subway, there are Designated Waiting Area signs along the walls, which strike me as hilarious – as if you can only wait under these signs and nowhere else or you’ll be in trouble. The Kodak Picture Spot signs on Pier 39 strike me the same way. You have to take your picture right here. Two inches to the left is completely unphotogenic.

Apparently, just telling you where to stand on the subway platform isn’t enough. Once you get above ground, you have to be told how to cross the street. Signs like these appear on many intersections, explaining in detail how to cross the street. Really, comment is superfluous. I’m just going to giggle and move on.

To the fortuitous conjunction of the following on Yonge Street:

1. An apparently heart-felt and certainly hand-drawn sign celebrating the mutual love and admiration of the local police force and a local motorcycle gang. Complete with interlocking hearts.

2. Which is located near Mrs. Dalloway’s hot dog stand. I doubt that the heroine of Virginia Woolf’s classic novel included hot dogs in her reflections on her life, even if they are all beef (maybe not a good selling point in these Mad Cow Disease days, anyway).

And finally: the cigarette packages here are decorated with photos of a CSI-level gruesomeness of what might happen to you if you indulge in the temptations within. Apparently they felt the written warnings were insufficient and a visual was required. But I wonder if the pictures of potential doom are any more effective than, say, the death penalty. I mean, no-one thinks they’re going to get caught.

7:45 a.m., Vacation Suzy Time

!!!!!!!!!

It’s pretty non-Vacation Suzy to be up this early. But the combination of actually going to bed on the same day I got up on, and plans to have breakfast with Kathleen before she braves the traffic to return to Detroit were enough to get my aging yet fabulous Self out of bed at what amounts to sunrise in VS time.

The party was everything I could have wished for: Mary-Lou made me a cake from The Bride’s Cookbook; lots and lots to eat & drink; presents (sparkly!) and cards and conversation*. There really is nothing like your girlfriends, whether you have known them for a long time or the friendship is new. And these girls are all so accomplished, witty, charming and delightful to be with. It’s an evening I’ll always remember.

*Yes, guys, we talked about you. Yes, yes.

PS Kelly’s hair is really chic and stylish, so don’t listen to her complaints anymore. She looks great.

1:00 p.m., Birthday & Vacation Suzy Time

The combination of Vacation Suzy and Birthday Suzy is an almost overwhelmingly self-indulgent one. You know it.

When I finally woke up this morning (and, yes, it was before noon), I called Room Service. I think I should be commended for not doing this before. For one thing, I LOVE Room Service. It’s one of my totally favorite things. And just knowing that I could push a button and get what I want but not doing it is a superhuman feat for Me.

But I felt I could indulge myself on my birthday, so I called Room Service and got black coffee, grapefruit juice, and chocolate croissants, which I happily consumed while reading the New York Times, which arrives magically at my door every morning, birthday or otherwise. Is there a better way to start the day? I’m beginning to think Eloise had the right idea, living at the Plaza in New York, though in my case it would have to be the Fairmont.

Email inbox full of love and birthday wishes, and lots of phone calls. I’m moving to a suite so I’ll have room for my swollen head and ego.

Tonight’s festivities are to be held at my long-time and gorgeous friend Mary-Lou’s house. We have known each other since high school, and she was my bridesmaid. The party will be nothing but fabulous women (including the amazing Kathleen, who drove all the way from Motown just for this, and the fascinating Kelly, who really only moved to Toronto just for this) and fabulous drinks. And cake. Did I mention the cake? What’s a birthday without cake?

My horoscope says: “Despite your many comings and goings, you begin to set up a real sense of community. This leads you to bond with people like never before.”

11:30 a.m. Vacation Suzy Time

Last day of being 40! But I have a party tonight and another one tomorrow. While Vacation Suzy was sleeping, her birthday party was being planned for her. I wish I could be Vacation Suzy all the time. I’m feeling the love, and not feeling my age.

Speaking of which: I saw in the local paper today that the Canadian coins that feature the Queen are going to show her looking older and not wearing her crown, or even a tiara. It’s supposed to make Her Majesty look “more approachable”. I really think it’s the bodyguards that make her unapproachable, you know? Also she looks like she could really swat you with that handbag she always carries. I wonder what’s in it? I bet it isn’t coins with her face on them (imagine how surreal that would be?).

She has aged 4 times on the coins in the 50 years of her reign. If I were Queen, I would refuse to age on the coins at all, no matter how long the reign. It’s the one place where you can control it! And I’d make damned sure I was wearing at least a tiara. The jewelry has to be one of the few perks of having to be Her Majesty.

Better to be Queen for a day (or week) than for life.

It seems that the minute I go on vacation, I immediately change from my water-drinkin’, gym-goin’, early to bed early to rise every day self to Vacation Suzy. Vacation Suzy is constantly going out to dinner (where she eats far too much), drinking wine (ditto), staying up late, getting up late, and having far too much fun. No hangovers have yet impeded my progress, so I’ll probably just keep it up.

I do have a horrible confession to make, though not as stunning as Amy’s (you big show-off). Mine is: I miss going to the gym. I regret not bringing my sneakers and gym wear in addition to all those shoes. I may in fact be a pod person.

Although Toronto and San Francisco could not look more different, one thing they have in common is lots of great restaurants and lots of foodophiles.

We had dinner with our friends Mike & Jennifer the other night, not only a fabulous couple but the parents of one of the two non-annoying babies I personally am acquainted with. I don’t know which is the more impressive achievement, but I do know that we had one of the happiest evenings ever with them, and it wasn’t long enough. And I’m not just saying that because they gave us presents. Mine was a beautiful, amethyst colored vase moderne, and John’s a Canadian chocolate fix. I guess he got a present even though it’s not his birthday so he wouldn’t get all jealous over mine and throw a tantrum.

We had dinner at one of their neighborhood restaurants, Boho, and the food was wonderful. I had duck with blueberry jus on completely perfect garlic mashed potatoes, but was unable to resist stealing some of John’s sweet potato French (Freedom) fries, which were equally excEt. Nor was I able to resist the lemon tart with raspberry sorbet, but I didn’t really try very hard. Add in a bottle of Ravenswood Zinfandel and attentive but not intrusive service, and you have a perfect evening.

Last night, we visited an old favorite, The Real Jerk, with an old favorite, our friend Raven. He used to be my sister Megan’s boyfriend in the long ago mists of time, and even though they broke up years and years ago, we stayed friends. When I love someone, it’s very difficult for them to escape from my life, and there was no way I was going to lose touch with someone this special.

It was good to see him looking so well and happy. All the major life aspects (work/love/job, not necessarily in that order) are going great for him, and he just looks so happy. It was so great to reminisce and laugh and talk and eat the fabulous food. Again, the evening wasn’t long enough.

I’m so lucky to have such wonderful friends.

Someone at the chamber of commerce didn’t get the memo, or ignored it, because it rained all day yesterday. And you know how I love that. If it got it out of its system in time for Birthday Week, which starts tomorrow with a parade and fireworks, it was worth it, though.

John and I hit the major local tourist attractions yesterday. First stop was Mars Diner, just a block from where I used to live when I was at school. I was delighted to discover that it looked exactly the same both outside and inside, right down to the plates (if it’s too small to read, the slogan is “Just out of this world”). It was a great breakfast.

A block away is the street I used to live on. The house I lived in is now on the National Register of Historic Places, of course, which is why it is pretty much unchanged after two decades, right down to the tacky striped metal awning. Historic preservation, you understand.

My friend Alice and I had apartments right next to each other in this house, so it was pretty much an endless slumber party, though with little slumbering done. After all, she was at the beginning of her modelling career, so there were always visitors, and since it was the 80’s, drugs and alcohol flowed freely. It was a very extreme Mary & Rhoda situation.

Last stop on the tourist trail was Kensington Market, a frequent haunt of mine in the old days. It is now either exactly the same or completely changed. One of the places that is still the same is Courage My Love (the bright blue building), where you can get vintage clothes and other cool stuff. Still. It also happens to be where I bought my wedding dress.

I haven’t been to Toronto for so long that it seems really weird to me. I don’t know where anything is, and it seems really grey and sprawly and the sky has that LA-like brown edging to it. The weather is still being even more capricious than Me, with showers like passing bad moods and bright sunshine, all within half an hour or so.

It also seems like such a big city to me. San Francisco is more like a collection of villages or small towns, but this is a big city with tall buildings and lots and lots of people and urban sprawl. It’s funny that I feel like such a bumpkin.

But I won’t let that stop me from criticizing a couple of things, at the risk of damaging Canadian-American relations to the point where Canadian bacon gets called Freedom bacon. Number one: they really blew it with the waterfront in Toronto. As far as I can see, there are nothing but highrises all along the lake, effectively blocking it from view from anyone who doesn’t live or work in one of those buildings, which seems a shame when the lake is clearly one of the city’s natural attributes.

Then there’s the cement wasteland of the Yonge-Dundas Square (I hope I got the name right). It’s so bleak and uninviting, even in a sunny moment on an early summer day, that I can’t imagine how dismal it will look in the dead of winter.

Someone told me that it’s supposed to be like Times Square in New York, but even without the hookers and dealers that populate the original, I can’t see the resemblance, other than those video monitors stuck on buildings. What are those all about? They mostly seem to have ads on them, so they’re sort of like commercials to annoy you while you’re walking down the street instead of watching TV. Why is this a good thing? You really shouldn’t be at the mercy of commercials when you’re outside (it’s bad enough having them in your own house, on TV and in magazines and telemarketers calling at dinner time), though having said that, I feel the same way about cell phones, and I know I’m in a teeny minority on that one.

However, the money is pretty, and different colo(u)rs – I got a $5 with a snowflake on it yesterday – though I don’t like the $1 and $2 coin thing. They get heavy fast and clutter up your wallet. Maybe it’s a Commonwealth thing, since England does it, too. They do spell things the same way and have the same Queen on their money, so there could be a connection here.

And finally – you knew this was coming – the whole Beer Store and Wine Store thing. The fact that you can’t just run out to the corner store for a bottle of wine just seems wrong to me.

On the bright side, I can apparently get back the Goods & Services tax on my hotel bill and any other item over $50 Canadian. Yay! If only I wasn’t sick of shopping.

It seems that my absence from San Francisco causes disasters, natural and unnatural. Yesterday there was a sharp-ish earthquake (4.0 on the Richter scale), and when I was in Boston in March, the apartment building directly across the street from ours and my stepmother’s house in Wimbledon both burned down on the same day. I can’t be to blame being so far away when it all happened, but still, it’s a coincidence. And a damned good alibi.

So I’m in Toronto, where you can experience 3 out of 4 seasons in one day. It will rain hard and then go away, making it look like nothing ever happened. Yesterday it did this while still sunny, though I didn’t see a rainbow afterwards. At least it hasn’t been at all winter-like. This is especially good, since I seem to have lost the one jacket I brought with me.

I have only myself to blame, since I was all by myself on the trip. I’m pretty sure I had it when I checked into the hotel (carrying it, along with my luggage) but I haven’t seen it since. On my way out this morning, I asked at the front desk if they had seen it. Front desk called security, and he came out and introduced himself and then went to look for it. He didn’t find it, and then filled out a report about it. I felt like a total idiot at this point. Really, if I were less neurotic and could fly without the assistance of the two v’s, or were more attentive and could actually keep track of my own stuff, there would be no problem.

I told you I wasn’t a real grown-up.

So I went out to find a replacement jacket, and the process has actually made me sick of shopping. Yes, yes. You read it here first. Though it will undoubtedly wear off like the two v’s, right now I’m all shopped out.

I went all over the place, from the Eaton Center to Holt Renfrew and points of call in between, and nothing. Everything was either too formal (work-esque blazers) or too informal (variations on hooded zip-up sweatshirts). Even the Gap had nothing useful, and the fact that I was willing to resort to them when my brother and sister along with most of Mendocino County consider the owners of the Gap the root of all logging evil should tell you how desperate I was. At this point, as the rain poured down outside the Gap, my lost jacket had acquired perfection of epic proportions in my mind. It went with everything. It was neither too formal nor too in-; not too heavy or too light, and pretty with cool buttons. I missed it.

I ended up getting a dark blue jean jacket at Levi’s and getting a cab back to the hotel. But on the bright side, I stocked up on some Lush, so the shopping expedition wasn’t a complete loss. Think I’ll put that bottle of Oyster Bay sauvignon blanc on ice and go take a bath with one of my bath bombs. Then I will be ready to shop another day. But not today.

The day of departure draws nigh. I’m beginning to think that travelling on the Sunday of the Memorial Day weekend is a good idea. Everyone who is going somewhere will be there by then, either leaving Friday or Saturday. And the Canadians celebrated Queen Victoria’s birthday on May 19, despite the fact that the actual day was May 24, so they won’t be cluttering up the airport, either. Though now I’ve said that, the airport will be jam-packed and/or my flight will be delayed so I’ll miss my connecting flight in Chicago (only 45 minutes to change planes! And O’Hare ain’t that small!) and/or there will be horrifying turbulence and/or it will all end in boredom and/or death.

Really, considering I have flown almost 27,000 miles since last June, you’d think I’d be positively blas&eacute about it, instead of applying drugs and alcohol until sufficiently anesthetized to board and face the ordeal. Clearly, facing my fears just doesn’t work for me.

The good news is that I have my watch and it seems to be working in its usual approximate manner (hopefully the pilots have more accurate timepieces at their disposal). I am packed, and it’s my usual one carry on bag, though I broke my cardinal rule and am bringing no fewer than three pairs of shoes. All I can say is, I caved under the pressure of looking good under every possible climactic condition.

So I have today to tie up all loose ends at work, and Saturday to get waxed and polished and run a few last-minute errands, like getting an extra memory chip for the digital camera so I can take lots of vacation pictures and inflict them later on an unsuspecting public. I’m bringing my iBook so I can report from the road, so stay tuned.

Why I love my stepmother, reason 493 in a continuing series. Her latest missive included her views on Muslim extremists:

“Mohammed has managed to keep his adherents much more successfully than Jesus Christ.”

And, further:

“Why aren’t these testosterone-filled youngsters chasing girls and listening to rap music and taking “grass”? I am sure that is far less harmful to society than suicide bombing.”

No wonder my father loved her so much. I bet he’s laughing, wherever he is. I know I am.

So I’m back from the doctor’s, and I’m perfect, of course. Nothing wrong with me except I’m getting old. But first for the good stuff. She’s a new doctor to me, and I really like her. She has her waiting room furnished with antiques and real books. She brings her dog Daisy to work with her (Daisy is a mutt rescued from the pound, too, so bonus points for that), and Daisy kindly washed my face and played with me while I waited.

She talked to me with my clothes on before getting down to business, rather than making me sit around shivering and undignified in a paper gown (she agreed with me that really, gown is superfluous since she has now seen my bod from angles even I haven’t, but apparently some people feel it gives them some shred of dignity). When she weighed me, she asked if I knew what I weighed and I said no. She asked if I wanted to, and I said no. So she said, “Don’t look and I won’t tell you” and I still don’t know. Ignorance = bliss, remember?

The paperwork and instruments of destruction were located on an Art Deco cocktail cabinet among the potted orchids, and a breeze came in through the open window. It was as pleasant a doctor experience as I could ever have.

Apparently the girl weirdness I have been suffering lately is “peri (or para?)-menopause”, or the opening act for the big show of actual menopause. Like most opening acts, it goes on too long, in this case around 10 years. But at least nothing’s really wrong. Or as the doctor put it: “You’re in great shape, there’s nothing wrong with you, you look ten years younger than you are. You’re a lucky girl. Now get out of here.”

What with my pie being so fully occupied and all lately, I haven’t had a chance to tell you that John and I did make it to see the Leonardo Da Vinci and the Splendor of Poland exhibit at the Legion of Honor.

I love that museum: it’s so pretty, and its setting, overlooking the ocean and a snippet of the Golden Gate Bridge, is breath-taking. Also going there always reminds me of Kim Novak in Vertigo, going there to sit in front of the [non-existent] portrait of the mad Carlotta.

I wonder why I seem to be better at going to art exhibits in other places? I went to Boston earlier this year mostly to see the Impressionist Landscape exhibit at the Museum of Fine Arts. I went to Russia mostly to see the Hermitage’s collection. I am considering going to LA to see French Masterworks from the Pushkin Museum (so much closer than Russia) at LACMA, but have yet to see the Treasures of Modern Art at SF MOMA, which is just a short walk from work. I mean, I can’t keep pleading the pie forever, you know?

But back to the Da Vinci exhibit. It ended last Sunday, and we just made it in under the wire before the closing date, so it was a zoo of other procrastinators. Despite being a dedicated city-dweller, I tend to be intolerant of my fellow human beings en masse, but this was worth it. The most outstanding included an Alma-Tadema of a red-haired Polish composer; a street scene in Warsaw that was very Pisarro; a portrait of an elderly woman which used to be attributed to Rembrandt and has now been properly attributed to Bol; a portrait of an unknown little girl in a grey dress holding a bouquet of white chrysanthemums that was eerie, as if she were a ghost child; a striking painting of a single tree at night, illuminated by the moon and stars and set against a background of dark mountains and violet snow; and one of a hunting party setting off on an early winter morning. You could see the horses tossing their heads and the steam coming off them.

But the star of the show was unquestionably Leonardo’s Lady with the Ermine, painted in the early 1480’s and one of the few Da Vinci paintings still extant. She beats the hell out of the Mona Lisa, you ask me. I never did care for Mona Lisa and her sallow, vapid face. Even when I first saw her at the age of 17. Or as John put it, “Wow! That girl with the lamb is really cool!” I’m sure Leonardo would have been proud.

In keeping with the “time is money” theme de la semaine (apologies to those who have Quebec French forced upon them – see how I’m already thinking all Canadian and everything? – but I can rarely, if ever, restrain my inner Francophile), I can finally say:

I HAVE THE CLOCK.

Not only do I finally have the 250 year old grandfather clock*, almost 6 months after the whole d&eacuteb&acirccle started (sorry, still not restraining it), but it is all in one piece and it’s working. It only took $4,000, 6 months, and 3 house calls from the US clock experts to get it that way. More evidence that time = money.

But it looks better than I have ever seen it, and I hope that my father thinks I did OK with the responsibility of caring for it. I have to admit that much of how upset I have gotten over the whole fiasco has been because I feel that I let Dad down by not taking better care of it. However, if he was right and you just go out like a candle when you die, he has no idea. If ignorance = bliss, does that mean no after life?

Though I do have the clock and it’s ticking away majestically, what I don’t have is my watch. Faithful readers will recall how it is subject to work stoppages of a sudden and seemingly random nature, like French workers going on strike or French bus drivers who just stop, announce “Terminus!” and repair to the nearest caf&eacute, which, since it’s France, isn’t far. Fortunately “taxi” is the same in French and English, since it is, after all, one of the most important words to know in any language.

For those less familiar with my watch, that gives you some idea. In watch’s defense, it must be said that it is at least 75 years old, which makes it one of those pesky kids to the clock, but an old and venerable lady to most watches. I have resisted the temptation to replace the inner workings with something more modern and reliable because I love it that it’s still the original.

Same reason why I left the previous owner’s name engraved in script on the back: Eve Esquith. Not only an elegant name, but a reminder of the watch’s past and food for thought on who Eve was and the watch’s other owners. I always picture Eve as a flapper in a beaded gown who went to speakeasies and had handsome men light her cigarette, which would be in a long, ebony holder.

However, this means that it has to be repaired and coaxed to go on living a couple of times a year. It’s been at the shop for two weeks now. I miss the sparkle, but it’s been kind of liberating not knowing what time it is. But I’m hoping it will be ready to come with me on my trip.

Maybe Nature doesn’t permit two such timepieces to exist in the same place at the same time, and that’s been the whole problem all along.

*Clock has been in our family since it was made, near London, around 1745-1750. I inherited it from my father. You can read more about the saga of getting it from London to San Francisco here, here, and here. See why it’s such a big deal to me?