Suzy Says

Of the many, many things I have done many times but am still bad at (for example: waiting in line, anywhere – watch Suzy go from 0 to homicidal in 60 seconds or less!; grocery shopping – immediately forget what I went there to buy and wander the aisles mindlessly, only to end up with a bizarre assortment of things and then the homicidal waiting in line capped by the cashier eyeing my selections and me suspiciously; being a grown-up; any form of domestic chore whatsoever), the worst has to be flying. Flying includes many of the things I hate the most:

– The afore-mentioned waiting in line (to check in; to go through customs and/or security; to get on the plane)

– The boredom

– The complete lack of space and privacy, even in first class

– The claustrophobia

– The terrifying turbulence which can make your life flash before your eyes (and if it’s my life, that little montage is scarier than a Stephen King novel)

– Being subject to the general public, including screaming babies (let’s face it: flying is really public transit, with all its accompanying horrors)

– Public bathrooms (2-4 per 200+ people – need I say more?)

I fly thousands of miles a year, but still hate it. In fact, I am writing this little missive on board a plane, which just goes to show that I must have a certain optimism, since presumably I believe that I will be able to post this when I get where I’m going.

I will never be a blas&eacute(e) flyer, however. Turbulence always scares the crap out of me, and the turbulence I experienced on my earlier flight today (I’m on Flight Number Two now) was the worst in my entire flying lifetime. Landing in Chicago, the plane was rocked back and forth violently, as if by a giant, unseen and malevolent hand, and just to make the ride more fun, the rocking motion was interspersed with being tossed around like a toy ship on the high seas. I have never been so glad to get anywhere. I almost bagged the rest of trip to stay on safe ground and hang out with Colin, but I figured the worst had to be over.

However, I was wrong about that. I have discovered something even worse than being bounced around in the clear blue sky, fearing for your life (such as it is) and making deals with the nearest available deity that are about as likely to be kept as most New Year’s resolutions. The guy sitting next to me fell asleep before takeoff (how do people do that? I envy them and their bliss of unconsciousness) and started snoring with a volume and vigor that had most of my fellow passengers looking around for the source of the noise, probably fearing engine trouble. He appeared set to stay that way for the whole flight, which suddenly seemed just so much longer. I was homicidal in record time and overwhelmed with the unfairness of experiencing both horrors in one day – within an hour, actually. However, I was rescued by a kindly steward, who winked at me and smiled before dropping a candy bar on the guy to wake him up. He apologized and moved on. His work here was done.

PS The snoring guy appeared to have clear nail polish on (not to mention lots of heavy gold jewelry), which somehow just made it worse. Men should not primp and/or be more vain than girls, especially if they take up valuable bathroom time which the girl of the house could be using to primp. They should not wear jewelry, except a wedding ring (if applicable) and a watch (but not something hideous, like a Rolex). I mean, leave us something, guys! You already run the world, don’t have babies or periods, and mostly get paid more than we girls do. And you only have to wear nylons if you WANT to.

You know you’ve reached the heights (or depths) of slothfulness when the cleaners actually call you and ask you to pick up your stuff. They were nice about it, but I still felt like I was getting sent to the principal’s office. If I ever had any lingering concerns about being a responsible adult, I think I can stop worrying (after all, it causes those pesky wrinkles).

So I finally picked up the cleaning. It reminded me of a conversation I once had with a guy whose family owned a dry cleaning business. He said that he’d gotten lots of great clothes from it. I asked him how, and he said, “People just forget to come and get their stuff.” Pause. “And then, you know, some of them die.”

Updates:

– My rodent roommate and I are peacefully coexisting. We have accomplished this by my not killing him or even trying to* and his not eating my food or showing his furry little face. This pretty much makes him anyone’s ideal roommate. He never brings chicks home, has loud parties, or objects to my taste in music. If he just paid rent, he’d be perfect.

– I have decided on my fur coat. It’s going to be pink and made of the rare and beautiful faux, which ranges freely in the forests of Orlon, in Nylon County. I also want a pair of mittens on a string, so I don’t lose them, either in the forest or the city. Also I think I would look cute and girlish. Would the pink pageboy wig be too much with this ensemble?

– I spent last night hanging out with two 20 year old boys. This does not happen often enough now that I’m old and possibly grey (or pink). The fact that one of them was my nephew and the other his best friend is in no way relevant. This is funny, though: I saw my nephew walking down the street before I even knew he was here. But I was in a taxi so I didn’t have time to yell out the window until I had swept past him.

– My friend A visited last week from Amsterdam. She introduced me to a whole new pleasure (and when’s the last time you’ve been able to say that?): getting a shampoo at a traditional Chinese hair salon. She navigated the language and the shampoo girls massaged our scalps, temples, and necks. My hair has never been so shiny. I guess they understand the straight hair thing. I can’t resist saying this: ancient Chinese secret! Mmmm.

I’m thinking of cutting my hair &agrave la Chloe on Smallville. What do you think?

– I still haven’t picked up my dry cleaning.

*Sloth or kindness? You decide. I can’t be bothered.

If yours is one of the emails moldering in my inbox, or a long-unanswered phone message, you aren’t the only one wondering where the hell Suzy is. I recently received the following email from my niece:

A Hopeful Inquiry

Hey! I just remembered! I have an Aunt! If I can recall correctly (it has been a while) she wasn’t feeling very well. She had some kind of wicked infection. Now, I know her name starts with an ‘S’, and since you are the only S in my address book, I figured you must be her. Tell me if this sounds familiar:

– blonde hair (but not on its own)

– short (or shall we say petite?)

– extravagant

– carbon-addict

– speaks French

– Giants fan

– allergic to dust

– loves champagne

– generally fabulous

If this sounds like you please reply to this address. I quite liked having an Aunt.

Yours sincerely,

Cat x x x x x x x x x

Naturally, I directed this to the proper authorities, who hastened to respond to my niece’s concerns:

Missing Persons Inquiry

Dear Ms. ——,

Thank you for your inquiry regarding your missing Aunt Suzy. You may be surprised to hear that yours was only one of dozens – possibly hundreds – we have received. We are working diligently on the case. We have already checked the hospitals and the most exclusive night clubs and restaurants, to no avail.

Don’t give up hope. We have a team of professional shoppers roaming delightful shopping locales, along with all downtown liquor stores which stock champagne.

Missing posters have been placed in strategic locales, such as jewelry and lingerie stores, and on the tops of taxis. We all know there is no point in placing these posters on bus stops – your Aunt’s views on public transportation are well-known.

You may be pleased to hear that we are planning to enroll her at the nearest location of Sloths Anonymous as soon as she is found. She clearly has a problem.

Our last resort is going to be a trail of diamonds leading to her iBook, in the hopes it will lead her to actually write to her friends and family. Harry Winston and Tiffany have already volunteered to assist in this endeavor.

We will keep you informed. Please let us know if you have any other ideas which may help us to find this fabulous creature. She is using up a great deal of our resources and man hours, as you can imagine.

Thank you again for your inquiry.

Best regards,

Missing Persons Bureau (Suzy Department)

I haven’t seen or heard Mr. Mouse since his stunning d&eacutebut, but though he is out of sight, he isn’t out of mind. Despite being pre-caffeinated this morning, I immediately noticed that the loaf of bread I had unwisely left on the kitchen counter last night had been broken into and feasted on by none other than Mr. Mouse – unless it was one of his partners in crime, given the Never Just One rule. He must not have heard about the Atkins Diet.

I think I’m going to have to break down and get a trap. Maybe you Never Get Just One, though. Also, where do you put them and what do you put in them? I wonder if my mouse is like Nick’s and I can bait the traps with bread, though surely a mouse sophisticated enough to plague me would have more extravagant tastes, expecting croissants at least. I like Kathleen’s idea of filling the entry with steel wool, thus avoiding becoming yet another domestic murderer, but can’t find it.

Mice are much less adorable in real life than in Beatrix Potter stories. I don’t think I’ll ever read them quite the same way. On the other hand, I might find mine cuter if he were wearing a waistcoat and cravat.

Also, if I’m going to start killing four-legged creatures just for having the temerity of co-existing with me, I feel like even more of a hypocrite not eating them. No virtue there, I’m afraid. Next stop: fur coat.

The sinus infection has receded, after repeated applications of A’n’A (antibiotics & alcohol). I am now enjoying my convalescence (and I do mean enjoying), lying on the chaise longue like an interesting Victorian invalid, with a becoming pallor and the occasional, delicate sniffle and most lady-like of dainty coughs to remind any observers that I was, in fact, quite ill.

I was attempting to take my mind off the horror of my Giants losing the wildcard spot in the playoffs to Houston* (As if Texas hadn’t inflicted enough damage already, what with spawning the Bush dynasty and the unfortunate idea that cowboy boots are acceptable footwear with a business suit) by reading the latest in the fluffacious Shopaholic** series, when a mouse shot across the room as if fired from a cannon.

Maybe the Victorian thing goes deeper in this moderne girl than previously thought, because I leaped up and screamed with my hand on my heart in the most approved endangered heroine style before I even realized I did it. If the chaise (and I) weren’t so squashy I would have jumped up on it and probably shrieked, “Eeek! A mouse!” to complete the clich&eacute ridden scenario.

It’s amazing how instinctively horrified I was by a creature that’s so tiny. I’m probably like a Tyrannosaurus Rex to it, and possibly too big for it even to perceive me, and it’s far more likely that I could kill the mouse than it could kill me (other than rodent-induced heart attack), but I was probably more scared than it was.

It hasn’t made a return engagement, but everyone I have told about it informs me that there’s Never Just One, in ominous tones. My sis suggested a Have a Heart trap, forgetting that not all of us live in a little house in the big woods, where you can release a mouse and never see it again, until I started laughing. Also there is no point in putting bugs and other home invaders outside. All they want is to get back in. Even insects and rodents can tell that Nature is best to be avoided if at all possible, which is why they broke in in the first place. I can’t bear the idea of a trap and having to dispose of the sad little body (or bodies, since there’s Never Just One). What to do, what to do?

*Sporty Suzy has officially gone into hibernation. I have no interest in any of the teams now in the playoffs, other than hoping very earnestly from the depths of what passes for my heart that neither the Dodgers nor the Yankees win. Also if Houston plays NY I doubt if there is a stadium big enough to contain the egos of both Mr. Jeter and Mr. Clemens at the same time.