Suzy Says

Now that the trip’s over and my (im)patience is no longer being tested by the languor of dial-up, here’s what happened:

Trader Joe’s turned out to be a great store with lots of fab food. I bought lots of frozen delicacies (mandarin ginger chicken or flatbread with gorgonzola, ham, and caramelized onions, anyone?), and the check-out guy suggested I get a cooler and ice in which to house them, since it was about 90 degrees at that point with two or three hours to drive.

Of course I got lost looking for the K-Mart. I finally located the K-Mart and the styrofoam coolers hidden in its vast, warehouse-like expanse and took them triumphantly to the cash. Only two were open, and had equally long lines. I spent more time in line than I had finding the place. People ahead of me in line changed their minds, ran to add extra items, wrote checks for $5, forgot their PINS, and other assorted annoyances.

When it was my turn, the cashier asked me brightly if I was going on a picnic, since I was buying three coolers and nothing else. I smiled equally brightly and told her I was transporting body parts across state lines. Her smile froze, but her K-Mart training kicked in and she handed me my change saying, “You have a good day now. Next!”

For the record, three coolers and two bags of ice was exactly right, and all the Trader Joe’s delights arrived still frozen. Oh, and the Two Buck Chuck was the best $2 wine I ever tasted.

I had a wonderful time with my sister and brothers. Their 30 acres is right down the road from where they currently live. It’s 5 miles from the ocean, so it doesn’t get fogged in very often. They bought the land with another couple, who owns the other 30 acres of the parcel, and more importantly, own horses, which we can ride whenever we like. Talk about idyllic: redwood forest, sunny meadows, peace, serenity, and horses. It was an incredibly moving moment to stand there on that ground and know it’s theirs.

Dad would have been so happy.

My self-diagnosis, as so often happens, was completely wrong. It turns out that the Awful Allergy Attack was in fact a Cruel Crushing Cold, so I apologize to everything in Nature in general and to my sister’s wrongly accused garden in particular. The CC Cold’s appearance was particularly unwelcome since both my sister and brother had just recovered from CC Colds of their own, and there I was, spraying cooties everywhere.

The cooties scouted around inside my head, a fearful place at the best of times, even venturing as low as the throat, before deciding to set up camp in my sinuses. They made their presence known by searing headaches and strange clickings in my ears when I swallowed (and at this point, swallowing Two Buck Chuck seemed like a very good idea, given the fact that it’s cheaper than cold medicine, tastes better, and, taken in sufficient quantities, makes you care a lot less that you’re sick. And everyone knows that alcohol kills germs).

The Cruel Crushing Cold really came into its own when flying*. Take-off and landing (two of them) were rendered even more horrifying by the agonizing sinus and ear pain. By the time I got to Detroit, I couldn’t hear out of my right ear. Fortunately, the deafness was temporary, and it made half-listening to money managers blathering about their kids so much easier.

The CCC also made it impossible for me to have dinner with my dear Kathleen. After a full 9 hour day of meetings and schmoozings and clandestine nose-blowing, all I wanted to do was crawl into my hotel bed and order room service. I also didn’t want to give Kathleen the unwanted gift of a cold. Poisoning my family was more than enough for this girl’s guilty conscience.

However, I am supposed to be back in Detroit two or three times in November, and there’s no way I’m going without seeing Motown’s most valuable asset. Hey girl, any chance of TJ’s and a Red Wings game?

*Confidential to the Annoying Security Guy at SFO: Endlessly repeating jokes that died at birth like “You can leave your heart in San Francisco, but not your belongings” and “Turn off all electronic devices. I don’t care if it’s a strawberry, BlackBerry, or blueberry, turn it off” is a) not funny; 2) does not improve the hellish situation of being in a line reaching to Seattle while waiting to go through one of the two (out of 6) metal detectors in use. Sooner or later, someone will rebel. If you’re really unlucky, it will be Me.