Suzy Says

Does it ever happen to you that you wake up one day and you just have to have your hair cut? It was fine the day before, but that day, your hair is suddenly unacceptable. Well, that happened to me. I texted Angelika, and she was able to fit me in that week. Yay!

I left work early and headed to her little studio in the big woods. It was definitely time to get my hair cut, since I had last had it done in March.

This time, I just had it cut. I’ll save up to get the color done soon. In the meantime, Angelika told me about her trip to Germany to see her parents, and I met her friend Marion, who was visiting from Germany. They have been friends since they were three! There’s nothing like really good, long-term friends. And there’s nothing like a good haircut to cheer a girl up. I will spare you my terrible selfie attempts this time. You will just have to take my word for it that my hair looks great.

I left work early one Friday, went home and changed out of my faux adult armor, and Megan came by to pick me up. We headed to the Valley, enjoying the gorgeous scenery along the way: the ocean, the redwoods, the deep green of the vines over the rolling hills as harvest time approaches. We got a fabulous pizza at Offspring:

and headed back to the family estate, where we toasted the weekend with kir royales:

In the background, you can just about glimpse some of the sweet peas we grow for Dad every year.

Megan had somehow managed to find real creme de cassis from France, and the drinks were fabulous. We really enjoyed hanging out in the garden, enjoying our drinks in the sunshine and catching up. I am lucky to have a sister who is also my best friend.

A YEAR AGO: My annual peach pie.

TEN YEARS AGO: A recap of what was going on in and around my house.

TWENTY YEARS AGO: Back in the City after a prolonged camping trip at my sister’s house to help take care of our dying mom.

Well, it’s another sad year.

Some years, when the Evil Eighteenth rolls around, I am thinking of the many happy memories with Dad, both as a child and as an adult. Some years, I feel angry because of his senseless death, and all the years we didn’t get to share with him, and all the good he could have continued to do for the world and the environment.

I was sad last year on the 18th, and I’m sad again this year. Maybe part of it is the terrible, untimely loss of my dear friend Melanie so recently. And yesterday I learned of the death of another friend who was too young, claimed by ALS after a long, hard battle. Add in Megan’s cancer and ongoing health battles, and it’s not too surprising that I’m feeling sad about Dad.

The sweet peas we grow for Dad every year are flourishing at the family estate:

They were his favorites. We had them at his memorial service, and our dear friend Lu carried some in her bouquet and in her hair when she married her beloved Rik a few years ago, so we felt like he was there celebrating with us. He is always with us, in our hearts.

We love you, Dad.

A YEAR AGO: Missing Dad.

FIVE YEARS AGO: A long and dreary week.

TEN YEARS AGO: Always with us.

TWENTY YEAR AGO: Thinking about Dad.

We have a summer intern at work. One of her tasks was helping me to catch up on the filing that fell by the wayside during the Plague Years. She is a lovely and clever girl, who is going to nursing school this fall, and she did a great job. But I was surprised to discover that I was kind of uncomfortable having a helper.

All this time, I thought my slothful self would love having servants to do all the boring and icky things in life, but apparently not. I was embarrassed and self-conscious instead of relieved and carefree. Maybe it’s just as well that I will remain maid-free for the rest of my natural-born life (and presumably after, especially if there is an afterlife, and if it is, as I suspect it to be, like Dead Like Me and require that I still work for a living. Or a deading).

One day, a colleague stopped by my office while the intern was there, and in conversation, it turned out that the colleague and Intern’s mom had gone to high school together. They are both 42. Intern asked if I had also gone to high school with them.

Me: No, I’m a lot older than they are.

Her: How much older?

Me: I’m 61.

The intern looked shocked. She stared at me for a minute with her mouth open and then asked me if I was sure. I said that no one admits to being 61 unless they are. She stared at me a little longer and then asked very earnestly, “What do you wash your face with?”

I think we all know that kitties are luxury items. Also that they have absolutely no problem having help/servants, and that they appreciate the benefits of a nap. One day, my kitties woke up from a nap and somehow managed to send my laptop crashing from the bedside table to the wooden floor below.

I heard the crash from downstairs, and on going upstairs to investigate, I was disheartened to learn that the edge of my MacBook screen was cracked and that some of the plastic had crumbled off, exposing some disturbing gold-toned metal and making about half an inch of the screen useless, since it was occupied with blurry, multi-colored lines. Being Me, I didn’t deal with it until the day that the entire screen was suddenly unusable, being as black as my soul.

A friend took it to Santa Rosa for me, and left it there to be repaired. I was surprised that it was fixed the next day and already shipped. I was a bit discouraged to learn that it was shipped to Memphis (home of Elvis and the Ancient Greeks), and still expected to arrive in the depths of Hooterville the following day. I’m guessing that my laptop didn’t bother to visit Graceland or confer with Aristotle, because it really did arrive the very next day. I love it when things work. Especially if they’re not Me.

A YEAR AGO: A lovely visit to the Valley.

FIVE YEARS AGO: Megan and Rob got ready to move.

TEN YEARS AGO: We lost our Schatzi. We still miss her.

FIFTEEN YEARS AGO: Life without health insurance. It’s as glamorous as you’d think.

TWENTY YEARS AGO: Camping out at Megan’s house during Mom’s battle against breast cancer.

You’d think I would have learned my lesson about real estate stalking, but as noted before in these pages, I seem to be something of a slow learner. Nostalgia for the long-ago and now golden past led to the dismaying discoveries that my childhood home, Fox Hill:

Had been destroyed and replaced by a hideous monstrosity:

and that someone had worked a similar destructive magic on my grandmother’s house and carriage house (which we used to call “the barn”). The ruin at Nana and Hoho’s is mostly inside the house, other than the eyesore of an outside deck slapped onto the kitchen:

Why anyone would do that when they have a gorgeous wraparound porch is beyond me.

They totally destroyed the charm of the barn and the kitchen in my grandparents’ part of the house (they lived on the ground floor, and the upper two floors were apartments where their tenants Frieda and Maretta lived). The attic held family treasures, like my great-grandfather’s Civil War sword and sleigh bells (neighbors recognized each other by the sound of their sleigh bells in those days). In her grief after her parents’ death, just months apart, my mother sold nearly everything along with the house.

More recently, my formerly lovely Jazz Age apartment in Pacific Heights has been uglified and much of its charm removed. They turned my kitchen, with its vintage Wedgewood stove, handmade Italian tiles, and quarter-sawn white oak countertops, into a bedroom. They took out the connecting door to the living room, tore out the closet, and put the kitchen in a corner of the room. The walk in/walk through closet between the bedroom and the bathroom has been closed off, losing the door and its crystal doorknob.

And it’s now worth more than a million dollars, even though it has no parking and there are people above and below you. Not to mention the skyrocketing condo fees.

I came across an ad for my old place here in Hooterville on social media, and wish I hadn’t. Again, uglification and charm destruction are the themes. They took down all the shelves in the living room, removed the vintage gas stove and unaccountably put the refrigerator in the studio. They added a bunch of ugly railings to the beautiful driftwood banister leading to the sleeping loft, and tore out most of the garden, including the honeysuckle that used to grow outside the sliding glass doors in the living room and perfumed the whole house.

They replaced the back porch with an ugly one, and replaced the bathroom with something utterly generic. They even replaced the “front” door (it’s actually at the side of the house) with a cheap solid one instead of the one with glass panes which let in the light and the beauty outside. They are asking for $1,300 a month, plus utilities, a huge increase from when I lived there. It makes me sad just to look at it.

I guess the lesson here is don’t look back, and don’t look if you see your old house appear in your social media feeds. You won’t like what you see.

A YEAR AGO: I still love the bed I got a year ago.

FIVE YEARS AGO: The power kept going out, for whatever reason. And a lot of the Golden State was on fire.

TEN YEARS AGO: Spending some time with friends.

TWENTY YEARS AGO: Some of the annoyances of city life.