Suzy Says

It’s raining a little more now than it was earlier today, and I was happy to see Henry curled up in his blanket on the couch when I closed the blinds for the evening. I wish he’d actually get under the blanket, but I guess having it at all is better than the way he spent the other winters before he had his faithful servant.

This morning, the air was just atomizing my face gently, like an Evian mister during a first class trip to France, when I ventured out to do some shopping. I didn’t realize how much I had overdone my mental provisions (the library) and physical ones (Safeway) until I started trudging up the hill towards home. My bags seemed to get heavier with every step, and the mile stretched before me. Was it getting darker? Would I be soaked to the skin before my arms fell off, or after?

As these gloomy thoughts drifted through my gloomy head, a man passed me with two dogs. I remarked on their beauty, which was considerable: one a long-legged lady, a grey and white Great Dane and the other a handsome lad, a black Lab/Shepherd mix. It turns out they are both rescue dogs, the female being fostered until a home can be found, and the male belongs to the man. We fell into a conversation, and he walked me most of the way home. My bags had magically become lighter along with the skies as all four of us walked companionably together. I hardly noticed them by the time we parted ways.

As I neared my house, I noticed a beautiful black cat sitting on a fence, gazing at me with huge, golden eyes. She stood (or sat) her ground (or fence) as I passed, telling her how lovely she was, though she clearly already knew this and accepted it as no more than her due.

It’s amazing how total strangers, human and animal, can really make your day. Even a rainy one.

Audrey and June watch Henry TV

It was an exceptionally beautiful day today. Clear blue skies, around 65 degrees (or 17, if you prefer – I always think Metric makes everything sound worse. Temperatures are colder, and distances longer). I had the doors and windows open most of the day, and it was nice to hear the drone of lawnmowers (not mine, though I really should do something about that grass before it starts raining again), the rush of cars on the freeway, the lonely hoot of a passing train. I still have them open, even though it’s nearly 6 in the evening and the sun just slipped into the Bay in a dazzle of pink and violet. I have noticed this past week that the sun is staying around a little later, instead of hastily packing up its things and dashing off at five, like a bored office worker.

The kittens love having the doors and window open. They can watch passing birds and people and smell the grass and flowers. They can keep a much better watch on Henry, too.

Ever since he moved onto the porch at the start of the winter’s rains, they have been fascinated. He’s like a Wii or something to them. They spend a lot of time watching him, from my desk (which can get crowded when I’m trying to work, but has the best Henry view), or the window in the kitchen. I’ll know if he moves from the couch, because the girls hit the floor and I hear their busy little feet running into the kitchen to watch him.

The past couple of days are the first ones this winter that have been warm enough to open the house, so it’s been very exciting for June and Audrey to have just a screen between them and Henry. It’s HD Henry TV!

Click clickety click click squeeeeak!

I open one eye.

Click clickety click click squeeeak!!

I open both eyes, remove my Marilyn sleep mask, and feel around for my glasses. Looking over at the window, I see June clawing at the glass, behind which Henry sits in oblivious glory on his couch. If you think nails on a blackboard are bad, try claws on glass first thing in the morning. Telling June to knock it off, I put on my amethyst velvet slippers with the embroidered toes and stumble out to the kitchen to make coffee.

On my way through the living room, I can’t help but notice that Audrey is batting away at the metal blinds, making them clang unnecessarily loudly, especially this early in the morning. I pause to pull the blinds up, giving her an unobstructed view and hopefully stopping batting practice. Instead, she reaches up to bat at the folded blinds, which of course have much better resonance.

While the coffee is brewing (hurry up!!), I reach into the refrigerator for the pink Brita water jug, and notice that the package of chicken I left to thaw overnight on top of the refrigerator has been tampered with. On closer inspection, it appeared that the kittens had decided to see if it was thawed yet, and then to do some serious quality control. I had foolishly thought they couldn’t get up there. Sighing, I put the mangled poultry into the refrigerator, which I hope the cats still can’t open.

Once caffeinated, I fed the naughty kittens and went out to the porch to feed Henry.

Henry wasn’t there, but he’d left me a lovely parting gift.

A very mysterious parting gift.

Both his bowls were empty of everything other than strange black dirt. The plastic storage bin where I keep his food was lying empty at the bottom of the stairs, but the lid sat quietly on the porch. Not only was it full of food, it also contained the “I (heart) NY” mug I use to measure the food, lying on its side with food still in it. How he did this is completely beyond me.

Wonder what they have in store for me tomorrow?

I already took the Christmas tree down, and I already miss it.

I used to wonder what was the matter with those people whose trees were at the curb the day after Christmas. Now I know: they have kittens.

Mine started their siege as soon as the battle of setting up the tree was finally over. They merrily chased the string of lights as I wove it through the branches. They relentlessly hunted the gorgeous glass peacocks (with real feather tails!) without a license. What was I thinking? If the cats live to be 22, as a friend’s cat did, they’d still be after those birds. I still regret their gorgeousness hidden away in a box, possibly forever, when they should be delighting Me and passers-by on an annual basis.

~sigh~

The entire time the tree was up, minus nap time, was occupied with pouncing on the tree, chewing on the tree, trying (and succeeding) in pulling the tree over, jumping on it, and driving Suzy to despair. Armed with a plant mister, I squirted them with water during the tree attacks, which diverted them temporarily, but only temporarily. Yelling at the cats and squirting them made me so sad that I just packed it all up, even though everyone knows that packing up the tree before Twelfth Night is bad luck. And I did want one more night with the tree sparkling and the candles in the fireplace flickering, but being a grown-up is one big disappointment, and you’d think I’d be used to it by now.

Henry fled as I dragged up the heavy trap door in the floor of the porch where he was comfortably ensconced on the couch. I have noticed that cats, quite reasonably, frown on any kind of housework-related disruption to their otherwise civilized lives. I got the box out, and dismantled the tree far more quickly than I had assembled it, though the kittens’ participation was equally enthusiastic on both occasions. June even jumped into the box of tree parts for one last desperate chew.

By the time I was finished, I couldn’t face the perilous journey under the house in semi-darkness, so I left the box on the Henry-vacated porch, where it remains to this day. After I put the box outside, I had to vacuum up tree residue, which made the kittens flee in terror of housework. They’ll have to think of other ways to drive me crazy, and I have total confidence in their abilities. Henry has returned to his comfortable porch and seems to have forgiven me, since he let me pet him two days in a row when I fed him (my only petting opportunity).

I’m still clinging to my wreath for now.

My brother came over to my sister’s house before I left and took the helm at the stove, making pancakes with the huckleberries that didn’t fit into the Christmas pie. Just add pure maple syrup and leftover apple wood smoked ham, and you have the real breakfast of champions!

While we ate, he told us that he had just returned from a call to a chimney fire. The directions weren’t very useful, so dispatch called the guy to ask for clarification – do you live on Road A or Road B? – and the guy couldn’t, or wouldn’t, answer. When the firemen finally found him and the remains of the fire (apparently, about 90% of chimney fires are contained by the time firemen get there, but they still have to go), he actually yelled at them for taking so long. Can you believe it? I think I know someone who got some coal in his stocking this year.

The sun was sunny, and the trip home uneventful, other than a disagreement between my car’s side mirror and a tree (which the tree won, necessitating an immediate trip to Kragen to avoid a ticket for driving while mirrorless) and a mysterious slowdown on the Richmond-San Rafael Bridge, which allowed me to admire the San Francisco skyline for quite a long time. When the cars finally speeded up again, it was for no particular reason: no visible construction, accidents, or anything like that. Still, it was much better than the trip out. Note to Self: do not attempt to go anywhere on Christmas Eve unless you’re Santa.

When I got home, the kittens came running to the door. I was as happy to see them as they were to see me. It’s embarrassing how much I miss them when I’m away, no matter how much fun I’m having. The tree, on the other hand, looked quite dejected, leaning against the window as if sobbing quietly, with one of its branches amputated and halfway across the room.

Henry also seemed to be glad I was home, even though he had lots of food and water left. He even let me pet him before settling back onto the couch.

It’s good to be home, and to have happy new Christmas memories.

There’s nothing like a Jessica post to get people talking! JFans will be delighted to hear that I’ll be seeing her (and, oh yes, her mother, too) at Thanksgiving, so I’ll almost certainly have more tales to tell. Note to Self: don’t forget to wear that necklace she likes.

For the Henry fans among you (and you know who you are), here are a few visual aids:

Not the paparazzi again. I’m trying to nap.

Man with a mission: Henry on his way to breakfast.

Room service: breakfast in Henry’s bachelor pad under the back porch.

This morning, I discovered that there are worse ways of being woken up than the alarm clock, the phone, or the eternally barking neighborhood dogs. June bit my toe! Really hard! And despite being swathed under blankets, it was both painful and surprising.

Really. Biting the toe that feeds you.

I hasten to add that this was not an attempt to wake me up to make breakfast. The kittens’ first vet gave me an excellent piece of advice, almost exactly a year ago, which was never to feed them when I first get up. So I always make coffee and read my email before giving them breakfast. They know they won’t get fed right away, so they let me sleep in on the days that clocks, phones, and dogs don’t wake me up.

So it wasn’t a “wake up and feed me” call.

I honestly think June has some kind of eating disorder or syndrome, like those people who eat soap. She has chewed the fabric covering the metal side supports right off my desk chair. She chews the ~shudder~ metal door stops built into the walls by the closets. Lately, she has taken to chewing CD cases, which, being plastic, shatter in a horrifying manner. I’m convinced that she’ll accidentally eat the shards and disaster will ensue. Granted, I pretty much always think disaster is around the corner, but still.

In an attempt to stave off potential catastrophe, I bought her some small dog sized chew things. She just batted them around. I gave her a demonstration (I’ll pause here while you finish laughing at the mental image), and even dipped them in chicken broth, but she just licked the broth off and then batted them into oblivion*, the place where cat toys and socks vanish, never to be seen again.

*That just reminded me of a book I loved as a child, “Attic of the Wind”, where a little girl visits the title place, where all lost things eventually end up.

It’s been in the 80s over the past few days, which both the kittens and I find a little on the toasty side. My sister thinks it’s the “last hurrah” before winter sets in, but the forecast says otherwise for now. To be fair, winter is harsher where she and my brother live (colder, with the occasional hard frost, lots more rain, frequent power outages and road closures) than in the Bay Area, so her dread is reasonable. Especially since she heats her house with a wood stove. I can tell you from personal experience how hard it is to keep the home fires burning.

The kittens and I decided to see if there were any breezes to be had on the back porch yesterday evening. Henry noticed our arrival, and strolled over and started clawing at the mat at the foot of the stairs that lead to the screen door of the porch. He has done this before, and it drives June and Audrey bananas. I think he knows it does, and likes pointing out that he gets to roam around wherever he likes, while they’re trapped inside.

He decided to take it a step further and actually walked up the stairs to the screen door. Hissing ensued, and there was a blur of claws and curses until I managed to move the girls from the door. I’m very fond of Henry, but who knows if he has rabies or worse? Also, I could just see the combined strength of the three cats tearing a hole in the door, with wholesale mayhem following.

Fortunately, disaster was averted. Henry sat aggravatingly on the lawn, having a post-fight bath, while the girls watched enviously. Good thing they can’t say what they’re thinking – sometimes.

A slightly better picture of Henry. He doesn’t look very pleased at having his nap disturbed just so I can share his handsomeness with the world. Even if he knew, I doubt if he’d feel any differently about it. He’s that kind of guy.

This morning, he was waiting for me beside the porch steps, a first for him. He usually waits beside his bachelor pad under the porch, where his matching bowls and cozy bed are. Today he hissed at me and talked all the way to the other side of porch, explaining how little he cared that I wanted to sleep in and how much he wanted his food.

I petted him as he passed me on the way to the dish, and he swiped at me. You know how boys are.

And no remarks on the state of the lawn. I know, I know. I really should mow it, but it’s littered with plum minefields, all squashy and stainy, the terror of shoes. And we’re in a drought, so I’m not allowed to water it, even if I wanted to.

Audrey wonders if she has a new sister

Audrey kept biting the sequins off the toes of my slippers, so I got new terrycloth ones with kitty faces on the toes. OK, I saw them on the way to Safeway yesterday and had to have them. Fi’ dollah! Fi’ dollah! Anyway, I had to try them on as soon as I got home, even before the groceries were safely put away from prying paws. Audrey was totally mystified by them, and kept sniffing them suspiciously, then looking up at me as if to say, “What the…”

I’m sorry to tell you that Audrey isn’t the sharpest knife in the drawer. In fact, she may be the butter knife. Adorable, yes (hence her official title of The Adorable Audrey Grey). Intellectual, no. The intellectual slack is picked up by The Beautiful June Bug, who is too clever for my own good.

I feed the kittens (they were 8 months old two days ago) twice a day. Of course they get fabulous, though repetitive food. I have to hide the bag in one of the few kitchen cupboards that actually closes, since June is accomplished at opening doors of all kinds. You can tell I learned this the hard way, because the bag is taped shut from all those secret snacks.

So twice a day (bi-daily?) I ask the kittens if they’re hungry. They race into the kitchen, where they proceed to mill around under my feet, making it almost impossible to extract the food and get it in the bowls without tripping or paw injury on all sides.

Once I get the food in the dishes (and June has grabbed the scoop at least twice to make sure she got everything that was coming to her), June starts eating and I go to look for Audrey. For some reason, when I put the food in the dishes, she runs away. So I have to go and get her and persuade her to come with me. I promise I’m not taking you to the vet! Finally after I capture her and place her wriggling body in front of her familiar bowl she looks up at me questioningly, as if I had given her a particularly difficult calculus problem to do.

Eventually they both eat, while somehow conveying that feeding time was far too late and the food disappointing. And such small portions.

June searching for Santa, Christmas Eve.

You will be relieved to learn that I can now relieve Self without fear of turning my lawn (still unmowed) into a toxic waste dump. I finally reached the landlord and she in turn reached the Roto Rooter guy. He loomed into view on a stormy day (my house has a big front window and the front door is mostly glass, so visitors just appear, practically in the living room), wearing big rubber gloves and a rain slicker, as popularized in horror movies. But there was nothing horrifying about him, except his job. He fixed the vintage plumbing and aftermath in the pouring rain. I felt really sorry for him, even though he kept saying things like “sanitary products”. ~shudder~

Although The Beautiful June Bug looks like her mother, I didn’t want her to act like her and end up a pregnant teenage runaway, so a trip to the vet was in order. Fortunately, there is a vet nearby with excellent accreditations and a kindly staff. I still nearly cried when I left her there. They kept her overnight, and kept me posted on her progress. I couldn’t wait to pick her up the next day, and beamed with pride when they complimented her beauty and good manners. June is so stoic and brave and never complains, even when stuffed into a carrier for twelve hours at a time.

The Adorable Audrey Grey, on the other hand, complains enough for two cats, and then some. She takes after me. She is also precocious, and has decided she’s ready to date, though she’s not even 6 months old yet. Like most parents, I disagree on this point. She may have her eye on the stray grey cat who lounges on the garage roof, the cat equivalent of a leather-clad, tattooed and pierced older guy on a motorcycle. Of course she wants to go out with him.

Her escape attempts have increased along with her demands to go out and have fun like all the other kittens. Today she actually climbed up the chimney, which is fortunately blocked. Thankfully, it’s her turn at the vet’s tomorrow, and not a moment too soon.

These kittens today.

I didn’t do a thing for Christmas. The tree stayed in its box, the door remained unwreathed, presents unbought. I spent the whole day in my pajamas, reading the new Sue Grafton. In the evening, I lit the candles in the fireplace and sipped champagne. It was the most peaceful Christmas I’ve had in a long time.

Hope yours was, too.

Yesterday morning, I had the kitchen door open, and the baby gate in place to keep the dog and kittens in place. My “office” is also in the kitchen, and my desk faces the door. I was sipping coffee and checking my email when a guy walked up to the gate and asked if he could have a look around. Turns out he was interested in my eccentric apartment (the former wood working shop of a Victorian coffin factory) for a TV show pilot. This would be, and is, the heroine’s cool loft.

As he walked around taking pictures, I pulled a sweater on over my pajamas and tried not to be too embarrassed about the fact that I wasn’t dressed, the bed wasn’t made, and the place was in a more chaotic state than usual. He assured me that they could see beyond the untidiness.

June tried to help him set up his tripod. He thought she was adorable rather than annoying, and said that in the show, the star has a cat. But considering what happens to most child stars, she should probably remain a beautiful unknown who keeps getting asked why she isn’t in show business.

In the evening, my neighbor dropped by with a bag full of hot gingerbread she’d just made. You have to love a neighbor like that. She also wanted to see the kittens, who were sleeping cutely and pretending that they weren’t complete maniacs. After the usual petting and fussing, I walked her to the door and said good night, and resumed watching the final season of Gilmore Girls with Audrey on my lap. Audrey loves the Girls, but June finds it all too Girl-y for her, so she never watches it with me.

As I passed through the kitchen an episode later, I heard a cat meowing and scratching at the door. I assumed it was Quince and that she couldn’t get into her house, so she came here. I opened the door, and a small cat shot in the door at an illegal rate of speed. On closer inspection, it turned out to be June!

She must have slipped out unnoticed during the neighborly goodbyes, and I had taken her absence for her usual scorn of anything girly. Horrified that I hadn’t noticed and thinking of all the terrible things that could have happened, I swept her into my arms and warmed up her cold paws. She purred happily, as if nothing had happened. I gave Rita and the kittens some salmon treats to celebrate June’s safe return, and had a vodka treat myself.

Who, me?

Possibly the best tip I’ve ever gotten from a vet was from the kittens’, Dr. Jill. For those of you considering entering the dangerous and enchanting kingdom of kittens, I’ll pass it along. You’ll thank me later.

Dr. Jill says:

Whatever you do, don’t feed the kittens as soon as you get up. Wait at least half an hour.

It sounds simple, and it is, but it will have a huge impact on your life. The kittens won’t think that as soon as you get up, they’ll get fed, so they’ll let you sleep in. For example, it’s nearly 10:30 and I’m on my second cup of coffee, but haven’t fed the kittens yet. (Yes, I’m an excellent mother.) Instead, they’re romping around like crazy and totally ignoring me, which is the way I like it first thing in the morning.

Yes, when they see you getting the food ready and attempting to give it to them, they’ll be milling around your feet, making noises like little French police cars, but they won’t have been doing it all morning.

You’re welcome!

Quince

This past week, I had the pleasure of Quince’s company while her owner was in Spain, the poor thing. Quince is the beautiful mother of my beautiful kittens. My neighbor took her in as a pregnant stray who was a kitten herself – barely 9 months old. She was essentially a pregnant homeless teenager, so she was lucky to find Patrisha. It seems to me that cats and dogs choose us, not the other way around.

Every morning, Rita and I would go to Patrisha’s little Victorian rowhouse (an endangered species on our street, as the soulless, expensive condo boxes encroach). I’d leave Rita in the little front yard and go inside, where Quince was always waiting for me. Patrisha left a window open, so Quince could go in and out at will, but I think she spent a lot of time inside, waiting for her girl to come home. Surely a formerly homeless cat appreciates a warm and happy home even more than cats who have never had to kill their own dinner.

So I’d feed Quince, walk Rita, and in the evening I’d go back, feed Quince her dinner, and curl up on the soft velvet couch with my book (Away, by Amy Bloom). Pretty soon, I’d hear Quince’s little paws and bell as she trotted into the room. She’d hop up and make herself comfortable on my lap, purring away merrily. Eventually, she’d leave for her evening stroll, and I’d leave, too.

I realized how lucky I am to know my kittens’ mother and to be able to spend time with her. I can see where June and Audrey get their supermodel long legs from, their funny, swaying walk. I can see how Audrey has the same sharpness to her delicate face, how June has similar coloring.

Patrisha brought me a present from Spain to thank me for taking care of Quince, but I should have thanked her instead.

It’s hard to work with the kittens around. They love playing on my desk so much that I have removed anything with toy potential (especially that pen shaped like a palm tree), but they still keep popping up to see what I?m doing. Not content to merely observe, they walk on the keys. I keep moving them away, but they keep coming back like fuzzy little boomerangs.

All this office time has netted them some pretty impressive skills for 3 month olds. So far, they have:

• Annnotated an email: \———–
• Turned on my iPod and selected Wilco
• Done a spotlight search (for the letter “e”)
• Typed the Spanish upside down question mark ?. I have no idea how to do that.
• Turned on CAPS LOCK
• Turned the volume all the way up (I usually keep it muted)
• Downloaded a Google map to my desktop.

Someone should invent kitten repellent. A temporary mist you could spray around your desk, so the kittens don?t annotate your work unexpectedly with their kitten comments. On the door, so they can?t sneak out when you take out the garbage. On yourself, so your kittens don?t bite and claw your bare feet, arms and hands in their oh so playful and painful manner. Not to mention climbing up your legs, their needle claws digging merrily through the fabric and right into your delicate flesh. Of course, the effects would have to wear off when it?s time to cuddle.

Sleep mode

Having kittens is like winning the lottery.

Suddenly, you?re just so much more popular, and it has nothing to do with your charms. Friends and neighbors drop by casually to say hello, and just happen to notice the kittens, who have two modes: frantic and asleep. They?re either running around like crazy, getting into trouble, or fast asleep, usually in some peculiar place (wedged on top of the records or on top of the lighted room dividers, which seem to be like hammocks to them). There is much admiration. They?re cool cats.

The kitten formerly known as Dennis

Well, it’s just been one thing after another since I got back from Detroit.

One thing:

The $350 vet bill.

Rita lives to sniff things, and it looked like she might have sniffed the wrong thing. She and my kind neighbor Charlie were enjoying each other’s company while I was enjoying Kathleen’s company in Detroit. The enjoyment came to a rapid and horrifying halt when Charlie noticed Rita investigating some mouse bait which he had overlooked in his kitchen.

Of course, this occurred on a Saturday evening, so he had to take Her Loveliness to the emergency vet, which is much more expensive (but not more luxurious) than the regular vet. While Charlie imagined how he was going to tell me about this, Rita had her stomach pumped twice, and even though it didn’t look like she had ingested any poison pellets, they gave her Vitamin K just in case*. I’m not sure who had the worse time. But Rita is healthy and happy, unlike our collective bank accounts.

Another:

A couple of days later, at a different (and slightly less expensive) office down the street, I learned that Dennis is, in fact, a girl. Apparently everyone who saw Dennis from Day One onwards had the same hallucination, including the vet, because no-one noticed the whole “Dude Is a Lady” thing on the first visit. This time, the vet got a second opinion from her partner, and said they’ll check again on the next appointment (kittens go to the vet approximately as often as Lindsay Lohan goes to rehab), so stay tuned.

Years of living in San Francisco and walking to work through the Tenderloin in the early morning hours has given me a remarkable ability to tell when a girl is really a guy, but not, apparently, the other way around.

*I learned far too much about how mouse poison really works. I’d stay in ignorance if I were you. ~shudder~

They don’t look dangerous.

The debate rages on in Las Vegas as to who won the “June vs. Dennis” bet. Dennis technically caught the first mouse, but June not only caught one the next day, she (very slowly) killed it. So who wins? I guess it depends on whether you consider catching a mouse includes shaking off its mortal coil.

Hopefully the debate is settled faster than the Phil Spector verdict.

Dennis has caught the first mouse…experts had predicted June would be the first, but Dennis beat her to it…unfortunately he couldn’t hang on to it, so it’s around here somewhere…beware of mouse….UPDATE: June fell into a full bathtub and is now wet and horrified….

I was making dinner last night (green curry chicken, grapefruit salad with toasted coconut and fresh mint, and jasmine rice from my well-worn copy of Quick and Easy Thai*) when Mister showed up. He was not alone, having the fire alarm inspector as his small but efficient entourage.

As I opened the door to let them in, Rita shot out of the kitchen as if fired from a slingshot. I looked around for the kittens, who for once were minding their own business and staying out of trouble (almost as good as quick and easy), grabbed them, summarily dumped them in the bathroom and shut the door. Then I chased Rita down the street. She was already past the slaughterhouse. At the time, I was far from amused (and far from Rita), but in retrospect, it’s reassuring to know that she can still outrun me.

I finally caught up to (and caught) the errant dog, and dragged her home. Passing my neighbor Mike’s place, I noticed that he was lounging in his hammock, getting enjoyably hammered while listening to Sam Cooke. The fact that Mike is hovering around three score years and on his way to the “and ten” part only made it more endearing. He toasted us with domestic beer as we passed.

When I got home, I learned that I’m not the only dumb bell in the place. My fire alarm bell was as dysfunctional as the House of Windsor, but, unlike them, had been replaced.

When I took Rita out for the final walk of the day (her Michael Scofield imitation didn’t count in my book), one of the guys who lives in the building came out and handed me a mirrored disco ball. Thus, even more oddly accessorized than usual while strolling Miss Rita, we went to the park.

*If there are two things I love, it’s quick AND easy. They belong together! If you can’t have sparkly and fabulous, quick and easy is the next best thing.