Suzy Says

I’ve been semi-idly (is there any other way?) looking around for a different place to live. The dogs next door are driving me crazy (and have recently been joined by a dog across the street who squeals and whimpers all day), and the BART station of death is getting to be a little scarier than I can handle, with three deaths in as many months. Not to mention having the GPS stolen out of my car, and, oh yeah, the murders of four cops last week. I think I deserve to live somewhere a little more pretty and a little less hazardous.

I’m thinking of moving to Petaluma. It’s a pretty town – it starred in American Graffiti and Peggy Sue Got Married – and a historic one, with a charmingly preserved downtown. My mother used to live there, so I got to know it and like it.

Reading the housing ads, I’ve been both shocked and dismayed by how many places don’t allow pets. If you’re single, these landlords are basically saying you are not entitled to any companionship. No purring cat or faithful dog to lower your blood pressure or take the edge off the horrors of life. Nope. You must sit alone in your clean, sterile environment, and God forbid your shoes should mark up the kitchen tiles. However, it’s perfectly OK to have kids merrily crayon on the walls and wreak other puerile havoc. That’s just fine.

So finding a place that’s nice and affordable and will let me live with my beloved girls is a challenge. I’ve seen three houses so far that were unsuitable for various reasons:

1. Red house: Cute, but even less counter space and tinier kitchen than I have now. Trailer right next door, only feet away, on one side, and on the other, a garage that is being converted to housing for an as-yet undetermined tenant. Add in the steep dirt road that would be mud in the winter and that’s a no.
2. White house: What’s that humming coming from the barn across the driveway from the house? Oh, it’s a sausage factory? And that house right behind is the landlord’s? Wow, look at that fake wood panelling and particle board doors and acoustic tile ceilings!
3. The Doll House: Charming, but teeny. Doubtful that I could fit bed and bed side tables into bedroom, or couch and chair in living room. House flush with sidewalk, and no back yard at all. This is California – you need some outdoor living space.

I have another one to look at this week that looks promising. I’ll keep you posted.

Am hung over from unwise brandy after the Film Noir Festival at the beautiful Castro Theater last night. I must have missed the “please drink responsibly” warning on the label.

The movies were wonderful. It was, appropriately, a dark and stormy night. The theater was built in 1922 and has been restored to its full glory. When I arrived, the organist was playing the Wurlitzer organ on stage, which sinks out of sight when it’s time for the movie. It’s a movie palace, all right.

The movies were introduced by James Ellroy, one of the premier weirdos of our time and author of many books, including one on the Black Dahlia and one about his mother’s still unsolved murder, which took place when he was around 10 years old. He is a noir aficionado and helped to finance the restoration of the prints we saw last night. Both movies were written by Dalton Trumbo, who was blacklisted in the dark McCarthy era and whose name therefore does not appear in the credits. His grandson was also there.

I had never seen the first movie before, “The Prowler” from 1950. Attention-grabbing opening scene of Evelyn Keyes (Scarlett O’Hara’s little sister in “Gone with the Wind”) clutching a towel to her otherwise nude quite the figure and screaming as she catches sight of…The Prowler!!! She calls the police, one of whom is very taken with her and ends up being a homme fatale, as well as very possibly the original prowler. Ev really should close the blinds when she’s taking a bath. I think she learned her lesson.

I had seen the second, “Gun Crazy”, but it’s great to see it on a big screen in a beautiful place and enjoy the crowd’s reactions. The movie, released the same year, pairs a carnival sharpshooting lovely with a disillusioned WWII veteran on a crime spree.

Up next: “Conflict”, a Bogart rarity, on February 1, and “Night and the City”, with the luminous Gene Tierney, on February 3. Stay tuned!

Walking Rita behind the building last night, I couldn’t help but notice all the signs.

Signs, signs,

everywhere signs…

Do this…

Don’t do that…

Can’t you read the signs?

Dear Miss Manners,

Help! The politeness is out of control!

When my neighbor went to New York on business*, I took care of her cat and kittens. It’s hard to find a nicer task than playing with kittens, and I was glad to help out, especially since two of the kittens were going to be mine when they were ready to leave their mother.

Eventually, the day came to pick up my kittens. I brought my neighbor a gift to thank her for all the care and love she had given my kittens – all the kittens, really. She gave them a great start in life, and I was grateful. She also refused to let any of the adopting families help with the food bills, so I thought a nice gift was in order.

I gave her this lovely tea set and a pretty thank you card. She seemed to be delighted. Two days later, she turned up with a bottle of wine and a thank you card, thanking me for my “too generous” thank you gift and card. Yikes. Do I need to thank her for thanking me for thanking her? How can I break the cycle of politeness?

Politely yours,

Suzy

*She was staying at the Soho Grand when Kirsten Dunst was robbed, but she had nothing to do with it. I swear! Otherwise, I’d have the Balenciaga bag and she’d have the Marc Jacobs, instead of our usual Chico bags.

What else to do on the last morning of this winter but wait for the cable guy? Hopefully, he’ll be a little more efficient and a little less scary than this one.

I’m already bored, and it’s not quite 10 am. You know how I feel about boredom.

I wish I could tell my boss I’d be in sometime between 8 and 12 (or, even better, 10 and 2), and not have to call if I’m late or don’t bother to show up, as is often the perfidious way of cable guys. They have time to waste, and it’s all yours.

In other ennui-related news, I’m heading to Detroit in a couple of days. Don’t get me wrong, it’s not Detroit that’s boring – quite the opposite – but I’m going for another money manager interview marathon, and with my classic bad timing, I picked a day that my dear and amusing Kathleen is out of town, being dear and amusing elsewhere instead of with me. There’s always next time – and I’m pretty sure there will be a next time. Maybe not soon enough, though.

For now, I’d settle for the cable guy being here now.

Update:

Turns out I was actually waiting for Godot. No cable guy, Carrey-esque or otherwise, deigned to show up.

I called the cable company, who told me that my appointment was for Thursday the 20th. I pointed out that Thursday was the 22nd and that I would not have booked anything for Thursday, since I’m going to Detroit that day. I further pointed out that I had confirmed today’s appointment twice with them. They said Thursday was the best they could do (also, apparently, both the least and the most), and I asked, quite reasonably, if they guaranteed that someone would show up before noon on Thursday.

Of course, they said, there are no guarantees.

The Empire State Building

Looks a little ominous, doesn’t it?

It looked that way to me, so I spent half a day trying to change my plane reservations to leave before the storm hit. The airline told me that they could change it for me, at a cost of $294, but if I waited until 24 hours before the plane left, I could do it on line for $40.

Seemed like an easy decision.

When the appointed time arrived, I tried to change the reservation on line, but couldn’t. Called tech support. They needed the credit card used to buy the tickets, which I didn’t have, since my boss bought them. Called him in Calfornia. Got number. Called tech support again with the number, only to be told that the reservation couldn’t be changed on line because it hadn’t been made on line.

He transferred me to an agent.

This time, it was $278 to change the ticket, and I was informed that the $40 was fiction. I could go to the airport two hours before an earlier flight, and if there’s room, get a seat on that flight for $50. I decided to just stay with what I had, even though I suspected there would be problems.

There were.

The snow, drifting down picturesquely outside, was causing panic and chaos inside. When I arrived at the gate, it looked a lot like that LIRR train at rush hour. Nowhere to sit, people hollering into their phones, a feeling that there could be a riot anytime. My flight wasn’t ever listed as delayed, but considering it left over four hours late, I think we can safely say without fear of contradiction that it was.

At least it wasn’t cancelled, the doom that awaited the passengers of two other flights, who immediately stampeded the lone airline employee at the desk. I think the only person who hated his job more than that guy that day was the one driving the Crime Scene Clean Up Services van I’d seen earlier that day. I didn’t get to read everything written on the side of the van, but I did see “Homicides, Suicides, Body Decomposition” before it sped off to make the world a cleaner place.

Saw the cardiologist on Thursday. He had not received a copy of the ultrasound I had done, so couldn’t give me a diagnosis. But he did say that my heart skipping a beat or going fast isn’t a symptom of something really bad. I had the ultrasound done again, & will have to do the 48 hour heart monitor thing again on Jan 5 (happy new year!) since I’m now off the anti-depressants, which may have skewed it. So as usual: no answers, more tests. Why did I expect anything different?

The ologist’s office is located next to a hospital. Across from the hospital are a funeral home and a party supply place (The Balloon King!) – in the same building.

Tried to get a taxi in the pouring rain, to no avail. I did, however, have some guy pull over in his car, open the passenger door, and ask me if I wanted a ride. Sure! Drive me off somewhere and kill me! Why not? It was hard to persuade him that I wouldn’t consider his offer, whatever his motivation, and eventually, he gave up.

As I trudged damply homeward, somewhat unnerved by both the ology and the offer, I spotted a homeless-looking guy approaching, apparently talking to himself. I’m sorry to say that despite the season of goodwill toward men, I really wasn’t in the mood for a panhandling crazy at that point. He walked right up to me and demanded, “Are you afraid of me, princess?” I shot back, “Should I be?”, and he said no, then meandered off, swearing.

‘Tis the season.

When I checked my mail, I discovered, among other things, the keys to my old apartment were off the old ring. Now there’s just my house key, the keys to my post office box and gym locker, and my father’s dog’s ID tag on the new one. And notes from my sister in the change purse part.

I guess my heart finally caught up with my mind and I realized that I don’t live there anymore.

Wondering where I’ve been all this time? The answer is simple and dull: working and going to the doctor. Neither of these activities is sufficiently amusing for reportage as far as I’m concerned. I’m (not) doing it for your own good!

Really, I wonder why anyone wants their children to become doctors or lawyers. Given the fact that if your life has either doctors or lawyers in it, things are not going well, that means the public at large will either dread seeing your kids (at least professionally) or avoid it at all costs, and they will serve as the punchline for jokes as long as they stay in these undesirable professions.

But enough about them. Back to Me. For me, a week without doctors is like…well, someone else’s life. A very young someone else. The doctor of the week last week was the eye doctor. He horrified me by informing me that I have to get bifocals. Really, the grey poodle hair must be on the horizon. I can hear the beating of its wings. On the bright side, both he and the purveyor of the breathtakingly pricy old lady glasses* both thought I was 10 years younger than I actually am (thank you, Dermalogica!).

This week’s doctor is the cardiologist. Ologists in my opinion are not good. I’m not looking forward to the last doctor’s appointment of the year, though I’m hoping to actually get some answers. After all those years of school, why can’t they just tell you what’s wrong and how to fix it?

Early new year’s resolution: total doctor avoidance, other than necessary check-up and mammogram.

*Note to self: get better, or at least more entertaining addictions, instead of spending thousands on unenjoyable things such as anti-depressants (though I have broken that particular bad habit, it set me back plenty – at least financially) and bifocals.

My friend and neighbor Charlie, who lives across the courtyard (and, more importantly, brought me the fabboo Venetian presents this summer) heard someone knocking at his door ’round midnight.

He opened it to reveal a woman he had never seen before, holding two cigarettes. She offered him one in return for using his computer, but alas, smoking is not one of his vices. Her alternate suggestion? “Want to see my boobs?” His civilized response: “That won’t be necessary.*”

It turned out that she is an (allegedly) former stripper that a girl in the building took on as a roommate out of desperation. Her boyfriend left her suddenly and she needed help with the rent. A couple of days ago, I saw (and heard) the two of them arguing in the courtyard, the roommate telling Boob Girl that she never wanted to come home and find homeless people in her livingroom ever again. This seemed to be quite a reasonable request to me, though not to BG, who expressed her opinion so loudly that someone thought police intervention was necessary. It probably was. Homeless person was ejected, and I haven’t seen BG since. This roommate thing seems to be somewhat problematic.

On the (thankfully) less wild side, Jeff, who also lives in the building, just got a new roommate. He already lives with his brother Aaron, and the new roommate’s name is, you guessed it, Aaron, which is so delightfully Newhart. “Hi, I’m Jeff, this is my roommate Aaron, and this is my other roommate Aaron.”

*This reminded me of when Dad and I were walking through the Tenderloin, favored hangout of hookers, and he was propositioned. He very politely said, “No, thank you very much” in his cultivated English voice, which made me laugh. He said, “There’s no point in being rude about it,” and walked on.

Now is the summer of our discontent….

A construction worker, talking on a payphone (how retro is that?):

“And that’s why this city drives me crazy. Honest to God!”

Two guys on bikes:

Guy One: “That’s the kind of bullshit I’ve had to work with here.”
Guy Two: “it’s all bullshit here.”

Maybe I should move.

I already have two summer-related stupidity injuries (Calamity Suzy did not stay in Florida):

• A scrape on my left elbow. This was due to breezily informing a friend and hammock owner that I knew all about getting into and out of these summery contraptions. I may have gone so far as to boast that I had “skills”. The hammock promptly dumped me on the ground in a graceless heap to prove that I was just as wrong as I could be. That’s the “mock” part of the hammock. Yes, it mocked me for being such a ham.
  
• A burn on the fingers of my right hand, incurred while attempting remove skewers of shrimp from my barbecue unassisted. I discovered that you really shouldn’t hold onto the barbecue with your bare hands (or fingers). Kids, don’t try this at home.

At yoga class today, we were in warrior pose when the teacher asked me what warrior I was. I said, “Winston Churchill.”

He stared at me blankly – I guess a fat old guy with champagne in one hand and a cigar in the other isn’t his idea of a role model – and then walked away, saying, “Mine’s Xena.”

Other than the four-tier dark chocolate fountain, which was girl-nip (I don’t think they would have been more excited by, or lined up as long for, Sex God du Jour – is it still suddenly single Brad Pitt? Or am I, as usual, behind the times and it’s someone else entirely?), the best thing at the party was all the waiters circulating with trays of delicacies. Not only were they always giving you shrimp and wine, they took away the empties and then brought you a fresh supply. Wouldn’t it be great to have that at your house? In the morning, they could circulate with croissants and fruit, then change to lunch things and dinner things, and of course, late-night snacks.

The only thing that would be better than that would be living at a very grand hotel. Eloise had the right idea (hmmm. Just noticed that I bear a startling resemblance to Eloise, what with the unruly, stick-straight hair and the pillowy tummy), and was lucky enough to live at the glorious Plaza before it closed. It is now being made into a travesty of itself, with all the rooms with the best views being made into condos, with the rest being hotel rooms available to the po’ folks who can’t afford the condos (or object to them on very solid philosophical and aesthetic grounds).

There are definite advantages to living in a hotel, number one being room service, which is one of my favorite things in the world. No dishes, ever, and if your plumbing acts up, just call the front desk. Daily maid service! On-site gym! Valet parking! They’ll take away your laundry and bring it back, all nice and clean and actually ironed.

And don’t forget the chocolate on the pillow at night.

Yesterday, it was marigolds. Orange and variegated orange and red. Should I set a trap for the Secret Gardener? They probably don’t make Hav-A-Hearts that big, so I’d probably end up with a giant net &agrave la Gilligan’s Island with a screaming do-gooder inside who has instaneously turned into a do-badder. The curiosity is killing me, like the proverbial cat.

Still no hot water. The fact that my English grandfather used to have a cold bath every morning with the window open (and lived to be well into his 80’s) is not at all comforting. Neither is showering at the gym, especially after seeing that Seinfeld episode where George pees in the shower at the gym. Like I wasn’t already horrified by stepping into the damp, already used cubicle, trying not to think about bacteria and foreign hairs. Like showers weren’t already bad enough. I am longing for a warm, luscious, Lush-filled bath, the complete antithesis of my grandfather’s.

I’d even like to do the dishes…without having to boil water first. This is getting to be too much like camping. The only camp I’m even remotely interested in is the campy Batman kind. They really raised the camp ante on an episode I recently saw, with Julie Newmar (totally the best Catwoman) and famed stripper Gypsy Rose Lee (with all her clothes on, as a newspaper reporter), in the same episode.

After spending all that time in Florida, I belatedly learned that the only stripper school in the whole USA is located in Clearwater, just a short drive from where I was staying. Alas, and dang.

The Miss Exotic World pageant is being held on my birthday. How Suzy is that? Since I didn’t celebrate my birthday last year, I think I should celebrate it twice as much this year. Only 30 shopping days left! Think sparkly!

None of the usual suspects admitted to being the Midnight Gardener, but his/her addiction seems to be, if you’ll pardon the pun, growing (as they so often do – just ask any devotee of say, serial killing, internet porn or eBay). The hydrangeas and lavender (French, as it turns out on closer inspection – oooh, l&agrave l&agrave!) have now been joined by red and pink geraniums. What’s next? I can hardly wait. I so rarely experience random acts of beauty.

On the other hand, there’s no hot water. At all. The building manager claims that it will be fixed tomorrow…or the next day. I actually had to shower at the gym. With all those other people. And then I had to take the bus to the doctor. That’s way too much public exposure (seems to be Monday punday around here) in one day. I’m going to hide in the house now and see if I can catch the Midnight Gardener. Maybe it will be roses this time!

Well, I am just exhausted.

First, I did my little bit to improve the economy, buying a bottle or few of wine and Calvados. The recycling bin is very happy. It has fancyass tastes and is somewhat greedy. I think we’ve been spending too much time together.

Then, I did my little bit to improve Me, having all my nails done and my eyebrows waxed and so on. Being a girl is just so much work. It seems like I’m always dyeing my hair, having it cut, washing it, styling it, putting on make-up and accessories, taking them off again, waxing, shaving, tweezing, perfuming, manicuring, pedicuring (though not curing cancer or any of my many less attractive character flaws).

Men always bitch about having to shave their teeny little faces (and I don’t know many who actually do it every day), but that’s nothing compared to the acres we girls have to shave. And just think how bad it must be if you’re a transvestite. All the girl work and all the boy work. Not to mention having to find size 12 stilettos.

Woman’s work really never is done, is it?

The recycling has really gotten degenerate these days. It consists almost entirely of wine bottles, with the occasional mineral water bottle and empty jars of olives and artichokes and other assorted delicacies. Granted, the wine is pretty good stuff – no Night Train or Thunderbird (yet) – but it’s really the quantity and not the quality that’s disturbing in this case. Garbage (and recycling) are quite revealing, aren’t they?

I wonder if the recycling collectors look at the dissolute collection with disdain, or wonder where the party is, or don’t even think about it. Probably the last option: just imagine what recycling and garbage guys must see. They’re undoubtedly some of the most jaded people on the planet.

While lying on the couch the other night, annoyed by the patient ticking of the 250+ year old grandfather clock – yes, the same one I went through hell to restore and ship here from England, and yes, I realize it’s perverse of me to resent this beautiful heirloom, but lack of sleep can change a girl’s priorities, especially in the dark watches of the night – I realized that we have far too many clocks.

There are clocks in every room, and I’m not including those on the many VCR’s and other appliances. There are three in the living room alone, though only one actually works. None of the clocks that do work agree on what time it is, either, so my sense of time when at home (and most of the time, come to think of it) is extremely approximate.

When my nephew was here at Christmas, he took a look around, noticed all the clocks with their individual sense of time, and said, “Cool. You have your own time zones.”

I wake up slowly in the morning. Very slowly. I put the kettle on, grind the coffee, pour the boiling water onto the perfectly ground perfectly Caffe Trieste mocha java, and take it back to bed to read, drink my coffee, and contemplate the horror of being (technically) awake. Do not talk to me. I do not exist in a pre-caffeinated state. Disturb me at your peril.

This morning, I was happily reading the latest in Lemony Snicket’s delightful Series of Unfortunate Events – I love these books, because they are visually very appealing (important for the shallow among us), charmingly written, and the central characters have lives that are actually worse than mine – when the bulb in my reading lamp, conveniently located behind my left shoulder, suddenly exploded. It not only exploded for no apparent reason, it flew right out of the lamp and apparently vanished.

Not even Caffe Trieste wakes you up faster than that.

I had barely recovered from this unfortunate and shocking event when I heard the distinctive and horrifying sound of one of the Feline Five throwing up. However, when I tried to find the source of the cat creation, it was nowhere to be found. Undoubtedly, I’ll step in it with bare feet in the middle of the night.

Is it too late to change my mind about dogs?

Back in civilization (for now). No dogs, no Mom. Just cats and the city (new HBO series?). Mom is amusing herself by baffling the doctors with her will to live, so unless you hear otherwise, it is, as Talking Heads put it, same as it ever was.

Pretty much the first thing I did, after going through a week’s worth of mail, doing laundry, and other assorted domestic tasks that had accumulated during my absence, was go to the gym. Of course, it magically banished my stress, and my trainer got a good laugh out of my concussion Christmas.

While I was away, San Francisco got itself the first female fire chief in its history. Though I’m not a fan of the new mayor (and even less of the old one) and voted hopefully for his opponent, the great Matt Gonzalez, I think this is a great choice. Now all we need is a woman President. Hillary, are you listening?

We could use some good news in the fire department, since the Governator’s planning to cut the funding for fire departments all over California. Yes, in the wake of the worst fire in California’s history. Don’t tell me there’s no other way to balance the budget.

Fun fire trivia: my brother, who is a volunteer firefighter, told me that San Francisco is the only city in America to use wooden ladders. Everyone else uses metal ones, so San Francisco’s have to be specially made. Couture ladders! He says it’s because of all the overhead tram and streetcar wires. Not a good combo with metal. Oh, his town voted to tax themselves on a per house, per year basis to help fund their fire department.