Suzy Says

The new kittens, of course, have provided an excellent excuse for shopping. They require many accessories and necessities, so in preparation for their imminent arrival, I decided to go and pick up a few things.

My aversion to public transit being a matter of public knowledge, I took a cab to the store. I gave the driver the intersection I wanted. He unaccountably drove me to the bus station, which is approximately two blocks from my actual destination. When he stopped, I pointed out that he had not in fact arrived at the requested location. He asked, “You no wan’ bus station?” I said no, I didn’t, though I kept the following thoughts to myself:

1. You might want to consider actually taking passengers to the place they asked for; and
2. Do I look like someone who wants to go to the bus station? It’s a horrifying thought. Also, I had no luggage other than a gorgeous handbag I bought in New York in a moment of weakness. I’m insulted all over again on behalf of the bag.

The horror of the bus station insult faded as I entered the store, list in hand, so I felt efficient instead of indulgent. As usual, I noticed several must-haves (and some wanna-haves) while in the course of getting the necessities of kitty life, so by the time I left the store I was burdened down like someone who takes the bus.

On exiting the store, I discovered that there was a mysterious and annoying parade in progress, making traffic worse than usual. I decided to drag my purchases a couple of blocks away – not to the bus station – to the next major street, in the hopes of catching a cab that wouldn’t immediately be trapped in the parade standstill.

You’d think this was a good strategy, but on arriving at Major Street and dropping my packages to rub some feeling back into my hands, the following happened:

1. There were no cabs.
2. A kilt wearing busker set up about three feet from me and started piercing my ears with his bagpipes. I know Queen Victoria was awakened in this manner every day, but I’m not regal enough to stand it. After about five minutes, I was ready to ask him how much he’d take to cease and desist and why on earth he felt the need to inflict the kilt thing on an unsuspecting public.

Instead, I loaded up my packages and fled at a positively queenly pace to the next Major Street, where I collapsed into the first cab I saw. I’m not above being girlishly helpless when it suits me, so I managed to persuade the driver to help carry the packages to my front door. Now, if I could teach Rita to open the door, I’d be all set.

Well, venturing from the house really didn’t pay off for me.

1. I took Rita for quick tour of the alleyway (yes, that alleyway) before running (and falling) some errands. No fiesta evidence, but the following: yoga pants; sports bra; hoody, abandoned, as if someone petite had just stepped out of them (and walked away in her panties?!). No body, just the clothes. Go figure. I can’t. Neither can Rita.
2. A guy with a heavy Scots accent asked me where the nearest coffee shop was. Outside a Starbucks. His accent was so strong I had to ask him to repeat it. Which of us looks dumber* in this particular anecdote?
3. A Jamaican cab driver earnestly asked me if I spoke Polish. I don’t know what about me exactly broadcasts “Get your Polish translations here” or why this guy was in such dire of need of same, but there you have it.
4. On walking into a store – or attempting to do so – I stumbled and fell, embarrassing Self and breaking a nail. It’s always the innocent who suffer.
5. A visibly (across the shoulder and up the neck and onto the face) girl asked me if I knew where to buy a bathing suit. My immediate, unspoken response was “Do I look like someone who knows where to buy a bathing suit?” I look like someone who should be heavily sedated before even thinking of buying a bathing suit.

   I told this story to my fabulous friend K, who said we should invent a place where women could buy bathing suits and not want to kill themselves or the nearest supermodel. In our imaginary (but wildly successful) store, you’d get valium and a cocktail of your choice before even approaching the dressing room. The dressing room would be lit by candles, which we all know are the most flattering, as opposed to the hideous fluorescent bulbs favored by most department stores, which make one look like a cottage cheese avalanche. I think we might even go as far as those fun house mirrors which make you look really thin, as opposed to those completely un-fun mirrors in department stores which scar you for life. We’re thinking of calling it Suit Yourself. Investors, apply to me.

Well, that’s what happens when you leave the house.

*Years ago, one of my oldest friends was rooming with an Australian guy. I came over to visit my friend, who hadn’t gotten home yet. The roommate did his best to entertain me, but I was completely unequal to his accent. After a few rounds of “Excuse me?” and “Can you repeat that?” I subsided into agreeing with everything. Am convinced that as soon as I left, he told my friend that I was just about the stupidest person he’d ever met. “I aked her if she was a cannibal, and she said yes! She agreed to have 19 children with me! She thinks Ronald Reagan is a genius! Ronald McDonald, too!”

Rita takes a break from all that admiration. One’s public can be so exhausting.

I came home from sharing lovely Rita’s loveliness with her adoring public* to find that both my sisters had called in my absence. Again! It’s pretty cool to know that two people in two different countries are thinking of you at the same time. This may be quite common for celebrities like Rita, but unusual for Me.

I suspect they called because I haven’t blogged in so long and they were wondering what, if anything, was up. You might be wondering, too. But since it’s the Silly Season, a month historically devoid of any real news, you won’t be surprised to learn that there has really been nothing to report.

Things went down and things came up so I didn’t go to late, so maybe they’re just a sensitive bunch of guys.

Since I couldn’t be there in person, I decided to send Kathleen the tickets I would not be using (sob!), along with a quite cute birthday card and a token gift. Since I was, of course, late in getting to the post office, I figured I’d better overnight it. The post office worker fondled the package and asked me what was in it. I told her it was a magnet, and that, my friends, is a big mistake.

Even though the magnet consisted of a sunny daisy blossom captured in plastic with a magnet the size of a baby’s thumbnail on the back, it is apparently a dangerous object. You’d think I was trying to send my friend a handgun or illegal drugs instead of a refrigerator decoration. That might, in fact, be easier. When they mentioned that it would be $43 to overnight the offending package – yes, forty-three fun-filled dollars – the decision was made.

The next tier of service, though more magnet-tolerant and half the price, would take four days, meaning that the tickets would arrive by 5:00 on the day of the game, or approximately 2 hours before the first pitch. I had to hope for the best.

The “going postal” expression began to make more sense to me, though I wondered idly why they call it that when it’s mail, though I guess going mail-al or mail-o doesn’t have the same ring to it.

The notice for the package was there by the appointed hour, but the actual package failed to appear. There may be a bench warrant out for it by now. Fortunately, Kathleen’s friends had standing room only seats, so they could still use my errant and invisible tickets. Oh, and as of yesterday, the hazardous package had yet to be redelivered.

And I thought I was late.

*Literally, in the case of a distinguished older Golden Retriever, who came running when he spotted her and sniffed her with the thoroughness and alacrity usually reserved for vintage garbage or extremely dead small animals. Rita tolerated it, as she does the attentions of puppies, small children, and others who are unable to resist her considerable allure. If she were human, she’d smile and sign autographs. The Golden’s owner exclaimed, “He just loves your dog!” Apparently he had been thrilled by Rita before.

The Great Dog Rescue Adventure led to the Great Cat Conundrum.

I was cautiously backing the giant dog-rescuing car through the slightly creepy (and very narrow) passageway, on my way to return said car to the rental agency, when my neighbor Patricia approached with a little cat in her arms. “Whose cat is that?” I asked. “No-one’s,” she replied. It turns out that the kitty was a stray whom Patricia had finally managed to lure into the house after several weeks. Not only was the cat abandoned (Patricia cut off a very tight flea collar which had clearly been put on the cat when she was much younger), but she was pregnant, too.

Patricia, who is in marketing and knows what she’s doing, placed the adorable feline in my arms. The cat cuddled up to me and licked my nose. Then she looked straight into my eyes with her clear, gold-green eyes.

I melted.

I gave the cat back to Patricia and gave the car back. I kept thinking about that darn cat.

The next day, Patricia asked me to come over for coffee in her back yard. It was wonderful to sit in the sun and sip coffee among her flowers. The little cat jumped up on my lap and made herself at home. She’s about 90% tummy at this point, the rest of her being petite and willowy. Did I mention she’s beautiful?

My concern about adopting this little girl is Rita. Rita’s an old lady and likes her routine. She’s the Queen of Everything and used to lots of attention from her many adoring admirers. She is also an inveterate cat chaser. So I don’t want to take the cat in from the streets, only to have her terrorized in her new home by something that looks to her to be approximately the size of a Tyrannosaurus Rex. I also don’t want to put Rita’s shapely nose out of joint.

To cat or not to cat? That is the question.

First things first: happy 65th birthday to the great Brian Wilson!

Now for the less festive part of our program:

I got up really, really early, had a cold bath and hot coffee*, and went to have a mammogram. Ask any girl, and she’ll tell you that these are not for the faint of heart or full of boobage. Sorry, guys, but every time I have one, I think that if men had to endure this annual squeezefest of an extremely vulnerable body part, they’d have come up with something better a long time ago. Same goes for both the PMS and the P itself: there would be something better than Advil and heating pads, which appears to be the sum total of medical knowledge in that area.

While waiting in the hospital’s crowded lobby for an elevator, a man in an orange jumpsuit shuffled in, accompanied by two intimidatingly-sized policemen, complete with bulletproof vests and guns. The prisoner’s hands and feet were manacled, joined by a waist chain; hence the shuffling. I thought, “Now, there’s someone whose day is definitely worse than mine.” I was surprised that the cops allowed the general public to be in the elevator with their little entourage, but maybe I’ve seen too many movies. I did note, however, that they pressed the button for the 15th floor, which was the only floor without a description (X-Ray; Patient, etc.) listed.

The smushorama took longer than I had anticipated, what with the disrobing and squashing and waiting and re-robing. I had to rush home to pick up the lovely Rita for her medical appointment, which I’m sure she enjoyed as much as I enjoyed mine.

The day before, my friend Charlie noticed what he thought was a cut on Rita’s lip. Horrified that I hadn’t noticed it, I called the vet, berating myself for being a bad mother while on hold. I made an appointment for the next day. When the vet examined her, she said that it wasn’t a cut at all, but Rita’s natural coloring. Felt like the idiot I am, but was relieved Rita is fine. The doctor did whole check-up and said Rita was in excellent shape. Feeling relieved, I was relieved of the usual cash and we were free to go.

It wasn’t even noon yet.

*In my adorable new daisy mug. Definitely the best part of the morning.

If you count Rita. And I always do, even though she was just an innocent bystander in this latest adventure.

A friend of a friend had rescued two dogs from a bad situation (I didn’t ask for the details; it’s against my happy bunny policy of remaining as ignorant of ickiness as possible) and needed help transporting them to their new home. All I’d have to do is rent a car, drive three hours out of the city, meet FoF and buddy in a McDonald’s parking lot, load dogs into car and drive back to the city to deliver them to their new and improved home.

In retrospect, it doesn’t seem like the brightest idea to meet two stranger-ish guys with two big dogs* at night in a parking lot, especially a McDonald’s one, but two weeks after losing Jed, it seemed like good karma and a good deed. Rita decided to stay home and hang out with Charlie instead – a wise choice. But then, she is smart and beautiful.

FoF provided me with a painstaking list of suggestions and advice along with directions to the Designated McDonald’s, such as “Make sure your cell phone is fully charged” and “Do NOT SPEED, especially on the way back. You don’t want two big dogs freaking out the police”. You’d think I was transporting plutonium across international borders.

Come to think of it, though, rental car places often seem to regard dog hair with the horror usually reserved for hazardous waste. I once rented one which ended up with a liberal coating of Rita fur on the back seat. On returning the car, the agent gazed at the be-furred seats with bemusement and said their vacuum cleaner couldn’t handle the job, but if I’d pay him $100, he’d give it a try. I took it to a carwash instead, where they cleaned it inside and out for about $20. So I paid to do the rental car agency’s job. After that, I made sure to cover up all exposed rental car seating. And now you know, too.

In the end, Operation Dog Transport went without a hitch, despite the discovery that the dogs were in fact quite huge and quite stinky. But they were also quite sweet-natured, and it was a good dog deed indeed.

*Dogs originally advertised as 85 pounds, but turned out to be more like 120+. Don’t we all lie about our weight? Just a little?

My brother and his Jed, Christmas Eve, 1993

Fourteen years ago, my brother fell in love.

Like many great loves, his was both unexpected and head over heels. He took one look and never looked back.

It was Christmas Eve. Our father and stepmother were visiting from England (their custom was to celebrate Christmas in England one year and in California the next) and had rented a house in Mendocino big enough for the whole passel of us. Dad and I were making dinner, and Jonathan went to town to pick up a few last-minute items. When he came back, he came into the kitchen and said, “Guess what I did?’

Dad and I said, “You wrecked the rental car.” This made no sense, since Jonathan is a speedy, yet excellent driver. In answer to our unjustified accusation, he reached under his sweater and brought out the cutest puppy I had ever seen. For once, I was actually deprived of speech, as I gasped and grabbed for the little bundle of black-spotted, white fur. Dad got there first, though. Dinner was forgotten as we welcomed Jed to the family.

She was the best Christmas gift ever.

It turned out that while Jonathan was running errands, he stopped by what he calls “the pity pit”, which is the local Humane Society displaying pets up for adoption near the main street of the town. He took one look at Jed, and their lives changed forever.

My brother trained Jed carefully and thoroughly. His belief is that a well-behaved dog, like a well-behaved child, can be taken anywhere, but it takes consistent discipline to achieve that goal. People used to tell him he was too hard on Jed, but he wasn’t. He made it possible to take her with him anywhere he went. When he was still a carpenter, she’d go with him to the construction site, and never got in the way. (Once he left his lunch in the truck with her and she didn’t eat it.) My brother is a volunteer fireman, and Jed went with him on every call. He also teaches science, and Jed goes with him to school. It’s hard to know who the kids love more: Jed or Jonathan.

The training was part of it, but there was also her Jedness that made her so special. She grew up to be beautiful, a queenly, fun-loving tomboy. She always jumped on me with joy when I came to visit – the one “bad” habit my brother couldn’t break her of – and one of the great pleasures of visiting was sleeping with Jed the first night I got there. She’d cuddle up to me and I’d have the best sleep with her, loving and reassuring, beside me.

Awake, she’d chase the ball until your arm was about ready to fall off. When my brother moved from his former house to his current one, Jed went into the woods and retrieved her tennis balls, piling them up by his truck as if to say, “If you’re bringing your stuff, I’m bringing mine.” He took her camping, winter and summer, Jed proudly carrying her little backpack full of her own food – that dog pulled her own weight. She loved to swim, and we’d take her to the river, throw the ball, and she’d bring it back. Even in old age, she could out-swim much younger dogs, and she had fun every day of her life.

That happy life ended yesterday. Jed was surrounded by her loved ones and left us peacefully. We were lucky to have known her, from her puppyhood to her adulthood. She is always loved, always remembered, a once in a lifetime friend and companion.

Yes, Virginia, there really is a hell. And it’s right upstairs!

The thing about my upstairs neighbors is that they are just so generous. Even if it’s 9:00 on a Sunday morning – and a Sunday dedicated to God and Moms (does it get any more sacred than that?) – they are delighted to share their egregious taste in music with anyone within earshot (and your ears will be shot, believe me). Given their propensity for equal volume and bass overdrive, those of you in Indonesia and Outer Mongolia are probably having your ears assaulted right now. If there’s a huge avalanche on Mt Everest or somewhere on either Pole, you’ll know who to blame.

Rita & I eventually tired of being univited guests at Hell’s Disco, and decided to get out for a breath of quiet air. While ambling away from Racketville, we discovered the above item in the Upstairs Disco’s recycling.

Suddenly, it was all so clear.

Changing the subject from those mothers, today I hosted a couple of motherless friends for brunch. Makes the day easier for those of us who are Mom-less, and instead of braving the restaurants with their happy, Mom-celebrating parties, I made Eggs Florentine. I used a mixture of baby arugula and baby spinach, and successfully made my own hollandaise sauce. The addition of the arugula really helped to cut the richness of the hollandaise and brought it all into balance. I am pleased to report that it was enjoyed by all, though conversation was difficult since we were temporarily located inside a giant speaker, but I took the pleased expressions and empty plates as a compliment.

To those of you who have mothers or are mothers, hope you had a fabulous Mother’s Day! And wishing everyone peace and quiet. Send some my way if you got it.

My blog turns six today! Hope Mike doesn’t think I have to start doing chores now!

Rita has been celebrating the upcoming blogiversary, or possibly the fashionably late arrival of Spring, with extreme naughtiness. If she had a dog house, she’d be in it.

On Thursday, I arrived home to discover the contents of the garbage can scattered all over the house. Rita the miscreant was lying calmly in the middle of the mess. I think she knew it was pointless to try and blame it on the mice. She didn’t wag her tail or jump for joy when I came in the door, probably because my entry and my yelling were pretty much simultaneous.

I’m sure it was the aftereffects of this domestic misdemeanor which led Rita to wake me up at 6:30 am. That means “in the morning”. I knew I’d regret it, soon and for the rest of my life, if I didn’t get up and take her out. Without coffee. After I had coffee, I decided to take Rita with me when I went to the library. It’s a nice walk, and the library is conveniently located next to a park, so Rita could chase squirrels and pigeons to her heart’s content.

I figured that would hold her until the evening walk, but I was wrong.

A couple of hours later, I was on the phone with an investment banker in New York. Rita started whining and scratching at the door, dog code for “let me out of here or you’ll be sorry”. I couldn’t immediately give in to her demands, or tell her to stop making them, because the banker would wonder why there was a dog in the office. While we do have an office, in beautiful downtown Oakland, I usually just work out of my kitchen, but I didn’t think the banker needed to know that. My professionalism is all an illusion (but he didn’t need to know that, either). He didn’t seem to hear Rita’s pleas for an early release, so when I got off the phone, I took her out again. And again, later that night, when Rita tried to chase a cat, and was forcibly restrained. Cat-chasing in my opinion is not good.

On the way back from the Final Four, a passing child wanted to pet Rita, but Rita wasn’t interested. I have noticed as she has gotten older that she’s less than thrilled with the attentions of puppies and children. The little girl got really upset as Rita tried to slink away, so I stopped her and let her be petted. Sometimes you just have to make sacrifices for your public.

I’m only getting up for admiration.

My dog* is so pretty, she doesn’t even need to leave the house to get compliments.

The Thai food delivery guy asked me where she was when he brought dinner the other day. I went and got her (she was napping too much to bark when he knocked at the door), and she went up to him wagging her tail. He petted her and said he couldn’t remember her name.

“Rita,” I said.

“Ah, yes, Rita! Like Rita Hayworth, only more beautiful!”

However, like many beauties, Rita, I learned, has a somewhat shady past.

I took her around the back of our sprawling building. There’s a parking lot, a wood-working studio, and a place where movie and TV sets are built. Behind all this is a vacant lot, which looks like a field, but which is actually the former site of a battery factory. Apparently it’s too toxic to build on(!), but not too toxic to walk your dog on.

While Rita was sniffing and strolling, another dog owner arrived, along with PD, an artist who also lives in the building. In fact, he is Former Owner’s next-door neighbor. When the dog owner saw Rita, he pulled his dog closer to him and told me that Rita had been known to fight with his dog on more than one occasion. PD chimed in with the fact that she nipped his hand once. Imagine my surprise to learn that my old girl was so OG. I have to blame it on the bad old days of the Former Owner. She’d never do that now. I hope. I certainly don’t want to have to send her to rehab and reach out to the canine and artistic communities, begging for fashionable forgiveness.

*After more than a year of Rita’s companionship, I think it’s safe to say she’s my dog. I even managed to avoid The Talk with Previous Owner (previously known as Actual Owner). Bonus! How many girls get what they want without having to talk about their relationship?

Last week, I ran into Previous Owner. He lives in the same building, but I rarely see him. So we were catching up, and he never asked me about Rita. I brought up the topic, telling him she was doing well, and so far so good with all the pet food recalls. He said he’d call us that night or drop by, and guess what? Nothing. Girls, I know you won’t be surprised by this, and neither am I. But it’s all good, since I get Rita, discussion-free! I win!

The two old ladies are alive and well, you’ll be glad to hear. And thanks to all of you for checking up on us, especially those who recognized the Oates quote and feared the ominous worst. I haven’t pulled an Oates (and would never be noble enough to do so), but there has been nothing at all amusing happening in my life, so I elected to keep the dullness to myself. Maybe I am, in fact, somewhat noble.

This must be an all-time personal high (or low) for posting, since this is only the third entry this month. I should get some kind of award for it. The Slothy: for outstanding indolence. Problem is, people would get annoyed with me winning it every year, even though I’d be too lazy to write, let alone read, an acceptance speech.

Rita must have wanted to keep up with my accoutrements of old age*, because the vet has put her on prescription dog food (it’s called G/D, which I prefer to think of as Good Dog, rather than what it really stands for) and treats to help keep her joints healthy and happy. She loves them and is prancing around like a little circus pony, charming one and all as per usual.

I?m sure Emily Post or Miss Manners would say that regifting is always wrong (and they’d probably have an aside explaining why the non-word “regifting” was so egregious, besides the idea of the actual regifting), but it was a total success in this case. I received a hat for Christmas which was cute, but not me. Apart from anything else, it had wooly braids, and if I’m going to wear braids, they’re going to be mine. I finally realized it would look great on my neighbor, and since I never know when I?ll see her, I put it in her mailbox. I ran into her a couple of days later, and she was not only wearing it, she was bubbling over about all the compliments she had received on it. Total success! And a gift that kept on (re)giving.

Glowing with regifting glory, I went to the store for some necessities (pomegranate juice for anti-oxidant martinis; shrimps and artichokes; coffee). On the lottery counter, some hopeful yet forgetful soul had left her wallet. It was black patent leather, with a big Pilgrim-y buckle on it (if she wins, I hope she buys a new one). I couldn’t resist peeping inside. There was money – not enough for a pretty new wallet, alas – and ID. I handed it over to the cashier, who was either surprised at my honesty or the ugliness of the wallet. She took it gingerly and stowed it under the cash.

On the way home, I amused myself by thinking of how happy the owner would be to get it back. Like ABC’s Wide World of Sports, only backwards: “The agony of defeat! The thrill of victory!”

*When I complained to a friend about how having bifocals makes me feel old, she said, “Having bifocals just means all your energy goes to your intelligence and your eyes don’t get as much.” I feel so much better. And smarter.

2006 was the Year of the Dog* in Chinese astrology. It was also the Year of the Dog for Suzy.

Round about February, I started taking care of Rita (or possibly the other way around) more or less full-time. As time went on, I became more and more enamored of her, and my blog became more and more about her as my life did. I am now totally in love with her and will never give her back to “Actual” Owner, even though we don’t have an official (or unofficial) agreement. She is such a joy.

As for last year’s resolutions, I kept all but one of them. I’m not yet divorced, but the paperwork is in progress. Rather like the Rita situation, there’s nothing official, but we have an agreeable understanding. I’m sure it will be wrapped up this coming year. I’m pleased to report that John and the fabulous cats are all doing well.

This year, I want to focus on physical health (complete ologist removal); mental health (not going back on the pills); and work (getting things formalized, working more & better).

Hope this coming year is a great one for everyone!

*Rita turns 12 next month, so according to Chinese astrology, she was born in the Year of the Pig. She does possess quite a lot of the Boar qualities: “Whatever they do, they do with all their strength…They have tremendous fortitude and great honesty…anyone having a Boar Year friend is fortunate for they are extremely loyal. They don’t talk much…They are kind to their loved ones.”

If I ran the world, Santa would look just like this.

As I drove to my friend’s house on Christmas Eve, I was filled with anxiety and apprehension. I soon learned that I should have paid more attention to this internal warning system.

After the long, rainy drive (though uneventful, with no mistaken OnStar calls this year), I arrived at my friend’s 120 year old apartment. Here’s where things started to get eventful, as she explained the vagaries of the ancient plumbing to me (“There’s a big stick by the toilet, in case you need to break things up so they’ll flush”), which almost sent Rita and me back to the car in horror.

Friend also is the owner of Dreadful Dog, a yappy, furry bolster of a dog disliked by everyone who knows him. People who can’t agree on any other topic under the sun all agree that Dreadful Dog is, in fact, dreadful. If he isn’t barking his high-pitched bark, he’s whining, which his deluded owner describes as “purring”. Among his other irritating features is his complete refusal to come when he’s called, which can be a problem if, for example, he runs across the road to annoy two stranger dogs. On that occasion, when I approached him with his leash, he kept backing away.

I thought of an alternative use for the big ol’ toilet stick.

You can imagine Rita’s horror at being bracketed with this creature. It’s like when your parents take you to visit friends of theirs and you have to play with their loser kid, who normally has to bribe people with toys to play with him. You can’t believe it, but you’re stuck with it. Also the grown-ups can’t seem to tell that there’s a huge difference between you and him.

Rita and I were mortified at being seen in public with Dreadful Dog, at least twice a day.

Awoke from fitful sleep on Christmas Day to learn that the great James Brown had died earlier that morning. A day that kicks off with James Brown kicking off is not going to be a good one.

Friend’s daughter has Christmas dinner at her elegant house every year. She is a wonderful cook (she even caters occasionally), and her house is always decorated perfectly. On the other hand, she also has an antisocial creep of a boyfriend who now lives with her. He threw a fit that would have embarrassed a four year old after we dared to visit for three hours on Christmas Eve, along with her friends and family. He kept her up all night with his theatrics, and then vanished to the basement on Christmas morning, leaving her to make dinner for ten people, all of whom were well aware of this drama and the many which had preceded it.

Unfortunately, he emerged to eat dinner and open gifts, which led to a complete pall over the proceedings and an almost total lack of conversation, since nothing anyone was thinking could be said out loud. Personally, I was thinking, “Heave ho, heave ho, it’s to the curb you go!”

Just when I thought it couldn’t get any worse, I called my brother and sister and learned that Jed the Wonder Dog is sick. Think good thoughts for her. Being without her is unthinkable.

Really, isn’t a day without weirdness…well, someone’s life other than mine?

Still in possession of all my blood (fun fact: despite the recent spate of bloodletting, I still have no idea what kind of blood I have), I took Rita for a walk. I expected the construction workers to admire her (and me), but I didn’t expect the Actual Owner.

No-one expects the Actual Owner!

We stopped to chat, and he only asked me about New York. Even though Rita was standing right there, he didn’t mention her, though he did, of course, pet her. It’s impossible not to. Also, I was secretly delighted that she didn’t fuss over him, just gave him the casual-to-enthusiastic greeting she gives the construction workers, who give her part of their lunches and otherwise fawn over her.

Rita soon got bored and started pulling away, eager to get on to the next smell, so we did. He didn’t ask when he was going to see her again, or anything.

Weirdness factor: about 5 or 6 on a scale of 1 to 10.

That night, I was watching the surprisingly dull biopic about the delicious Bettie Page* when someone knocked at the window. I figured it was Charlie, Rita’s sitter and purveyor of fabulous Italian gifts to Suzy, so I went to open the door.

Rita came with me. If anything, she’s actually more curious than I am.

I opened the door to a complete stranger, completely drunk and completely slurring, “Mind if I come in?”

I said, “Yes,” and shut the door forcefully before locking it immediately. Rita was barking loudly and scarily enough to have instantly sobered the guy, though I don’t think it did. I heard him mumbling as he wandered away to annoy someone else.

Weirdness factor: about 8 or 9.

It’s good to have a dog.

*Made me long for the real thing. I’m just going to have to go out and find Teaserama. The faux Bettie was nowhere near as cute as the original, and was lacking in La Page’s trademark sauciness and charm.

And speaking of adorable ecdysiasts, I valiantly resisted buying this pretty pink tome when I was out Christmas shopping. Also a pop up book of Graceland! Will virtue be its own reward?

…is already under the tree.

When I arrived home, I noticed that the scaffolding used by the brick grinders was conspicuous by its absence (yay!) but had been replaced with a giant skip full of old roof chunks, and the work wasn’t done yet (boo!). In fact, they’ll be right back.

When I picked up Miz Rita from Charlie (and rewarded him for babysitting with a cashmere scarf from the magic kingdom of Century 21), he told me that the tar’n’brick brigade had been at it since I left, so even if I hadn’t braved the madding crowds of Gotham, I’d have had the maddening crowds right here in the courtyard.

And speaking of maddening: Rita’s Actual Owner, he who has not seen her or called or emailed to inquire about her welfare for the past several months, swooped in to “borrow” her from Charlie while I was away, putting Charlie in an awkward position and confusing the hell out of the poor puppy. He further stated that he’d be spending more time here, suggesting that his relationship isn’t going too well, so he’s repo-ing Rita as a fallback.

That’s what he thinks. So I have one of those awkward Relationship Talks to look forward to, in addition to the construction.

Oh, and the doctor called me while I was in New York to tell me I’m seeing a cardiologist next month. I tried to get her to explain the ultrasound results, but I was on my cell phone and there was New York in the background, so it was hard to hear, but the expressions “regurgitating valves” and “whether the muscle is healthy or sluggish” were mentioned. Regurgitating never sounds good, unless you’re a baby bird, and as for sluggish, I fail to see how my heart can be too fast and too slow at the same time. I’m seeing her on Tuesday and she told me not to worry. Why is that as soon as someone says “don’t worry”, you do?

Welcome home.

The vending machine at Hotel Hell, consisting mostly of Kools and Newports

Honestly, can’t I leave y’all alone for a few days without all hell breaking loose? I notice none of you cleaned up or did your homework*, either. Next time, you’re getting a babysitter. I don’t care how old you are!

While you were raising hell, I was soaking in it.

A fairly huge error in judgment – and lack of local knowledge – led me to spending a memorable night in Hotel Hell. Thinking that I needed to be downtown in order to get to my 9 am meeting on time, I chose the only hotel which allowed the lovely Rita to accompany me. Little did I know what I was in for.

Arrived late in Detroit, as per usual, having been lost, as per usual, and stalled in traffic for over an hour, as per usual (for extra fun, the car started whining about its low fuel level while I was still stuck. That’s Halloween scary. Or as they call it in Detroit, Devil’s Night.) Found hotel, which was built in the 1920’s. The lobby retained vestiges of its former glamor, but the oddly assorted inhabitants didn’t. To give you an idea of the other guests, one of them informed me that he had lived there for a year, but it was better than being homeless (a few minutes later, I could have debated that point), and another was screaming “You fucking retard!” into his cell phone. Oh, and he had a tattoo of a spider on his face and neck. Yes, yes.

Braved the strange smell – something like old movie theater combined with despair and the reek of failure – to find the room. There was no lamp or overhead light in the room. I called the front desk in near darkness to inform them of this defect, and was asked if I was sure. To paraphrase AA Milne, either a lamp is there, or it isn’t, and I pointed this out to the clerk. She said I could try another room. This room only got one channel on the TV, and in looking for the remote (there wasn’t one), I discovered a half-eaten chocolate bar and “Destyni’s” phone number.

I didn’t call Destyni, though. I called the front desk again. She said that the cable had been turned off in some rooms, but she didn’t know which ones, and she was the only one on duty (for a 20 storey hotel!). However, the bellman(!), who came on duty at 11 pm, could tell me. I bet he could tell me which floors the hoes and crack were on, too. Finally, I moved to Room Three. There was cable, no remote, the usual strange smell (but windows I could and did open, resisting the urge to hurl myself out), a stain on the carpet approximately body-shaped, and as I closed the door, the front of one of the bureau drawers fell off. committing furniture suicide. I could hardly blame it. Rita was so horrified she hid all night, pretending she was somewhere else.

I called the Red Roof Inn, made a reservation for the following night, and poured myself a drink.

Nothing can scare me now. I spent a night in Hotel Hell and lived to tell the tale. Final irony: I had to give them a $100 deposit for Rita, so I’d keep the room, and I quote, “in tip-top shape.”

*Ah, Feasterville Trevose, my little enigma. Will nothing induce you to reveal your true identity? Are you millionaire Bruce Wayne of stately Wayne Manor? You can tell me.

Of my many bad habits (shopping when I can’t afford it; pathological laziness; trashy magazine addiction), the one that’s probably the easiest to change and should be, really soon, is my insane dogwalking attire, undoubtedly the snickering of the neighborhood. If I were a celebrity, that’s what I’d be wearing on the cover of a trashy magazine (I wonder if I’d still read them if I were in them?), with a huge headline like “Suzy’s Secret Heartbreak!”

In fact, it’s not heartbreak or drug addiction that leads to my odd clothing choices when I take Rita out in the morning. It’s a combination of morning stupor, lack of caffeine, and laziness. I just grab the first thing and head out the door.

Today’s crime against fashion was: pink pajama bottoms patterned with little white bows, white men’s v-neck t-shirt, cashmere coat, and kitten-heeled mules, worn with unbrushed hair jammed into a pony tail. Niiiice. Imagine my relief to discover that the cop giving a guy a parking ticket was a regular policeman and not from the Fashion Police. Rita the Slinky gave the cop the eye and he stopped in the middle of writing the ticket to pet her and admire her while I tried unsuccessfully to hide behind her willowy form. When she was bored with him, she kissed him on the nose and took off in search of the next smell.

My little Husky* Hussy.

All that medical crap just sucked the frivolity out of me, and I’ve pretty much spent the last week pondering my (possibly imminent) mortality and having such a raucous pity party that the neighbors threatened to call the police (not the fashion kind) if I didn’t keep my self-pity down to what my father used to call a dull roar.

In addition to the horrors I have already related, I had to endure an ultrasound. For those of you who have never been subjected to this, I will just say this: Stephen King couldn’t make this shit up. It was gruelling and gruesome in the extreme. Of all the medical intervention I have suffered (and I do mean suffered) the past two weeks, this was the total worst. Even the Pap Test and mammogram were more fun. Seriously. And that heart monitor thing was the good part.

Now I have to wait for the test results, and you know how patient I am at the best of times. I feel like I just took final exams. Only I hope my results aren’t, you know, final.

*Apparently Rita is part Siberian Husky, hence her aversion to the heat and extra-thick coat.

I think I interrupted a close encounter of the commercial kind last night.

Sometimes when I take the Lovely Rita out for a quick pee, we go to the alley behind the building between us and the halfway house. Last night, we strolled there, and I heard an apparently disembodied voice say, “We’re just talkin’ here.”

I looked around, and a door of one of the parked and (I had assumed) unpopulated cars opened. The guy in the car noticed Rita, as people do, and started telling me a story about his own German Shepherd, who had, according to him, been senselessly shot by his neighbor when the dog was 19. Further, the purported slayer had wrapped the victim’s body in a carpet and thrown it down a well, where it wasn’t discovered for three weeks.

This kind of anecdote is hard to cope with politely at the best of times, let alone when a much younger bleached blonde (the “We’re just talkin’ here” voice) is in the car with the teller of the tale, adding her own comments which had nothing to do with the sorry saga in progress. Of course, Rita was off exploring in the bushes and couldn’t be reached. Finally, she emerged from her epic sniffathon and I bailed as politely as possible.

I had noticed that there were previously enjoyed condoms from time to time in that lane (always colored ones, so someone was feeling festive). I told my sister about it once, and of course she trumped me. She was babysitting a friend’s kid and took her to the park in San Francisco. She turned around to discover that the child was happily filling a condom with sand from the sandbox.

This is probably why my sis always has hand santitizer on hand.

Rita wonders if I’ll ever come home.

Now that I’m back:

The Good:

Rita!!! She was so happy to see me! No-one makes you feel more welcome and wonderful than your dog jumping around you for joy and kissing you wherever she can.

Charlie and his friends spoiled her. Apparently, she had grown used to in-room massages in my absence, as well as hanging out with the guys. There were empty pizza boxes and beer cans in the recycling box, since they hung out at my place part of the time so Rita would know it was still her house and I would eventually come back. The guys did a few handyman things for me in my absence, too. There aren’t too many babysitters who also do unsolicited and unpaid chores. Now, that’s a girl’s fantasy of the perfect babysitter, though probably not a guy’s.

Rita had already received her daily ration of admiration by the time I got home. A girl jogging by as Charlie took Rita for a walk puffed out, “She’s – so – beautiful!” as she ran past.

The Bad:

There were no fewer than three break-ins in the building in my absence. One was the new-ish upstairs neighbors, who had both their laptops stolen, the second the feckless girl whose possibly pregnant cat got stuck in the freight elevator, and the third was someone I don’t know. The first two are a little too close for comfort, especially since my “office” is a desk in the kitchen, facing the front door, which I frequently leave open if I’m working or cooking. Those days are over. Good thing I have a dog. Better get a better lock, though.

The Ugly:

The Cruel Crushing Cold continues to torture me and keep the folks at Kleenex in business. Apparently, my sinuses are the cold version of a rent-controlled penthouse apartment overlooking Central Park: too good to leave.

As if that wasn’t enough, I am also suffering (and I do mean suffering) that unmistakable and unbearable reminder that (wo)menopause has once again passed me by. This ordeal seems to worsen with every month, and after 30 years of it, I’m done with it. Unsurprisingly, the alternative is at least as bad, as not worse. Being a woman ain’t for the weak.

I must have a secret masochistic streak, since I kicked off the week with a Monday mammogram* and have a check-up, including the always-delightful Pap test, scheduled for next week.

Why they can’t come up with a better diagnostic method than squashing your assets (and is worse to be a girl whose cups overfloweth, like me, or one who doesn’t and would presumably have to be mushed harder?) into agonized mush? Also am convinced that said squashing only helps gravity in its evil purpose.

There should be some kind of soft, comfy bra that you simply place your boobs into and voil?! Diagnosis! If men had to endure this, they wouldn’t have wasted all that money on the space program and dealt with this far more compelling problem a long time ago.

Other uses for science: some kind of electronic fence that won’t let in mosquitoes and other unpleasant bugs, but still allows birds and butterflies; teleportation, even though my brother is convinced that you might end up in the wrong place with all the wrong pieces.

*At 8 am! But why be any more conscious than you absolutely have to be?