Suzy Says

Buried treasure

I had a date with Plumber* Robert today. He arrived early, which a girl always appreciates, and brought an end to my washing machine woes, which I think we can all agree is better than flowers (though not better than chocolate or wine). Apparently, the problem is that all roads to lead to Rome, or in this case, all pipes lead to the same place, somewhere in the mysterious crawl space under the house. This is not a good plumbing idea, but 85 years ago, it seemed to be.

I finally couldn’t take any more of the yowling and whining of the poor red dog across the street, and dashed off a desperate missive, begging the owners to do something about their dog, or I’d call the Humane Society. I had to put the note between the slats of their fence, because Red Dog, on closer examination, is huge and intimidating, and attached to the door by a mighty chain. The note was gone today, and when I went out to get the paper, I saw the owners bringing Red Dog inside, where he has remained for the rest of the day. Coincidence?

Spring has been very springy lately, with temperatures in the 60s and cloudless blue skies. I’ve even been sleeping with my window open. I think the girls have spring fever. They’ve been racing around the house like mad. I made the mistake of picking a yellow rose and bringing it inside, and it was shredded within the hour. Henry, on the other hand, has been scarce. He does appear for his breakfast in the morning, but instead of lounging on his couch all day, is off playing somewhere. I like to think he’s back on his couch at night, since I always tell him goodnight when I close the back door.

It’s been a Magical Mystery Tour going through the boxes from storage. I do have two boxes of books to sell or otherwise remove from the premises, but that’s just a drop in the box ocean in which I am valiantly trying to stay afloat. There have been some fun discoveries, though, like the stereoscope (seen above) and its tin box of images.

I have to admit to a pang of pity for my niece and nephews, who will have to face all this lot after I’m gone and wonder why the old lady didn’t just throw this crap out already. Sorry, kids!

I passed on looking at the fourth house this week. It was one of those box-filled days when the drive to Petaluma and back in rush hour traffic was an impossibility. Someone else rented that house, so I figure it wasn’t meant to be and that something else will come along.

Or not.

*Maybe becoming a plumber or mechanic is a better idea than going to college. People always need their plumbing and cars fixed, recession or no recession.

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.

Why is it that even though I’m (technically) a grown-up, Sunday evenings are just as depressing as they were when I was a kid? I no longer have to worry about my homework being done, but that seems to be very little comfort when facing yet another week of work and worries. Seriously, kids: being a grown-up is not fun! It’s not eating pizzas and staying up late every night. It’s paying bills and wondering how on earth you’re going to pay your taxes and what horrible thing is going to happen next.

Forgive the gloom, but I’m crampy and crabby* and my living room is awash in countless boxes, giving it that just moved in look so few decorators can achieve. Yesterday, I met my brother at the storage, and we loaded up my brother-in-law’s truck with approximately a zillion boxes of my stuff, which are now sprawled all over my living room, making themselves at home.

The kitties, of course, are delighted, and are happily climbing on top of them, sniffing them, clawing them, jumping at them, trying to pry them open, etc., whereas I mostly gaze at them gloomily and then go make a drink.

Today I did go through a couple, and at least half of it can be trashed, but even that is problematic, since my trash can is positively petite, while the green bin is unnecessarily capacious. I could go the traditional route and dump everything under the freeway like everyone else around here, but I think I’ll try and find the real dump instead.

In the meantime, it’s girl vs. boxes. I think I know who’s going to win.

*This seems to get worse and worse as I get older, and an informal survey reveals that this is usually the case. I was pinning all my hopes on achieving menopause soon, but apparently you get all the monthly girl grossness plus added delights, such as hot flashes. For years. I don’t think there’s a man out there who could endure the amount of pain and misery we girls do, not to mention the indignity and grossness, and I’m not even counting the waxing or the mammograms here.

I know you’ve been wondering why you shouldn’t hitch-hike (I hope you haven’t already started thumbing your way across the country, especially if you’re a fetching blonde wearing a cute hat) and where on earth I’ve been lately.

For now, you’ll just have to take my word about the perils of catching a ride with a total stranger, particularly the totally strange kind of stranger, but I promise to elaborate more fully soon. It’s been such an icky week that I haven’t had the energy or frivolity to blog. I’ll give you a brief recap and spare you the details, because that’s how much I love you.

The DMV: Really, need I say more? Even though I had an appointment, just being there was depressing. The lines for those who didn’t have appointments was so long that it doubled back on itself twice. A disinterested security guard tried to keep the line in some kind of order. As I waited for my number to be called, I thought that these were really the huddled masses yearning to be free. Or at least to be free of the DMV. When my number was up, it turned out that I was missing a piece of essential paperwork, so I’ll have to go again on Tuesday. I know, I know, you wish were Me.

The Farmacia Whatsit: For those without health insurance or a sugar daddy, there is the misleadingly named QuickHealth. Quick it is not, and the frustration can’t be good for one’s blood pressure. I made two attempts to see a doctor this week (don’t worry, I’m fine). The first time, I was told it would be three hours, so I abandoned hope and left. The second time, I was told it was a mere two hours. I asked if I could make an appointment, and they said I couldn’t. I pointed out that every time I came, it was hours of waiting time, and they said to come back at 3:00 and they’d put my name on the list. So it was sort of a non-appointment appointment. I did have time to peruse the shelves and wonder what things like belladonna cream were for (isn’t that one of the poisons medieval women used to make their pupils huge when that was the style? Like arsenic to make complexions white in Elizabethan times and botox now?) before I finally saw the doctor.

Storage: Yet another depressing foray to the storage. Every time I roll open the door, there’s death and divorce staring me in the face. Not to mention three generations worth of crap. I’m beginning to think I’m going to have to take a load of boxes, a roll of garbage bags, and some vodka and spend a few days sorting and trashing. Want to help?

My father, who loved birds and kept a list* of every single one he had seen since the age of five, used to joke that the birds who frequented his garden must tell all their friends about the excellent cuisine to be found there, since it was a feathery Grand Central Station. Sunflower seeds, breadcrumbs, cake, peanuts, suet, birdseed – even the pickiest avian could find something to delight his or her jaded palate. When I visited, we always ate breakfast overlooking the garden, watching the birds at work and play. Once, we were lucky enough to see some nestlings take their first flight from the nest – we were mesmerized for over an hour.

I’m beginning to wonder if the word is out among the stray cats in the neighborhood that Henry has it pretty darn good. Food every day! Fresh water! They whisper among themselves. “I heard he has a cushy couch all to himself,” gossips one. “Well, I heard he has a blanket and hasn’t felt a drop of rain in months,” huffs another. I guess it’s not surprising that they wanted to see for themselves.

Recently, two new cats have been invading the back yard. I knew I shouldn’t have mown the lawn** and made it slightly more alluring to visitors. One is a bouncer-sized tabby and white number, and the other a more modestly scaled black and white. Tabby is more persistent than Blackie, who tends to lurk around the yellow rose bush and runs away if he sees me. Tabby, on the other hand, has the nerve to actually come up on Henry’s porch. I’ve caught him there and on the steps. Despite constant shooing, he keeps coming back like a marauding boomerang.

Oddly, Henry just sits calmly on the couch and lets me defend his food and water, if not his honor. I wonder if all my coddling has eroded his street skills. His rakishly torn ear and scarred nose tell me that he’s an experienced fighter. Maybe he’s older and wiser enough to let someone else fight the battles now.

*After he died, we found his incomplete bird sighting list of the week on his desk, under his reading glasses.

**It’s not just my inherent idleness that keeps me from mowing the lawn. It looks equally terrible mown or unmown, winter or summer, being rough, clumpy, and with huge brown patches whether it’s been raining or not. It really needs to start over or go to rehab.

In which our heroine attempts to adjust to life in exile.

January: Cool Cornell. Sharks and Energy Domes. Film Noir Fabulosity.

February: Water bill weirdness.

March: Long-awaited license plates.

April: Bad day. Great week. Blog birthday (7!). Breaking and entering. The beginning of the Florida Fiasco.

May: Middle and end of the Florida fiasco.

June: Hello, Henry. Adieu, Margaret. Wildfires.

July: Kittens’ first birthday. Stevie Wonder. Steely Dan. Ant invasion. The mystery fire.

August: Birth of the Cool. Trip to the country.

September: Mr. Wilson. County Fair. Car Trouble.

October: Pretty Pasadena. Political Pumpkin.

November: No Neil Young. Elating Election.

December: Christmas tree carnage. Hail storm. Happy holidays!

And as the old year passes, it takes some beauty and style with it: Paul Newman, Bettie Page, Cyd Charisse, Charlton Heston, Eartha Kitt. Evelyn Keyes, whose performance I enjoyed so much during the Noir Festival (and in that little flick, Gone with the Wind). Dorian Leigh, sister of the glamorous Suzy Parker – the original supermodels back in the 1940s. The tragically young and tremendously talented Heath Ledger. Yves St-Laurent, who left the world a chicer place (and an exhibit of whose clothes I’m hoping to see soon at the De Young Museum). Isaac Hayes, Odetta, Levi Stubbs of the Four Tops, and Miriam Makeba. Bill Melendez, who animated all those classic Charlie Brown cartoons we love so much, especially at the holidays. George Carlin and Bernie Mac. They will all be missed. And Mr. Blackwell is now up there to critique them (and us!) all!

This morning’s arrest…

…was right outside my window. I was getting ready to go and visit Henry in his new and improved quarters on the back porch when I heard the siren. It stopped right outside my house, as you can see from the photo above.

Neither rain nor hail nor policemen can keep me from my appointed task, so I put on my coat and went out the front door. I no longer go out the back door when feeding Henry, since it scares him and he runs away. When I approach from the porch door, he either comes to meet me or stays on his couch and mews while I fill his dishes and talk to him about nothing.

Going out the front door also gave me an opportunity to see what all the fuss was about. One cop was handcuffing the guy, who seemed to be perched on a kid’s bike, and the other was doing something in the car. The cold morning air was full of incomprehensible radio sounds. I can’t imagine what kind of law you can be breaking, or trying to escape from, on a kiddie bike, but there you have it.

When my sister was briefly here last week, she said that she pretty much expected to see Henry in the house one of these days. I laughed this off, but she pointed out that first he was roaming around in the backyard, then he was under the porch, then he was on the porch. Clearly he was moving closer all the time. And that’s not even mentioning the bed and tent I have acquired for him, and accessorizing the couch on the porch with a fleece blanket. This morning, I attempted to cover him up and was rewarded with a couple of impressive scratches. Ah, gratitude!

I have to admit that the other day I had the back door open and he was peering through the screen door and talking away. I couldn’t help thinking about opening the door and letting him in, though I imagine carnage would ensue and The Beautiful June Bug’s little pink nose would be put severely out of joint. And I don’t see how I could let him out while keeping the girls inside…

My sister may, as usual, be right.

My street in today’s hailstorm

I may have jinxed the weather by posting those sunny pictures, because it’s been cold and rainy ever since. Some of you may think that it’s always warm and sunny here, but that’s the southern part of the state. The northern part can be (and is), as the late, great Frank Sinatra once said “cold and damp”, which is probably why his house was in Palm Springs.

So I’ve been bundled up like a Dickens waif, since the house is drafty and I’m too cheap to turn the heat up. Fingerless gloves are a definite possibility if the overnight lows really do reach the freezing mark (32F/0C) they’re predicting.

Yesterday, I propped the porch door open in case Henry wanted to shelter from the storm. It turns out he did, since he was curled up on the couch* there within minutes. The girls and I could keep an eye on him from my desk, though it makes it a little crowded with two cats, my iBook, and filing system** (precarious piles of things & stuff). Not to mention essential items like the paperweight with a reproduction of Marilyn Monroe’s driver’s license in it.

As the day grew darker and colder, it occurred to me to bring Henry a blanket. I figured I might as well bring some food and water while I was at it, so I did. He took one look at me and fled in horror. Though this is not an uncommon reaction, I would have thought that the months of taking care of him would have given me some extra credit, but apparently not.

Peeking through the window a few minutes later, I saw him snuggled peacefully in the blanket. I hope he was there all night. Every night when I lock the doors, I always think of him out there in the cold and dark, and it’s nice to think he’s closer and warmer.

Update, 1 pm: It’s hailing like crazy out there. I can’t remember this happening here before. I risked life and limb for you, dear readers, to take that picture. I slid around on my wet and icy front porch and peeked around the storm-tossed camellia to get photographic evidence. Just for you! My hair is still full of melting hail!

*When I was camping here a year ago, my boss took pity on me and lent me a futon couch which had been rejected by his youngest daughter. I’m guessing they don’t want it back. It’s nice to have on the porch, though.

**I could really use Miss Lemon’s invaluable services.

Camellias at my front door…

…rose by the garage.

I can’t believe the day is finally here. I feel like a bride who has been planning a huge, elaborate ceremony for more than two years, and now the day has finally come that will change my life forever. It seems slightly unreal.

My wise friend Mike suggested that I write about my voting experience on this historic day. The problem is that I voted by mail weeks ago, so I don’t have a good story about valiantly waiting in line for hours in the rain (probably the best I can do is the anecdote about the Neil Young ticket). I don’t know why everyone doesn’t just mail in their ballots, to tell you the truth. So much easier, and more importantly in Suzy world, less boring and time consuming.

Of course, having nothing to write about has never stopped me before.

I was encouraged by the line to vote at the church at the foot of my street this morning, and the many people at intersections throughout Oakland, urging people to vote no on the hateful Proposition 8, which seeks to outlaw marriage for gay couples, and yes on Proposition 2, which seeks humane conditions (such as being able to actually stand up) for all California farm animals. I can’t believe we need a law for that one. The girl brandishing her Proposition 2 sign outside the gym was accompanied by her aged and patient beagle.

In the days before I figured out that I could mail in my vote, I did stand in line, most memorably to vote for Bill Clinton the first time. It was a bright, sunny day, like today, and I voted at the church around the corner from my apartment on Jackson Street in San Francisco. I still recall the joy in my heart as I cast my ballot, the feeling of being high on hope as I walked the few blocks home, sure of a brighter future for this great country.

Today, I feel hope, too, but also fear in the wake of the last “election” and the intolerance and hatred inherent in some of the propositions that somehow made it on the ballot. But I can’t believe the majority of my fellow Americans can honestly think this country can stand another four years of the mismanagement that has brought us to the sorry place we’re in now.

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.

The good news: Kathleen’s flight was early; she had practically half a plane to herself; she’s making me an unbearably exquisite scarf of delicate red yarn which looks like lace; she was fine with the vise grip shower thing.

The bad news: the landlords did get in touch with their favored plumber, and he set three dates with me before actually showing up, ensuring that I missed dinner with Kathleen on Friday night and drinks afterwards. Not to mention having to cancel various and sundry meetings to accommodate his schedule.

The good news: Plumber Robert was charming when he finally showed up. The kittens loved him, and he has a much more successful Henry situation than I do: he has two brothers and a Henry who he eventually got to live in the house with the existing brothers. I know June would HATE it if Henry moved in, though I think Audrey would remain her unperturbed self.

When Plumber Robert came in, he immediately approved my posters for Vertigo, Rick Nelson, and Warhol’s Triple Elvis. In passing the coffee table, where I have the Vanity Fair with Marilyn on the cover, he picked up my phone and moved it , saying, “You can’t cover her face*. It’s not right.”

The bad news: There may be a leak behind the walls, which Robert is going to report to the landlords.

The good news: Shower is essentially fixed.

Depending on how you look at it: It rained for the first time in say, six months last night. It started around 11:00, when I was in bed, peacefully reading about John Stuart Mill in the New Yorker and wondering what he would have said about the election, when I heard Henry.
The bad news:

I got an umbrella and put on my sneakers and went out to investigate. He was under the porch with his cuddly bed, food and water. I talked to him a little and then went back in. He wouldn’t stop meowing. Went back out and gave him a couple of treats (the girls got some, too, of course). Still meowing. Opened the screen door to the back porch so he could come up and sleep on the little couch there if he wanted to. I called him to see if he’d come up. He kept meowing, but didn’t appear. He meowed for nearly two hours! I felt so terrible. Really hard to sleep last night. He seemed fine this morning.

*Which reminded me, inevitably, of Webster: “Cover her face. Mine eyes dazzle. She died young”.

My wonderful friend Kathleen is, as I write, winging her way to me (well, the Oakland airport, where I will claim her in baggage claim ’round midnight) from Detroit. Little does she know that among the many amenities of Chez Suzy (constantly barking dogs; scavengers peering through the trash – and sometimes the windows; unexpected requests for late-night cash) is a shower without the cold tap. Yes, while attempting to take a post-gym shower, the cold tap came off in my hand.

On closer inspection, it appears that some kind of long, thin, stiletto-like screwdriver is needed to go in through the hole in the handle and screw it back on to the tap shaft. All pieces are, of course, as rusty as my brain, though in their case, it’s decades of use, rather than the lack of it. I have a message in to the landlords, but considering they have yet to respond to the note* I enclosed with last month’s rent check, and it’s time for another one, I’m pretty sure I’m going to have to live with the improvised solution of vise grips currently turning the cold tap on and off for an indefinite length of time.

Of course this happens literally hours before my guest arrives. I really am the hostess with the leastes’.

*I asked if they’d let me paint the roof with heat reflecting paint, and to replace the battered lawn with drought-tolerant ground cover. If they’d buy the materials, I’d do the work. The house would look better and be more comfortable. You’d think this would be a win-win, right?

I found a Blog Doctor to diagnose and treat my blog. I’m following the prescriptions and waiting for the results right along with you. The Doctor is so In that he’s working on it this weekend, even as I type. How’s that for above and beyond the call of duty? If only healthcare for humans was as good as it is for blogs…

Since I have no healthcare insurance, I had to resort to the QuickHealth clinic at the Farmacia Something, conveniently located right near the BART station. You sign in and wait, along with the madd(en)ing crowds. Then you go into a teeny room, chat with a kindly doctor from Mexico about politics and the weather while he takes your blood pressure (possibly affected by the political chat) and other vitals. Then you go and wait some more for the prescriptions, perusing the shelves of mysterious panaceas (what’s Volcano Oil used for?) while babies cry and cheerful mariachi music plays. Fifty dollars later, you’re out of there, and on your way to Wal-Mart to get your prescriptions filled.

If it isn’t Wal-Mart, it seems. But the prescriptions are $4 each, so it’s (hopefully) worth the bad karma and soul erosion to go there.

The waiting motif continued at Wal-Mart, once I located the pharmacy in the hangar-sized store. The pharmacy was technically open, but no-one was there, other than a line of irate would-be customers. Coincidentally, the guy ahead of me was wearing a Geddy’s Pub t-shirt – here on vacation. The girls behind me were from Detroit, also on vacation*, so the time was agreeably filled by chatting about both places. Once the pharmacy opened, it took forever for the ancient, harried-looking clerk to dispense with us.

The whole process, from Farmacia to Pharmacy, took most of the day, and left me feeling quite third world. My final stop was at Safeway, where Ray leaned over the cash and said confidentially of a guy leaving the store, “Don’t that look like a prison walk? I can just see him walkin’ around the yard at San Quentin. Mm-mm.”

*Apparently, vacationing in Oakland is hazardous to your health.

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.

There’s nothing like discovering a home invasion first thing in the morning. You hardly need coffee after a surprise like that.

It was foggy inside (my head) and outside (the house) this particular morning, par for the course of a Northern California summer (insert Mark Twain remark here). But as I reached for my remaining favorite coffee cup*, I noticed that the teeny kitchen counter was teeming with ants.

I had been invaded while I slept!

I removed them with wet paper towels, shuddering and trying not to scream. How can anything so small be so gross? As I tossed the carcasses into the garbage and hastily removed the evidence to the bin outside, it occurred to me that the Oakland hills may in fact be ant hills.

Think about it.

After a gentle reader gently nudged me to update, I added the latest Covet and then noticed how long it had been since I posted anything. Combining Sloth and Envy! Also that I seem to have been taking the “A picture is worth a thousand words” adage literally, since it’s practically become a picture book around here.

Time to catch up on my non-fabulous life.

The Ant Invasion Day also included:

• A broken glass on the kitchen floor, which I noticed by stepping on the wet remains while recoiling from the ants. I now have two glasses besides the Elvis movie ones which I’m afraid to use with the Commando Cats on the prowl. I have been reduced to acrylic glasses which almost immediately got scratched and now have the look of perma-fog. A minor hardship for the aesthetically inclined.
• Going to the hardware store to buy ant traps, I passed a guy with a cute pit bull. I asked if I could pet her, and he agreed, so I petted her and told her boy how beautiful and good-natured she was. “Yeah,” he observed, “if I could, I’d marry her. Least I know she’d be faithful, know what I’m saying?” He smiled, displaying all gold front teeth. He’d be quite the catch, too.
• On my way home, there was someone being arrested at the gas station on the corner. Again. And when I got home, I noticed smoldering remains across the street. Neighbor B, returned from Florida, miracle-free, informed me that someone had left a stolen car there, then come back later to torch it. Just another day in Oakland.
• The Safeway has been remodeled and improved, which means that nothing is where it was and all the customers are wandering around in there like something out of Night of the Living Dead. I finally located the fizzy Calistoga water among the soda (the non-fizzy water is stored several aisles over), and was putting it my cart when Ray the Safeway Guy held up a bottle of blood orange soda and urged me to try it. “It’s a real screamer! Try it once and you’re hooked, just like Pall Malls.”

Who could resist? And it turned out he was right. After I put the bottle in my cart, the Temptations came on, and Ray started doing the Temptations walk down the aisle. He convinced me to join him on his way back, so there we were, dancing down the soda aisle. Ray may have missed his calling.

Just another day in Oakland.

*It’s a reproduction of the classic New York take-out cup with the legend “We are happy to serve you”, only in ceramic. It’s Number One because of the untimely demise of my irreplaceable daisy mug in the kitchen sink. There may be a conspiracy here.

Much less fun (and harder to solve) than a Nancy Drew mystery. Though, like her, I have had a cute blue convertible and noticed that boys never do anything, so if there’s something to be done or a mystery to be solved, you’d better do it yourself. Stylishly.

You know how some people have something wrong with their magnetic field or something (those of you who are scientifically minded can let me know what I’m talking about here) and can’t wear watches? I think I’m like that with coffeemakers.

The curse started, as curses tend to do, long ago, and continues to this day. Those who are cursed (Me) have no warning, and it is sprung upon them in the early, uncaffeinated hours when they are least equipped to deal with it.

I thought the curse would go along with that coffeemaker, as I merrily tossed it into the trash, but no. It was passed onto its successor, a coffeemaker version of Fallen. The second one lulled me into a false sense of security for some time before going suddenly and stubbornly on strike in the French manner. Also ? la fran?aise, it would mysteriously start again, only to stop with no warning later on, sometimes while in the middle of working.

I hauled out my old French press, the one with the plastic ~shudder~ carafe because the cats’ romping keep breaking the glass one, making for some extremely hazardous waste.

I will just say here that I used to use one of these all the time, but my love has turned to hate.

I hate:

• Having to wait for the kettle to boil, then attempt to pour said water onto grounds without spilling or scalding Self (no easy task when you’re Calamity Suzy);
• Having to wait again for the coffee to strengthen sufficiently to jumpstart a cold and Grinch-sized heart;
• How there’s always a certain amount of sludge in the bottom of my coffee cup; and
• Having to scrape* out the grounds, but yet have enough left over to get into everything I wash and leave a sad ring-around-the sink in its wake.

I think I hate that most of all.

So I ordered another coffeemaker, a pretty red one, one that I could just throw in the coffee and water and the coffee would appear like magic. I took it out of its package, admired its cuteness, plugged it in, turned it on, and – nothing. The warming burner was cold to the touch, always a sign of deadosity, whether in people or appliances.

I called the company and they agreed to send me one that works and to have UPS pick up the body, which is waiting on the front porch and dreaming of speeding hearses.

In the meantime, I had to resort to the French press again. Although it worked this morning, the grounds-trapping screen holder was cracked, so when I pushed it down, it exploded all over Self and the kitchen floor and anything else that was in its way.

When I took out the screen part to rinse everything out, the plastic holding the screen onto the stem fell apart in my hands. So it’s yet another Oakland homicide**, though a purely involuntary one.

If the replacement coffeemaker doesn’t arrive today, I face a coffee-less birthday morning tomorrow. What could be more cursed than that?

*Sometimes this procedure gives me heretical thoughts about the bad old days when we were all unenlightened and just threw everything in the garbage. Things were so much easier and less stinky then. It really isn’t easy (or pretty) being green, which is why, you guessed it, I don’t enjoy it.

**Oakland: its not just for homicides anymore! Apparently, we also specialize in carjackings!

I’m pretty sure my $20 has been turned into crack.

It’s been hot’n’heinous lately. In a vain attempt to keep from melting/swooning/dying in my very own living room (if I must make a headline, I don’t want it to be as a cat snack), I had the both the front and back doors open to catch any stray breezes*. Since this is Oakland, I had both doors locked.

One sultry afternoon, I was trying to convince myself that the heat was an anomaly, it’s much worse where people have real weather, etc. when there was a pounding on the front door.

A tall, skinny, older African-American man stood there. Gasping slightly, he told me that he was my neighbor and needed $17.50 for a locksmith. His car keys were locked in his house and he needed to go and pick up his granddaughter. I asked him if he needed some water, but he said no. He offered me his driver’s license, which has an address on my street, and told me I could hold it until he brought the money back.

Caught off guard and slightly unnerved, I gave him $20. He gave me the license and ran down my steps, calling out, “I love you! I love you!”

I looked at the license. It expires in 2012, so it’s current, and the description and photo match the look of the guy. It’s been two or three days now, and I’m still mystified. It costs more than $20 to replace your license. Maybe it’s a scam and he has a bunch of fake ones he uses, or he stole it from someone else. Who knows?

Never a dull moment when you live in Oakland.

*The house appears to be set up for central heating and central air, but the central air doesn’t work. I called the landlord, who said vaguely that she had never used the central air, but if you open the front and back doors, you get “an awesome crossbreeze”. Thanks.

My boss observed recently that “nothing works anymore” (I hasten to add he did not, at least at that point, mean Me), but rather the world in general, and he may be right. The evidence is certainly piling up in the chaos I call my life:

Cable & Internet
You guessed it, more fun and frolics with yet another utility company. In this case, the internet has the work ethic of a particularly lazy and capricious sloth. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t. Sometimes, just to make it interesting, it stops working in the middle of something. This is especially effective when the user has been lulled into a false sense of security by the internet service actually working for a day or days at a time*.

The service itself is bundled into the phone and TV cable, and though my understanding of such esoterica is extremely limited, I will just say that when the cable guys come to “fix” the internet, nothing works for the duration. The phone unexpectedly cut me off during a very important conversation with the fabulous K, which is how I learned this hard way.

Over the past couple of weeks, I have seen more of more cable guys than I have of my friends and family. One visit lasted more than three hours, during which they changed all the cables, climbed around under the house, and had incomprehensible consultations with still other cable guys by radio.

The internet remained unmoved.

On the most recent visit, I was still in my pajamas and just waking up in the living room (see “Bed” below) when the latest guy in the series appeared. They are supposed to call first, but this guy didn’t get the memo, since he just turned up, peering in the door at PJ-clad Self. It was quite embarrassing. Or like the beginning of a porn movie. “Did you call for…service?” “I certainly did!”

Bed
Somewhere between here and there, the salt flats of Utah and the Donner Do Not Pass Go, my bed was mortally wounded. I did not become aware of this important fact until I got into bed, having been fully preoccupied with checking off the list of my earthly possessions as they were unloaded from the giant truck into my tiny house and wondering where I was going to put everything.

So the movers put the bed back together here, as they taken it apart there, and either didn’t notice or didn’t care that the center beam, which supports the whole cheap IKEA thing, was broken. Possibly they thought it would be funny for me to learn this the hardwood floor way after nearly a month of inflatable bed hell.

Either way, I was summarily dumped like a first wife when the trophy wife rears her cellulite-free rear. I propped up the broken beam with bricks, but this was a band-aid on a fatal wound. Since I now had all my all-too-many belongings, I got out the inflatable bed I kept on hand for guests. It features a sort of stand on which the inflatable mattress resides. As I unpacked it, I noticed that the stand

has a disturbingly bier like appearance.

I should have realized this was a sign, because the inflatable bed died a thousand deaths. At least it was already on the bier. All I had to do was give it a proper burial.

The dead IKEA bed, on the other hand, got an improper non-burial. I had to pull it apart with a hammer, and discovered that it was cardboard inside. It’s always upsetting to discover that someone you’ve been sleeping with is not who you thought they were. The remains of the bed remain in my driveway until I can figure out an inexpensive way to get them to the dump.

I went bed shopping, and discovered that they are surprisingly expensive (like children’s clothes, where the amount of fabric is in inverse proportion to the price). I actually ended up buying one from Wal-Mart. While I was waiting for it to arrive, I slept on the pull-out couch in the living room like the early Mary Richards, hence the close encounter with the cable guy (see “Cable and Internet” above). On the bright side, it has yet to collapse, but I still can’t believe I resorted to Wal-Mart.

I have the worst bed karma ever.

Car
The car itself is fine, despite the ticket, but I still haven’t received my license plates. It’s been three months since I bought it, so this may be a record. I finally made an appointment at the DMV, and and when I arrived there and saw the line and its huddled masses quality (I?m sure they were all yearning to be free of the line), I was glad I did. I eventually learned from a girl named Brazil that the dealership didn?t do the required smog check, or, if they did, failed to report it. I checked my bill of sale, which indicates the smog check was done, and, more importantly, that I paid for it. Brazil suggested that I call the dealership, so I did. They said they’d call me back.

They didn’t.

I called the dealership twice more. The last time, I refused to hang up until I got an answer, any answer. Eventually, I was assured that they?d submit the necessary paperwork to the DMV and I?d receive my plates in two weeks. Now, where have I heard that one before? I?m hoping that it just slipped through the cracks at the time I bought the car and that they really will do the paperwork this time. I?d hate to have to go to Fremont and wait for it. I?d rather wait at home, even if I am waiting for Godot.

*Great. Now I have that One Day at a Time theme song in my head. As if the constantly barking dogs next door weren’t enough.