Suzy Says

Snow flurries on the east coast seem to cause work flurries on the west coast, as businessmen flee the snows of New York for the sun of California.

I’ve had something of a blizzard this week, with early morning conference calls to the snowbound (and I do mean early; 5:30 yesterday and 5:00 tomorrow*); a visit to a money manager in a nearby city (where I was surprised to meet and chat with the CEO); and a day of meetings at our San Francisco office. I still find it weird to be clacking around the Financial District in heels, even though I did it for so many years in my former life.

I’m still getting used to the commute time from Oakland. It always takes longer than the schedules state, and I hate being late. On the other hand, I don’t have to feel guilty about driving, or find a parking space, so I guess it’s a trade-off. On my way home today, I took the bus from the BART station and felt like an overdressed freak. Two girls were conducting a loud, profanity-laced conversation about a mutual acquaintance who is a “gift ho”, a new one on me. The driver turned around and said very sternly, “Ladies, no cursing on my bus,” and a hush fell over the bus.

So, what with all the homicides this weekend, and the woman getting arrested across the street with three cop cars in attendance (and having her car towed), it seemed like a good idea to take a break from urban life.

I meant to leave today, but the meetings dragged on, so after my conference call 11 hours from now, I’ll head up to visit my brother and sister in beautiful Mendocino County for a few days. I’m expecting fewer murders and more wine.

*I used to start work at 6:00 am for years, along with the New York Stock Exchange. I haven’t done that for a few years, and now it seems inconceivable to me that I ever did. And that word does mean what I think it means.

June searching for Santa, Christmas Eve.

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

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

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

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

These kittens today.

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

Hope yours was, too.

Sunny Sunday afternoon. I’m lying on the couch reading a frivolous novel, though I should be unpacking. But I’ve adopted a Scarlett O’Hara attitude to the maze of boxes today; I’ll think about them tomorrow.

I’m startled from the peaceful perusal of the pages by a loud knocking on the door. Opening it, I see a huge gentleman in his Sunday best, hat in hand. “Ma’am, that your car?” he asks, gesturing to the driveway. “Yes,” I whisper. He puts something in my hand. “Left your keys in the door. I seen ’em on my way to church.” “Thank you,” I say. “Welcome. Bless you,” he says, and goes on his way, putting his hat back on.

And in the continuing adventures of the car…

I went to the store this morning to get a baguette for breakfast. On my way home, my head full of thoughts of creamy Brie on fresh bread with crisp green apples and hot, black coffee, I got a ticket.

I was thirty feet from my house – I could see it – and I apparently didn’t come to a complete stop at the stop sign in front of the church.

The cop car is still there, mocking me.