Suzy Says

My blog turns 23 today!

Although that sounds youthful (especially to someone in her 60s), in blog world and internet world and the Google, it’s positively ancient. I think technology years are even more extreme than dog years. Maybe it’s more like one blog year equals one decade. So that would make this collection of silly, shallow musings a valuable antique.

Or maybe just obsolete.

When I first started writing my blog, encouraged by my fabulous friend Candi, who said, “You have things to say and you need a place to say them,” I wrote nearly every day. I felt like I was supposed to do that, for some reason. Now, I write maybe once a week.

My life is probably much less interesting to the average reader than it was 20+ years ago, when I lived in San Francisco in a beautiful apartment in beautiful Pacific Heights, worked in the Financial District, drove a 1966 Mustang, and was married to a really nice guy. Now, I live in a teeny town about 150 miles north of San Francisco, in a water tower in the redwoods, drive a 2013 Mazda, and am no longer married, nor will I ever be again if I have anything to say about it.

Though my life may be less interesting to others, I am happy living in the same town as my siblings, beside the sea and in the redwoods. I love the natural beauty around me and the clean air. I love my family, friends and remaining cats. I love how this little community looks out for each other. I would never willingly move.

When I first started this blog, I was such a city girl. I would never have imagined living in the country, or being so happy living in the country. You never know what’s going to happen, and that’s probably a good thing. As time goes on, I have learned to go with the flow and just deal with whatever comes along, always waiting to see what comes next.

You never know what’s going to happen when you go to the Safeway. Maybe it’s because I tend to go before work, when the store is lightly populated, and much like when I worked market hours in San Francisco, the denizens tend to be those heading to early morning jobs or those heading home from late night partying.

Recently, I came into the brightly lit Safeway from the rainy darkness, wearing my coat and the hat I bought long ago at the County Fair, which is my official winter hat. As I looked over the lychees*, a youngish guy walked by and told me, “You look adorable today!” It was a nice way to start the day. And just like when the guy tried to pick me up at the gas station a couple of years ago, I had to wonder if it was the last time that I would get a random compliment from a stranger. So I enjoyed it while I could.

My bank has a branch inside the local Safeway, which is very convenient. One day, I went in to take out some cash, and there was an older woman with a shopping cart standing in front of the ATM, but apparently working on her checkbook. I asked if she was using the ATM, and she said she wasn’t, moving her cart out of the way and saying, “I always feel like I’m in the way.” I got my cash and on my way out, apologized for disturbing her. She looked at me and said, “Every human interaction is a gift.” That made me stop and think. All day, I came back to that thought.

It made me think of Safeway Ray, the store employee who used to dance with me when I shopped there and made existing in Oaktown just a little more tolerable.

*I love lychees. They always remind me of my dear friend A and how we used to eat them walking down the street when we were young, feeling waifish. Also, they are delicious.

FIVE YEARS AGO: Seemingly endless power outages.

TEN YEARS AGO: A welcome visit from an old friend.

FIFTEEN YEARS AGO: Random food-related thoughts.

TWENTY YEARS AGO: The ugly truth about cosmetic surgery.

It’s the last day of March. The month flew by quickly, and spring is making its presence known. Somehow, the bear-attracting apple tree has blossomed without my noticing the bud stage at all:

and the trees in the long curves at Caspar and Little River are misted with leaves of that heart-breaking, almost electric green that they only have when newborn.

When I leave for work in the morning, I give the cats treats to distract them, and before I go out the door, I always take a look back at the house:

It always seems like the most beautiful place when I’m about to venture out into the Wide World. And we all know no good ever comes of doing that.

I’m getting a new computer. My current model is from 2012. The trackpad no longer works, and the black plastic connecting the screen to the rest of it is badly frayed and missing entirely in some places.

I had trackpad problems a couple of years ago, which were expensively resolved. Or resolved-ish, since they have reared their ugly heads again. I brought the ailing laptop to someone else this time, and he said the battery was swollen and had to be replaced, and that the swelling was what made the trackpad refuse to click. He relieved me of $150 for taking the battery out of another laptop and putting it in mine.

When I got home, I discovered that not only did it not click, I couldn’t drag anything. I thought about getting another technician to look at it, but it’s 10 years old and I have already put more than enough money into it. It’s time to get a new to me laptop. And ask if I can give back the battery and get a refund.

I stopped at the post office on my way to work this morning, my usual time for this chore. I came across a young homeless guy in there, and he asked me if I knew what time it was. I didn’t, because I had left my phone in the car*, but I gave him my best guess, based on when I left the house. He said, “Thank you, sweetheart”. He was probably in his 20s, so I found it unusual that he would call me that, though I enjoyed it as much as I always do. He also asked me when the Gro opened, which I could tell him, and as I left the post office, he said cheerfully, “Have a good day, sweetheart!” It was a nice start to the day.

I seem to be encountering homeless guys a fair bit recently. There is one who often sleeps under the tent at work where we do COVID shots and testing. I say hello to him in the morning if he’s awake, and try not to wake him up if he’s not. He works at McDonalds, but still doesn’t have a place to live. I think we both like seeing each other in the morning. I’m hoping he can get back on his feet soon.

*My cute pink iPod died a few weeks ago, so I’m now using Apple Music. Still figuring it out. It has a lot of drawbacks compared to the iPod. I really am not a fan of change, especially in technology.

A YEAR AGO: My brother was off on an adventure

FIVE YEARS AGO: Enjoying the ballet.

TEN YEARS AGO: A surprise gift.

FIFTEEN YEARS AGO: Some coincidences.

TWENTY YEARS AGO: My favorite flowers bring back some happy memories.

This year’s lilacs

Spring has definitely sprung in Hooterville. The air is softer and full of birdsong, and fruit trees are foamy with blossoms and buzzing with busy bees. Lilacs, irises, and California poppies are blooming. I am still wearing a coat to work, buttoned up in the morning and unbuttoned* in the evening, and in the mornings, I have the heat on in the car, while in the evenings, I have the car window open. Seasons here are a little more subtle than in most of the country.

I have found over the past few years that I appreciate spring more and more. At this point, I would rate the seasons from best to worst as: spring, fall, winter, and summer. If I still lived back East, I think fall would come out on top, because of the glorious leaf colors and the delightful, cool respite from the horror of summer, always my least favorite season. I hate the heat. I always have.

When I was a kid, we were lucky enough to escape the muggy and buggy summers in upstate New York by fleeing to Maine the minute the school year dragged to an end. There we enjoyed the cool, foggy summers, much like the summers in the Big Town on the Mendocino Coast. Very often, the Big Town is fogged in all of my working day, while back home in Hooterville, it is sunny and bright. The sunshine comes at a cost, though, making it up to 20 degrees warmer than it is on the foggy coast.

Fortunately, my current abode is insulated and less of an art project than my previous Hooterville home of many years, which was like living in a tent. It was freezing cold in the winter and boiling hot in the summer, especially up in the sleeping loft, where the heat went to party and after party. Despite the quirks of the house, and the beauty of the house I live in now, I still miss the old house. There were a lot of great memories there, and it was such a cool and unusual place.

I do enjoy the winter, with the sound of rain and peeping frogs and the bright breasts of robins, who winter here, and the dramatic spouts of passing whales. It’s nice to read with a cup of tea and a scented candle, cuddled up with the cats. I enjoy the coziness and feeling safe. When I was a child back East, I loved skiing and playing in the snow and the violet shadows of the trees on winter afternoons and the distinctive, white light in the house after a snowfall. I have always loved Christmas, with its sparkliness and joy.

As for summer…well, it’s something to be endured. I used to love the long summers in Maine when I was a kid, that glorious feeling of freedom with three school-free months stretching ahead. I’m glad I enjoyed those days when I had them. And I do still enjoy the changing seasons, no matter how subtle.

*Also the name of my current favorite lip gloss, which I’m wearing right now while eating Lifesavers for breakfast.

A YEAR AGO: Some updates.

FIVE YEARS AGO: Some happy encounters.

TWENTY YEARS AGO: A bad mail day.

Happy Solstice!

We are well and truly into the madness of the spring time change, aka the hard one, when they steal an hour of sleep from you and plunge you back into darkness, just when there’s a glimmer of hope on the horizon in the morning. It makes me indignant every year, especially when facing the seemingly endless barrage of oncoming traffic, most of whom can’t seem to grasp the concept of turning off their high beams to avoid blinding other motorists.

A few years ago, Californians voted overwhelmingly in favor of stopping this senseless ritual. No one knows why it started or why it persists. Even if it’s entirely apocryphal, I love the story that Native Americans say, “Only the white man would cut a strip from the bottom of a blanket and sew it to the top of the blanket and think that makes it longer”, or something like that. But for some reason, the banishment of Daylight Saving Time has stalled somewhere in the lawmaking machinery, and we are stuck with the craziness and feeling jet lagged for days. Thanks, politicians!

The renewal of the morning darkness makes me appreciate even more the moonlight on the ocean, Venus beaming in the east, and the fact that Ledford House has kept an outside tree lit up long past the holiday season, where it can spark a little joy as I drive by on my way to work on a dark spring morning.

Little River Inn has kept its roofline lights aglow, a welcome sight as I crest the hill into Little River. And I look forward to the handful of scattered lights in the Village and the beams of light from the Point Cabrillo light station. Light in the darkness is especially beautiful this time of year.

A YEAR AGO: Jonathan and Rio’s desert adventures.

FIVE YEARS AGO: Remembering Dad.

TEN YEARS AGO: A look around my springtime garden.

FIFTEEN YEARS AGO: Waiting for the cable guy. And waiting. And waiting…

TWENTY YEARS AGO: Brush with fame! A brief encounter with my former neighbor, Nicolas Cage.

This was a year of milestones. Jessica turned 18; Jarrett turned 40; my blog turned 20; Megan turned 50; she and Rob celebrated their 30th wedding anniversary, and we mourned the 20th anniversary of our father’s death.

We also mourned the devastating loss of Megan and Rob’s beloved dog, Star. We knew she was sick, but the end was sudden. She has left a huge hole in their household, and we still miss her. But a new dog, Millie, brought joy to our lives in late summer, especially to Stella, who was missing Star much more than we expected. Stella and Millie love playing together, and it’s heart-warming to see how happy they are together.

I read 110 books this year, an improvement over last year’s paltry 86 (assuming my record-keeping was accurate that year), but falling short of the record high of 118 in 2010. I seem to have developed a love for Canadian graphic novels. I devoured all of “Clyde Fans” and every Michel Rabagliati book I could get my hands on.

This was also a year of successful culinary experimentation, in which I learned how to make my own Canelés de Bordeaux, Chinese BBQ pork, lemon chicken, har gao (shrimp dumplings), and pork and chive crystal dumplings.

Here’s all the news I saw fit to print this year:

January: The New Year begins. Come along on my commute. It’s a pretty one. I stepped down from my high office (or possibly my high horse) as the library board Chair, though I remain on the Board. High office is not for the likes of me. Also, it was completely perk-free, as far as I could see. I might be persuaded to try it again if a tiara and a limo were involved. Getting to work was an adventure. Swooning over Frank from afar, and remembering the inimitable Buddy, my first cat love. Frank is still doing well and is his fighty and adorable self. A magical encounter on my way to work. A friend told me that she thinks it was Dad checking in with me. I hope she’s right. And I hope he’s wrong and I see him again one day.

February: John’s rescued kittens. My proudest achievement. Thinking about love. Such an unusual thing to do around Valentine’s Day! A fun trip to the South Coast. I always love it there.

March: The heart-breaking news of our beloved Star’s terminal illness. Jonathan and Rio were off having adventures. When I heard how long they were going to be gone, I knew they would not be here to say goodbye to Star. Unfortunately, I was correct in this. Despite knowing she was ill, her death was sudden, merciful for our darling Star, but hard for those she left behind, including Stella. I still miss our beautiful Star. Megan’s place is not the same without her. I had not realized that she was the heart of their household until she was gone. Dad’s 90th birthday came on the heels of Star’s death.

April: Kitty updates. Getting my hair done and getting an Easter basket cheered me up. My blog turned 20! Can you believe it? And Jessica turned 18! Can you believe that, too? Remembering a wonderful visit with my beloved friend A at her home in Amsterdam in 1994. This month’s theme seems to be the swift passage of time and what we lose along the way.

May: Things were a little too exciting for Dodge. But it didn’t stop him from enjoying his 5th birthday. Making Tourtière from a friend’s family recipe. The joys of a beautiful spring. Megan turned 50, a reason to celebrate! A lot of milestones this year.

June: Enjoying some time off. An excellent birthday, including getting my hair cut and colored and a little trip to the beautiful South Coast. I looked around the small, but scenic, cemetery while I was in Anchor Bay. Summer crowds were out in force in the Village. An expensive flat tire. A lovely, but hot, trip to the beautiful Valley.

July: Orange is the new pink at my house. I love my house. The always amazing Flynn Creek Circus. Another milestone on this milestone-studded year: Megan and Rob’s 30th anniversary! A visit to the Valley, where you can taste cider under the very trees the cider apples grew on. A trip to Bodega Bay, to scope out locations from “The Birds” and remember family Christmases there with Dad. A glamorous stay at the Flamingo in Santa Rosa. The joy of a concert at the Music Festival.

August: My first attempt at making Canelés de Bordeaux was surprisingly successful. I fell i love with a giant ceramic apple (yes, you read that right!) and bought it for the garden. I love it. Some extreme (and extreemly delicious) take-out. Conventional wisdom seems to be wrong when it comes to my unconventional cats. A new deck and a new dog at Megan and Rob’s place! Remembering our much-loved father 20 years after his sudden and untimely death. I will never stop loving and missing him. Ever. Getting contact lenses again. Checking out some beautiful artwork around town.

September: Another successful cooking experiment: Chinese BBQ pork. Meet Millie, Megan and Rob’s new dog! She and Stella are so happy together! I seem to have been out of control with the make your own delicacies. This time: dim sum! A really fun family dinner in the garden. A horrifying (and horrifying expensive) root canal. Just one little thing can make a big difference in a room.

October: I admit it. I’m a scented candle addict. Rainy day baking. Some mid-week sparkles with a friend, and end of week Eggs Benedict at the amazing Queenie’s. Some small-town crimes, a little too close to home for comfort. And in the miscellaneous department…

November: John stepped up his rescue activities with caring for a batch of abandoned, newborn kittens. He had to get up every two hours to feed them for weeks. I am pleased to say they all made it and were safely given to a local rescue for adoption. Yay, John! He’s my hero. Redbeard was finally caught! And Suzy’s Dim Sum Palace was open for business. Yet another crown for my collection, and not the fun, sparkly kind, either. A drink with a side of view. A quietly thankful Thanksgiving.

December: A quiet, but delicious Thanksgiving dinner. The incredible sparkly beauty of the Festival of Lights. In which I learn to make my own lemon chicken while the Chinese restaurant is closed, and enjoy a drink or two with my sister at our local bar. Finally tackling the Closet of Doom. Putting up the Christmas tree. An unnerving earthquake on Solstice Eve. A pretty Christmas Eve and a quiet Christmas Day. Having fun watching Emily in Paris with my sister.

I have no idea what next year will bring, but as this year ends, I am grateful for my family, my friends, my cats, my health, my lovely house, my meaningful work, the beautiful place I live, and the small, special moments in life that are there every day.

A YEAR AGO: A look back at 2020.

FIVE YEARS AGO: Reviewing 2016.

TEN YEARS AGO: What happened in 2011.

FIFTEEN YEARS AGO: The year of the dog.

TWENTY YEARS AGO: The last day of the last year of my father’s life.

This is my current favorite coffee cup. Isn’t it adorable? It’s less than three inches tall, and is even older than I am, and you know how I love that. Also, it’s exotic, made in Sweden. Like Ann-Margret and Pippi Longstocking.

Don’t tell the Swedish lovely, but my favorite coffee cups tend to die young and beautiful. I still miss my daisy mug from Stonehouse Pottery.

Although I am pretty much non compos mentis until I have my first few sips of coffee, lately I’ve noticed that I can’t drink much more than a thimbleful and a dash. If I do, I feel all nervous in my body but sleepy in my head, which is a truly unenjoyable sensation. I wonder if this is one of the many joys of getting older.

This summer marks the 30th anniversary of my coffee addiction. You remember Olivier and Thierry? Well, the year after I successfully brat-bashed them in Maine, their beleaguered parents paid my way to the Riviera for a repeat performance as a sort of reverse au pair (I believe that in the au pair business, it’s usually Americans importing girls from other countries instead of Americans being imported, but it was just fine with me).

I had a sitting room and bedroom in a tower in their lovely house overlooking Nice. I would have had the loan of their little white MG convertible if I’d been able to drive then, but perhaps it’s just as well. I got into enough trouble on public transit.

Every morning, the kids would jump into my bed (which had three little wooden steps to get into it and was my first encounter with a featherbed), yelling “Time to get ready! Yes, please!” We’d head down to the kitchen, where the coffee would be ready and seem like a complete necessity. I always drank it black and still do. Nothing gets between me and my caffeine.

So that’s how I started drinking coffee. And even though I can only drink it in moderation, I can’t get thinking or moving without it, so I have to admit that I am in fact an addict. I can’t imagine getting dressed and groomed and going somewhere else before having my daily dose. I’ll never understand those outside coffee drinkers.

True confessions: I slept in*, and wore my pajamas all day. With a sweater, because it’s been cool and foggy all day – the perfect weather for curling up on the couch, eating cherries from the farmer’s market, and catching up on “Gossip Girl”. I love having a lazy day, and like Christopher Robin, what I like doing best is Nothing. And I’m oh so good at it!

Though I might get dressed and go to the corner store for a bottle of wine to go with my turkey burger tonight. Will laziness or wine win?

If you guessed wine, you win**! I pretty much give all the deadly sins equal time and attention. I’m back from the store with a bottle of Geyser Peak sauvignon blanc and some free incense. The liquor store clerk gave it to me for good luck – I guess even he could tell I needed it.

In case you’ve been wondering about the Bonnie and Clyde movie, it was beautifully filmed (it deservedly won an Oscar for best cinematography), much of it at the real-life locations. The reality ends there – I can see why the remaining Parker and Barrow families were upset by the film’s portrayal of Clyde as an impotent wiseacre and Bonnie as a sex-starved thrill killer. But it’s very stylish and the stars, Warren Beatty and Faye Dunaway, were at the height of their beauty. And in 1967, the adventures of youth rebelling against authority and living for the moment must have been timely and appealing. It’s definitely entertainment rather than a historical re-enactment.

Fun fact: Warner Brothers didn’t think the movie would be very successful, so they offered first-time producer Beatty 40% of the profits. The film made more than $50 million.

*One of the few smart things I ever did was to never feed the cats first thing after I got up. Since they know they won’t get fed right away, they don’t try to wake me up. Of course they mill around under my feet and explain how hungry they are and how mean I am once I’m out of bed, but that’s a small price to pay for sleeping in.

**You win a trip to visit me – all expenses paid by you!

It’s probably Psych 101, but maybe because I had such a conflicted relationship with my mother, I’ve always sought out older women in my life. Since my mother is no longer with us, I thought I might pay tribute to some of the other “mothers” in my life.

First up is the one and only Genevieve. She had the cool elegance and beauty of Grace Kelly, despite her humble beginnings. She was one of thirteen children, and never went to high school. She married and was widowed young, and when I met her, she was somewhere in her 60s. She managed the beauty salon where I worked during college, and carefully planned my work schedule around my school schedule without my asking. If it weren’t for her, I would never have gotten my degree, and my life would have been very different. It was as if, not having an education of her own, she was determined to make sure I did. We stayed in close touch, and I though I was devastated by her death, I am so glad I had her in my life. She was a gift.

Next is my beautiful stepmother, Margaret. Always on the go, always perfectly groomed and dressed, but always had time for me. She was the love of my father’s life. They were incredibly happy together, and she was as calm waiting for a broken-down bus to be repaired in the African desert as she was shopping at Harrods. She built up what we laughingly referred to as “the empire”, buying up houses in London after the war, renovating them, and selling them at a profit. She was flipping houses long before it became fashionable. She learned to drive when she was forty, bought a car and then told her husband* about it, when it was too late for him to object. She always made me laugh. She, too, is gone, but will never be forgotten.

Now, there’s the appropriately named Joy, who really is one. We met each other through my very talented friend Mike, who is her son-in-law, and over time, I have come to rely on her unflagging friendship, cheerfulness, and good advice. I’m always delighted to hear her voice on the phone, with its charming accent, and when she’s away, I miss our near-daily e-mail exchanges and on-line Scrabble games. She’s made me a better Scrabble player, and a happier person, knowing that I have a little Joy in my life.

In fact, we recently exchanged views about Mother’s Day, and I said that although it may be commercial, it’s nice to thank the person who gave one life and gave up so much along the way. Being a parent is sacrifice and hard work and should be appreciated. It’s good to stop and tell someone how much they mean to you, even if takes a made-up holiday to do it.

*I hasten to add that this was her first husband, who died many years before Dad met Margaret.

During one of my many recent trips to Petaluma, I noticed that part of the dreaded 580 is officially named the John T. Knox (whoever he is/was) freeway. This is not the kind of immortality I’d like.

Dad and I used to talk about everything, and one thing we talked about was having things named for one posthumously. Dad thought it would be nice to have a public garden or park named in his honor – anyone could enjoy it, and there would be the whole cycle of life and renewal thing. He was a devoted and talented gardener, like his mother and his youngest daughter, and in the midst of our preparations for his memorial service, the autumn plants he had ordered arrived, at once comforting and sad and hopeful.

As I drove for the nth time to Petaluma, to see a house I probably won’t get, it occurred to me that my perfect immortality would be a handbag.

I’d like to be the Kelly or Birkin of my time.

The Kelly was named for the iconic beauty, actress and real-life princess Grace Kelly, of course, and legend has it that she carried the roomy Hermès bag to conceal her pregnancy from the paparazzi. I don’t know if that’s true, but I do know that more than half a century later, it’s still so highly coveted that there’s a lengthy waiting list, and they start at $5,000.

The Birkin was named for Jane Birkin, sultry actress/singer and muse to Serge Gainsbourg. Versions vary as to how the lovely Jane got involved in the creation of her eponymous bag about 25 years ago, but it’s the most desirable of all the Hermès bags, and supposedly has a waiting list of two years. When Logan gave Rory a hot pink Birkin bag on Gilmore Girls, I was shocked that she didn’t know what it was, and wanted to grab it from her unappreciative hands immediately. Fortunately, she later understood the significance of the gift. I hope she kept it after they broke up.

I know I would.

Besides the practicality – you can use your namesake bag as often as you’d like – you’ll have something beautiful to live on after you’re gone, but not forgotten.

Apparently, those of you in Canada and/or the UK have a four day weekend to celebrate Easter (and hopefully, by now, the arrival of spring). Here in the US of A, we rarely, if ever, get a four day weekend, and we don’t get any long weekends from New Year’s Day to Memorial Day, in late May. No wonder people keep going nuts in public in this country.

Oh, well. Easter, like most things, isn’t as much fun when you grow up. Knowing that I’m not going to wake up to a basket full of candy (or a new bonnet, for that matter) on Sunday morning will just make it easier to sleep in, cats permitting.

In retrospect, it kind of amazes me that we could eat candy at 7:00 on any morning, especially when Marshmallow Peeps are involved. Now just looking at displays of them make me shudder and avert my eyes, teeth aching.

When I got home from work today, I discovered that the recycling hadn’t been collected, though the green bin and the garbage bin had been emptied. Clearly the recycling guys have a better deal and possibly even a four day weekend.

The mailman didn’t have the day off, either, since he had left me a surprise package. On investigation, it turned out to be from my former neighbor, who has my kittens’ mother and who often surprises me with little cutenesses. This package had flowers and drawings on it, and inside, there were fabulous things from MAC, including the sold-out Hello Kitty* lipglass in Mimmy.

It was a grown-up Easter basket.

*Yes, I did love Katy Perry’s Hello Kitty top, though not the leggings.

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.

While I was making egg salad today, it occurred to me that it was basically eggs with egg sauce. Also that it may be the only food which is ever served with, as it were, a sauce of itself. Not just egg salad (eggs being an important part of mayonnaise), but Hollandaise*, too, the most delightful part of any Eggs Benedict or Florentine. If you are a fan of Hollandaise and find yourself in the picturesque town of Fort Bragg, California, go to Egghead’s. Theirs is magically delicious. I love their freshly-squeezed grapefruit juice, too.

I make excellent egg salad, by the way. I’d tell you how, but I never measure anything when I make it. So you’ll just have to take my word for it.

As I sliced and diced, I pondered other culinary conundrums, such as why you always have to buy huge bunches of herbs, like a bridezilla’s bouquet. Wouldn’t it be great if you could buy just what you needed? I can almost never use them up and I always feel guilty, though at least I can put them in the green bin and know they’ll be composted. Maybe other herbs will grow in the leftover herb compost, completing the circle of life.

Another mystery is why the hothouse or English cucumbers always come in shrink wrap, whereas regular cucumbers don’t. Why do the English ones need condoms? I mean, they have their own skin, which should be protection enough. Shouldn’t it?

When you order a dish in a restaurant that has shrimp in it – say, for example, seafood fettucine – why does it always have the tail on? It’s an uncomfortable reminder that the shrimp in question was once swimming happily around, minding its own business, until someone yanked it out of the water and killed it so you could eat it. That makes me feel even guiltier than the composted herbs.

Apart from cruelty to small crustaceans, there is the problem of actually eating the shrimp. You can either pick it up and de-tail it, thereby getting sauce on your manicure, or you can cut it off with a knife, possibly missing out on some shrimpy goodness. It’s a problem, I tell you. At least for those with shrimpy minds.

And if you’ve been wondering what kind of wine to serve with your Cool Ranch Doritos or Krispy Kreme donut – and who hasn’t, really – here’s your answer. Enjoy in immoderation!

*Does “aise” secretly mean “egg-based” in French? Enquiring minds and unreformed linguistics majors want to know.

An email from a friend yesterday bemoaned the horrors of looking for a bathing suit for an upcoming trip to the sunny Caribbean. Is there a girl alive who hasn’t suffered the indignities of bad lighting and mirrors that magnify every flaw? Bathing suit shopping in its current form should be forbidden under the Geneva Convention.

If I ran a bathing suit store, here’s how it would work:

1. Change all the sizes. If the bathing suit is really a size 12, for example, label it a 10. The shopper will try on her usual size, find it, to her delight, to be too big, and will be flooded with confidence, which is the ideal mindset for bikini shopping.
2. The entrance to the store will have a silver tray full of individually wrapped (these could be multi-colored, and/or have the store’s logo on them) valium, together with one of those crystal jugs of water with cucumber and mint you get in spas to wash them down with. So calming! So relaxing! The vitamin V will take effect while the shopper browses the store and selects items to try on.
3. At the entrance to the fitting rooms, there will be a little bar (maybe mirrored, or all glass) with an incredibly cute barman or two. Shoppers can then be armed with the cocktail of her choice before starting the trying trying on process. It’s like having the champagne before your plane takes off, when you really need it!
4. The fitting rooms will be lit entirely by candlelight, which we all know is the most flattering light. There will be a little table for your drink, and a cushy velvet sofa, and soothing music in case your nerves aren’t quite calm enough (though they certainly should be). There will be a call button to summon the staff to take away the size 12 and bring you the faux size 10, and a satin robe to put on while you wait for the smaller items to be delivered. Also fashion and gossip magazines to leaf through idly as you sip your drink and ponder your mysterious, yet welcome, weight loss.
5. The mirrors will be the most flattering possible. Maybe even a specially-designed funhouse one that makes you look thinner than you really are.
6. There will be a car service, with a handsome chauffeur, to whisk you home with your purchases. A DUI would really kill your bikini buzz.
7. It would be called Suit Yourself!

You all know I can find the cloud in every silver lining, so you probably won’t be surprised to learn that my emotions on the recent election are far from unmixed. Although I’m thrilled that Mr. Obama was elected (and to be a witness to history in the making), I’m equally disappointed that nearly half of my fellow Americans voted for John McCain. As Iggy Pop would say, what the hell? What the heck?

I’m also appalled that Proposition 8 passed. I am so disgusted with my fellow Californians for passing a law of intolerance and hatred. Shouldn’t the new Obama day usher in an era of tolerance and unity?

Of the kaleidoscope of strange dreams swirling through my pretty little head last night, this is the only one I remember:

A janitor is standing in front of me, leaning on his mop (also my preferred posture for mopping the floor), and says, “God really doesn’t like you.” He pauses for me to absorb this hot celestial flash, and then adds, “I’m not too crazy about you, either.”

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

Signs, signs,

everywhere signs…

Do this…

Don’t do that…

Can’t you read the signs?

That’s what they should call it, instead of the dog days. I don’t know who started the trend of checking out in August, but it’s certainly popular:

5: Marilyn Monroe

6: The odd couple of Rick James and Harry Reasoner

7: Peter Jennings

8: Fay Wray

9: Sharon Tate & baby & unfortunate houseguests, Gregory Hines, Jerry Garcia

10: My mother

13: Julia Child

14: William Randolph Hearst

16: Two American icons: Elvis Presley and Babe Ruth

18: My father

25: Aaliyah

26. Lon Chaney

27: Stevie Ray Vaughan, Gracie Allen, Confucius (also born August 27)

28: John Huston

29: Ingrid Bergman

30: Two Charleses, Coburn and Bronson. Also, Cleopatra.

31: Diana, Princess of Wales

So I’m not a big fan of August. It’s a bit much when both your parents die in the same month. I hope I buck the trend and die another month, and I’m going to try not to write another funereal line for the next 30 days. Can she do it?!

Man. No sooner are the interminable Olympics over than the Republican convention starts. It’s like a tag team of tediousness!