Suzy Says

And a better one it was. It was also a beautiful one:

I love palm trees. They always make me happy.

I headed to Santa Monica, via the quite alarming freeway. You know it’s a bad sign when there are traffic lights on the on ramps. Once on the freeway, you are either a four to six lane parking lot or racing along with people merrily cutting across multiple lanes without signaling on both sides of your car. It didn’t take long to notice the Angeleno driving style is do what you want, and do it fast. Also there is no need to wave thank you, use your signals, or bother with those ridiculous traffic regulations. No left turn? No problem! Do it anyway!

I was glad to leave the freeway free for all and park my new girlfriend at the beach. It’s hard to believe that this calm blue body of water is the same as the wild, rocky sea back home in Hooterville:

The famous Pier is the westernmost end of the famous Route 66, completed in 1926:

It’s a charming place, with an old-fashioned holiday feel to it. I drank some icy lemonade in the warm sunshine and watched the surfers. Santa Monica was a favorite haunt of the Beach Boys’ Dennis Wilson, the only Beach Boy who surfed. Beautiful, sexy, wild Dennis lived a brief life that was all those things. He packed more into his 39 years on this planet than most of us do in 80. I stopped at his favorite watering hole, Chez Jay, which Dennis would have found mostly unchanged:

and what used to be Brother Studios, which Dennis and his brother Carl set up in the 1970s and is now apparently condos near the fancy shopping district.

The drive back to the motel was in keeping with the motif set up at the car rental agency. It was a mere 13 miles to the motel, but it took me over two hours to get there. I thought that just taking Santa Monica Boulevard back would be better than the freeways, but it was just as bad. I wonder how the millions of people who live here deal with the traffic day in and day out. No matter how rich you are and how nice your car is, you’re still trapped in the gridlock with the rest of us.

Welcome to Los Angeles

Well, that was not fun.

I blithely assumed that it would be fast and easy to fly to LA from Santa Rosa. Only a two hour drive to the airport instead of a four hour one! A terminal the size of my house with parking that’s a mere $9 a day (instead of $18 at SFO)! All these halves should equal twice as good, in Suzy math.

The plane was the size of my car and my teensy seat was located right beside the wing/engine for maximum alarming noise capacity. The plane noises, however, were nothing compared to the kids cluttering up the plane. It was like a school bus with wings. Don’t kids ever go to school*?

Little did I know that the scrunched, noisy, and bumpy flight would be the fun part of the day.

Once decanted at LAX, I found the area where the shuttle buses to the rental car places theoretically stopped to pick up would-be renters. About four of them swept by, packed to the gills. This should have given me a hint of the horrors to come, but it didn’t.

Finally a shuttle deigned to stop for me, and after shoehorning me in there, the driver said, “No mas” and went on his merry way. I admired the bougainvillea and birds of paradise growing by the side of the road as I clung to the overhead bar. Arriving at the rental car place, I was greeted by the sight of a line of epic proportions. The last time I had seen anything like this was in post-glasnost Russia 20 years ago, where they were waiting to buy cigarettes.

It took an hour and a half to get to the head of the line. I wordlessly handed over my confirmation, driver’s license, and credit card. As per usual, it took me about a minute to conclude my business, much like waiting in airports back in the day when you had to check in with actual people.

The car itself is really nice, a brand-new Ford Fusion. Don’t tell Miss Scarlett that I’m cheating on her with a younger model. It’s what you do in LA.

The long wait had not improved the traffic or my mood. I also hadn’t eaten all day. I spotted a Whole Foods, like a beacon of hope in the darkening sky. I pulled in and picked up a picnic dinner (rosemary roasted chicken breast, golden beet salad, and potato salad for $8), and more importantly, a sky blue bottle of Skyy vodka and some blueberry lemonade.

Back in the car, I sadly watched the arrival time on the GPS tick upwards, from 7:15 pm to 7:39. It was nearly 8:00 by the time I reached the motel. I had left the house at 10 am for a 1:45 flight arriving at 3:15. According to my friends at Google Maps, I could have driven here faster, in a mere 8 hours instead of 10.

Good to know.

I walked into my assigned room and was greeted by incessant barking of a Baskervillian type. I couldn’t tell where it was coming from, but I wasn’t going to find out. I returned to the front desk and the unapologetic and unconcerned clerk assigned me to a different, bark-free room.

At last! I made a drink and put on the baseball game. As I ate my picnic, the Tigers lost to the Red Sox, thus putting the perfect capper to the perfect day.

Tomorrow – or today – is, as Miss Scarlett’s namesake observed, another day, and it has to be a better one. Right?

*I posed this semi-rhetorical question to Megan via text, and she responded, “No. That’s why they can’t spell pneumonia.” The hospital just hired someone to work in the ER who spelled it “numonia”.

Travel has certainly ramped up during the last quarter of the year (can you tell I’m swamped with quarter-end tasks?). First there was the sudden, yet long (the driving part) trip to Reno, then a flying visit to San Francisco. Tomorrow I head to Los Angeles for a few days, and about a week after I get back, I’ll be off to Atlanta.

The Atlanta visit is mandated by our friends at the SEC – yet another gift from Bernie Madoff. I will drive four hours, then fly for five (overnight) to have a two hour meeting the following day. Unlike my boss/partner, I am not tough (or crazy) enough to turn around and head back to the airport the same day, like I did on that hell trip to Detroit last year, so I’ll stay overnight and fly to San Francisco the next day. Having an equal enthusiasm for the four hour drive following the five hour flight, I’ll probably stay in the city overnight and then head back to Hooterville.

Somehow I have to fit in both jobs and working on the smartphone app during all this transit. Wish me luck!

Heavenly Hooterville

Once again, I managed to leave a hotbed of gambling without actually gambling. Even though I had $15 in slot machine credit as part of the gift certificate package.

The casino part of the sprawling hotel complex was super depressing to me. It was dark, smoky, and the ceilings seemed really low, even though I am not known for my tallness. It was populated by a lot of older folks, many equipped with walkers and even oxygen tanks (!), sitting in front of slot machines like zombies. I know casinos are supposedly orchestrated to make you want to stay there, but it made me want to flee.

Outside, it was very hot and other than the historic district, it seemed to be a maze of well-maintained highways without much traffic, and lots of malls, ditto. The setting is lovely, surrounded by mountains and desert, but the city itself is definitely not. It doesn’t even have the kitschy glamor of its big sister, Las Vegas. There’s probably a good reason that I went more than 25 years between visits.

It did make me appreciate Hooterville more, though. After three days in the air conditioning, I just wanted to open a window and breathe fresh air. I was so happy to sleep with the balcony door open (and the screen door closed) on my first night back. Not to mention rolling down the car window when I reached the redwoods on 128 and the first glimpse of the ocean.

There’s no place like home.

Good morning, Reno!

This morning, I trekked down to the lobby to get a coffee which turned out to be maybe 50% better than the alarming in room coffee. Maybe it’s something in the water. I miss my French press.

I returned to the room with the coffee and an almond croissant (Why not? I’m on vacation! Sort of) and opened the gold curtains to unveil the sight you see above. How’s that for a good start to the day?

Yesterday, I took a cab to the meetings, which went well. The guys I met with were really nice and have some great ideas about how they can help to make our workflow more efficient. They also had a professional lead for me and the names of good Thai restaurants in the area. They did not seem to notice the disgraceful condition of my nails, and drove me back to the hotel as well. On the way, they told me that Reno is at 5,000 feet above sea level, about the same as Denver, and has 300 sunny days a year. They also get about two weeks of snow a year. The rest of the winter, it stays on the mountains for skiing.

Back at the hotel, I called the spa to see about repairing the manicure situation. They had an appointment that afternoon. I reported to the spa, which was lovely and luxurious, and ended up hanging out there all afternoon, before and after the much-needed nail beautification (they are now a lovely, luminous shade called Vexatious Violet and have stopped frightening children and small animals).

The spa is on several floors. The first has the reception area and separate men’s and women’s areas. You are equipped with an incredible plush robe and slippers, and there are lockers (with welcome dark chocolate) and showers, replete with shampoo, conditioner, and just about anything else you can think of. The water cascades from the ceiling and the walls. There are lounge chairs, a jacuzzi, steam room, sauna, and cold plunge. Also glossy magazines to flip through idly, and internet access so you can email your sister while lying on your lounge chair.

The next floor has the treatment rooms, and the top floor has a fountain pool heated to about 90 degrees, hot and cold jacuzzis:

and a wonderful area called The Secret Garden, with tropical plants and reclining massage chairs equipped with iPods and noise canceling headphones. There are juices, water infused with citrus, coffee, and Tea Forte to drink, along with fruit, snacks, and iced cucumber slices for your eyes. The staff told me that you can also order room service to be delivered here, though they warned that it will take half an hour to arrive. When it does, it comes on a silver tray carried by a uniformed waiter. Of course.

This room leads out to a sun deck:

where you can lounge in the sun or the shade, and look down on the people in the pool:

You know how I love looking down on the little people. 🙂

After you shower in luxury, you can blow dry your hair in comfort in this little room:

They will bring you brushes, curling irons, even make-up. Primp away!

It was an incredible experience. I just wished that Megan was there to share it with me.

Reno Sunset

Wow, this bad in room coffee is even worse than usual. It has a strange, chemical edge that is slightly alarming. Not that I’ll stop drinking it, since the alternative is to (gasp!) get dressed and find my way through the vast, smoky casino to find a coffee place.

Yes, I’m coming to you from Reno, which is pretty much the antithesis of Hooterville.

It was an epic drive. I took Highway 20 the whole way, which is mostly a two lane road. Left the house about 10:15 and got here just before 5:30. I stopped off for lunch in Colusa, where Megan and I rescued Star three years ago, and gassed up Miss Scarlett once, and, OK, yes, I got slightly lost once, but still. Come on! I’m hoping there is a speedier route home, while simultaneously pushing the thought of the drive home from my mind with the big janitorial broom I keep for the purpose.

It is amazing how long you can drive and still be in California. I didn’t reach Nevada until the last 15 minutes of the drive, though I unaccountably passed signs saying Nevada County no fewer than three times, all on the same road. Passed the Donner Pass and thought about the doomed Donner Party and that amazing book* I read about it a few years ago, and also how my furniture got stuck there when I moved to Oakland. There were lots and lots of signs about tire chains (required in the snowy winter), and it was a little surreal to see ski lifts idle on the “golden” hills.

Got a glimpse of blue Lake Tahoe before coming into Reno and passing under the iconic arch. I haven’t been here since the 1980s, when I saw Frank Sinatra at Harrah’s, and had forgotten the arch has a sparkly thing on top, like its own tiara. I’m all for the sparkle.

Arriving (finally!) at the hotel, it was impossible to figure out where the hotel entrance was, though it was, oddly, very clear where the casino entrance was. I went in and asked where registration was, and was met by a wall of smoke. I asked if people smoked everywhere and the employee said, “Not in the lobby and the restaurants.” So, like, everywhere.

I checked in and decanted my bags in my smoke-free, Liberace style room. Even the TV has a gilt frame and there are mirrors everywhere. I went to the spa to try and get my peeling manicure replaced, but they were out of appointments and there’s no time to get it done this morning, since the spa opens at 9:00 and I have to be at my meeting at 10:00. Hopefully they will not notice the state of my nails, since they are guys.

On the bright side, they emailed me this morning to say that they are very casual at the office and wear shorts, so that takes about an hour off of getting ready time, and I can leave the dress up clothes in the suitcase. Once the meeting is over, it’s time for fun!

*It’s called “The Indifferent Stars Above” and is a fascinating read.

The other day, I came home to find an unexpected express mail envelope.

Sadly, there was no glamorous starlet to open the envelope and announce the contents – life is full of these small disappointments – but the contents were glamorous. A friend had sent me a gift certificate for two nights at a posh hotel, along with a day pass to the spa, $100 resort credit to spend on dinner or in the gift shop, and other delightful et ceteras.

The only catches were: the hotel is in Reno, a 6 hour drive from Hooterville, and the gift certificate had to be used by September 14.

I called to see if they had any availability at such short notice (and at the Labor Day holiday*), and they did, so I’m heading out of here on Tuesday (my brother’s birthday**) and coming back on Friday. I hope I can see something of Reno through all the smoke of the Rim Fire, which is still merrily blazing away. Oh, and it’s supposed to be about 95 degrees during the day while I’m there.

At first, I was all like “Finally, I’m going somewhere that has nothing to do with work! For the first time in about 10 years!” In fact, the last time I went anywhere not for work or with a work component of some kind might have been when I went to England to sort out my late father’s things, which no-one would consider to be a vacation.

Then I had a call with some folks based in Reno about a software product we may be interested in, so I’m stopping by their offices. I’ll have to take dress up clothes and pretend to be a grown up for part of my Nevada adventure.

I had about two hours after getting off the phone with the resort to enjoy my vacation glow before having a subpoena delivered to my door. What is it with me and summertime subpoenas? This is getting to be a bad habit.

This subpoena arises out of the fact that I tried to help out a neighbor who was involved in a domestic situation. I didn’t see or hear anything personally, but I still have to go to court. At least it’s just in the Big Town and doesn’t involve cross-country travel or the US Attorney’s office. I guess I was enjoying that vacation anticipation just a little too much.

*Needless to say, my sibs and I are working on Labor Day. That must be why they call it Labor Day.

**We are celebrating his birthday with a BBQ tonight.

The trip to the city – well, the preparations for the trip – were not exactly snagless.

I went to check the car fluids, and on propping the hood open on a stick in the usual way, discovered that the oil cap was missing. A look around Miss Scarlett’s interior revealed nothing. Since I only ever check the oil and fluids in the driveway, I must have dropped it there at some point. Maybe it blew away or the kitties played with it into oblivion in the way cats do. Who knows?

I called my brother, who was getting ready for work, and he told me to come over. He took the oil cap off his non-operational (for now) car and tried it on mine, and voila! It fitted. While I’m in the city I will get a replacement part. I hope.

Rescued by the rescuer, I went home and washed the dishes. In the process, I managed to drop and break the last of the hand-made Mexican glasses I bought many years ago from the artist who made it. Brooming and vacuuming ensued, and some grumpiness, too. I began to feel that this trip was not meant to be.

Arriving at the motel, I leaned over to pick up something from the back seat of the car and the contents of my bag spilled to the garage floor. I could find everything but my phone, a cause for panic. I called Megan, who said she’d call my phone and I’d see if I could hear it. I didn’t hear it, but I did see it flashing. It was caught in the door handle of the back seat. Even when I’m more than a hundred miles away, my sister still came to my rescue, just as my brother did earlier. What would I do without them?

I am staying at a different modest motel this time, ironically because the internet works so poorly at the old place, a real problem when your database is online only and your chief communication with your boss is by email. Ironically because it’s even worse here and I was on the phone for half an hour with tech support, who admitted it was an issue at their end and said they’d call me back when it was resolved, which hasn’t happened.

Happy birthday to me?

Things have been busy in Suzy-land since I last checked in with you, faithful readers.

My blog was hacked, though I can’t imagine why, unless there’s a severe trivia shortage somewhere. The wonderful Candi of the appropriately named No Hassle Hosting solved the problem for me, restored everything, and implored me to change my password, which I did, though I have to say one of the things I like least about the modern world is having to have passwords for everything. Hopefully in the future they can be stored in one’s fingertips. I hope the Powers That Be are working on that, along with the Star Trek style of travel.

Because instant gratification isn’t fast enough for me.

The jobette moved. We have gone uptown, both literally (three blocks north) and figuratively. Our new space is bigger and much more attractive. We have added a retail element, selling local goods ranging from Seasoning Sand (as seen in Oprah magazine) to books, t-shirts, and mugs.

It looks pretty good, no?

Here is my desk, where all the magic happens:

I’ve started working longer hours, including the weekend, so the jobette is getting more and more job-like. I have never worked retail before, and was (and am) still baffled by the cash register when I made my first sale, to a darling 20 month old from Sacramento named Joshua:

His parents bought some sea salt and Joshua got a book about the Skunk Train, which he has already ridden twice in his short life. I gave them a deal since I couldn’t find a price on the book, and they were our very first retail customers. It was exciting.

Also exciting was the fact that jury duty, planned right smack in the middle of the move, was cancelled. I called in the night before and was delighted to learn that my presence was no longer requested and required. I have to admit that I would actually find serving on a trial interesting, but the timing wasn’t good. Hopefully my involvement in the judicial system for this year will be limited to my Grand Jury appearance in July and watching The Good Wife.

That reminds me: I can burn that August 15 “placeholding” subpoena. That will be fun.

Last week, I emailed the US Attorney’s Office to ask them about my expense check, which has so far failed to materialize. At first they told me they had no record of me, which made me laugh, since they had not only issued two subpoenas to me, but had paid for my airfare and hotel so I could testify for an hour.

Then they tried to tell me that they never got my expense report. Fortunately I had copied everything and sent it certified, so I could tell them that it had been delivered at 8:16 am on July 23 and offer to mail them the copies, even though the form says you have to submit the original receipts.

Eventually they admitted that I did in fact exist and that they had my expense report. Then they said they had an issue with my staying overnight in San Francisco on my way home. I had noted on a cover letter that the flight they put me on arrived in San Francisco after 10:00 pm and that it was after 11:00 pm by the time I got to my car. Since it’s a four hour drive from SFO to my house, after that long flight from Detroit, I stayed overnight.

I suggested that they just disallow that portion and pay me for the rest of it, but they said they’d try to get it approved. I sent them an email this week to find out what the status is, but I haven’t heard back yet. The wheels of justice, i have heard, move slowly.

I know you’re all dying to hear how Digit is doing in her new home. Since a picture is worth a thousand words, here’s a picture of Digit on her very first day in her new home:

Her new family emailed us with the following report:

Digit is doing great. She settled in surprisingly easily. She and our other 3-year-old cat surprised each other the first time they met (he’s the disabled one and he accidentally bumped into her), so they started out hissing at each other. After a few hours, though, they got into an easy truce, and now share almost everything. She seemed to have an almost immediate curiosity and affinity with our older polydactyl long-haired grey, which I found quite interesting.

So all’s well that ends well!

As you all know, I usually dread the advent of August, the Official Month of Death, but its little sister July was such a bitch that I’m actually happy to see July end and August begin. And yes, I do hope the door hit July on the butt on its way out. Hopefully hard. Hopefully both the screen door and the front door.

It kicked off with the arrival of a federal subpoena and the departure of a filling, on a holiday week, no less. Though the filling was probably 25 or even 30 years old, and as the dentist said, I got my money’s (or possibly my parents’) worth out of it.

Then there was the heinous trip to Detroit. All those hours of sitting around the airport (I could have, and should have, driven from Chicago to Detroit. It would have been faster) gave me plenty of time to wonder why airports offer wifi – though at a price – but no power sources. My experience was that people sat on the floors by what few outlets there were with their laptops plugged in. Same goes for the planes: nowhere to plug in your laptop, which ruined my plans of watching “Gilmore Girls” as I lurched across the Rockies.

And then the ordeal of the Grand Jury, followed by a long and horrible trip home.

On arriving home, I discovered that my septic system had crapped out. On the bright side, Mark has redone the whole thing, and when I got home from the jobette yesterday, I was greeted by the sight of a toilet on my front porch, just the sort of touch that makes Martha Stewart so jealous of me. It turned out that Mark had replaced the underachieving Frankenstein commode with a brand new one. So, score one for July. Or at least for Mark.

Then the car engine light came on, which cost me $200 in the same week that the first installment of my luxurious $950 crown was due. Not to mention the horrifying installation of the (temporary) crown and its achy aftermath.

The month closed out with chaos. My job (not the jobette; the one that pays my rent and bills) is in serious jeopardy; the jobette is moving; Mark and his family will be in New Jersey for a year and I will have new neighbors.

I’m on my way to San Francisco this afternoon and I have promised myself that I will enjoy my time there and try not to worry about the future.

Last night, I had so many weird dreams that I actually feel more tired now than when I went to bed. It was like running a mental marathon.

I was relieved to discover that I had not in fact had all my hair cut off, as I did in the last dream before I finally gave up and got up. Nor was there a flying child in my house. Or the dwarf in the blue sweater who told me “Don’t worry about death, or you might as well be dead,” which would have been great advice if it hadn’t been so creepy.

That one made me wonder about the crazy gene again. No wonder I never want my dreams to come true. I was glad to wake up and drink coffee in the sunshine with hummingbirds zipping around.

Reality can be good sometimes.

As I put last week behind me and get ready for the new one, I thought I’d share a few odds and ends with you that didn’t make it into my Motown adventure posts:

• On the way to San Francisco, I saw a car with Hawaii plates (“The Aloha State”), and thought “How does that work?” It was the first one I’d ever seen. They must have shipped it over from the island, even though it looked like a pretty ordinary Toyota to my undiscriminating eye. Coincidentally, I had just picked up “Lost Kingdom: Hawaii’s Last Queen, the Sugar Kings, and America’s First Imperial Adventure” from the library.
• When I checked out of the hotel in Detroit, the guy behind the desk saw my billing address and said, “I know where Hooterville is.” I laughed and said he couldn’t possibly, and he said that he was born and raised in the next county north of us, and spent a lot of time in the Hooterville area then. He reached across the desk and took my hand in both of his and said, “Friend!” He fell in love with a Detroiter and moved there for love twelve years ago.
• On arriving at the Detroit airport for my long trip back home, the car service driver scanned my credit card with his iPhone. I signed it with my finger, typed in my email address, and the receipt was delivered to my email inbox before I entered the terminal. I don’t know who was more amazed: me, by this whole high-tech transaction, or the driver, by the fact that I had never done this before and didn’t even own a smartphone. I felt like the bumpkin I am.
• On my way to Polker’s for a pre-departure breakfast, a young, blonde Marina type with a handbag dog on a leash and her cellphone (probably an iPhone, since she lives in Civilization and all) pressed to her ear, passed me, saying, “Well, the relationship won’t last. But the dog is forever.”

Coming to you from San Francisco!

I’m drinking bad in-room coffee, but not at my usual modest motel, where there was, in keeping with the theme of this trip, no room at the inn. So I’m at a more expensive, but noisier and less nice place nearby. I had the middle seat for the long flight from Chicago to SFO, flanked by two very tall but very nice men. We arrived at the International terminal, for some unknown reason, so I had to line up for a shuttle to get to the regular terminal and retrieve my car. I hadn’t eaten since 4 am Pacific time that day, so I called Victor’s and picked up dinner on my way back to the hotel. It’s a good thing they are still open at 11:00 pm.

I don’t even know where to begin to tell you all about yesterday, especially since I can’t tell you, or my boss/partner what happened in the courtroom, just my lawyer.

I walked to our lawyer’s office in the 86 degree heat yesterday morning to be prepared for the coming ordeal (it turns out hat nothing can really prepare you for it, however). On the way there, I noticed this vacant lot which has been turned into a public garden, including vegetables:

Downtown Detroit has many beautiful buildings, including the historic building where our lawyer’s office is located. On the 13th floor. Here’s the view from the conference room:

That’s Windsor across the Detroit River. I can’t tell you how tempting it was to hop across the river and take a train to visit my Ontario friends. So close, and yet so far!

At the appointed hour, we walked to the courthouse:

I had to leave my phone and iPod at the lawyer’s office, but still had to go through airport-type security at the courthouse. I waited about an hour and a half before I was called. Your lawyer is not permitted in the courtroom, so it’s just you, the prosecutor, and the jury. I walked into the courtroom with the US Attorney, stopped in front of the clerk, and took the oath you see on TV. Remarkably, there was no Bible to swear on (or even mentioned). Then I stepped up into the raised witness stand and spent the longest hour of my life answering non-stop questions into the microphone. I kept my eyes right on the US Attorney the whole time; I never even looked at the jury.

When I was finally excused, he gave me a lovely parting gift: another subpoena dated August 15. He explained that this is just in case they have more questions for me after they read all the documents our lawyers submitted to his office. Supposedly it is not likely that I will have to go, and I hope that is true. I was terribly shaken by the interrogation and now I know what to expect, I will be even more scared the next time. If there is a next time.

At least it’s over now: the courtroom, the delayed flights, the waiting around, the worrying. It’s a beautiful, sunny day in San Francisco, as as soon as I have breakfast and pack up the car, I’ll be on my way home, the most beautiful place in the world.

As usual, karma ignored me. I got a seat in the very last row of the plane, giving me a front row set to the sights, smells, and sounds of the lavatoire. As an added bonus – as if one were needed – being in the last row means that the jerk in front of you can jack his chair back right into your lap, but you can’t return the favor to the fellow sufferer behind you, or even move your own chair to get away from the stunning view of his bald spot.

At least it made a change from the bathroom view.

Since the plane was smaller, it was much bumpier and more alarming than the bigger plane on the night flight from San Francisco. I was glad to arrive in hot and humid Detroit, though, after a day and a half of travelling.

Needless to say, the plane parked as far as possible from the ground transportation. I wonder how many airport miles I have walked over the past two days?

Fortunately, a friend had referred me to a fabulous car service that costs about the same as a plebeian taxi, and I was pretty much over plebeian transportation and the common man, woman, and especially child at this point. It was delightful to be relieved of my bags and ensconced in a town car with cool water provided. Not for the first time (or the last time on this particular day), I considered that whoever invented air conditioning is one of my personal heroes.

The driver was so nice and we chatted amiably as we headed downtown, even passing one of my favorite landmarks on the way:

It was the best part of the trip.

I was so happy to get to the hotel. It was surprisingly swellegant. I figured the US Attorney would stick in me in the cheapest thing possible, but instead, I got a lovely suite in a beautifully refurbished historic hotel, just two blocks from the courthouse of doom (where I’ll be spending today). Here’s the living room:

And here’s the bedroom:

Best of all, there was a tub in the bathroom!

I ventured out to find a much-needed (well, at this point, essential) bottle of wine. I learned that, among its other faults, like heat and humidity, Michigan does not seem to sell booze at corner stores or drugstores, the way California does. I ended up walking eight sweaty blocks to the nearest liquor emporium, where I was rewarded with a bottle of Skinny Girl Pina Colada, which I did not know existed. Just the thing for a tropical evening!

Back at the hotel, I drew a bath – though I struck out on bubble bath in my booze quest – poured a glass of pina colada, perched my MacBook on the bathroom counter, and watched “Gilmore Girls” in the tub. Do I know how to live, or what?

After that, I called Room Service – two of the most beautiful words in the English language – for my traditional while travelling club sandwich, and crawled into bed kindergarten early on either coast. Missing a night’s sleep and being tortured by airports and airplanes will do that to a girl. The bed was a cloud of heavenliness and I woke up before my wake-up call, ready to face today’s ordeal: Courthouse followed by yet more airporting. I hope there are no delays in either place and that I am back in California before the day is over.

Stay tuned….

Well, things did not go exactly as planned.

“Picking up forgotten items at lunch” turned into “half hour call with lawyers”, and forgotten items remained in oblivion.

Had a hasty falafel dinner with our friend Clayton in the lower reaches of the Haight, then went to the airport. I was astonished at the traffic trying to get in the airport at 10:30 at night. Presumably the media had been notified of my rare appearance.

Left the car in the first place I could find. Turned out to be as far away as humanly possible from my gate. Car was near Terminal 1; I was leaving from Terminal 3. By the time I hauled Self and bags through the unholy trinity, I was feeling Terminal myself.

Arriving at Terminal 3, I discovered that my flight was delayed by an hour. And yes, I did get the clueless about shoeless people in front of me, as predicted. Not that it matters when you have an extra hour to kill.

I was horribly disappointed to learn that all the bars were closed, yet the halls and seats were full. Why schedule flights when travelers are denied the much-needed solace of a drink? In fact, you couldn’t even get a bottle of water, since everything was closed. This became more annoying as the delay lengthened to two hours and more.

Once aboard, I valiantly gave up my aisle seat to a young guy who had been travelling all day with his girlfriend but hadn’t been seated together. I let them cuddle up while I took a middle seat. Are you listening, karma?

By this time, I already knew that I had missed the connecting flight to Detroit. Leaving the plane around 8 am, I was met by some helpful folks telling me that I was rebooked on a flight at 4:50 this afternoon. I am trying to change that, but the throngs of people in America’s busiest airport make an improvement seem unlikely. I have cancelled my meetings for today.

At this point, the court proceedings will be the fun part of the trip. At least I have a bottle of water.

I know most of you spend most of your time wishing you were Me, but today you would much prefer to be You.

I promise.

Here’s my unenviable schedule for today:

• 6 am: Get up. (Check! Up at 5:30 to discover that cats have broken one of my Elvis movie poster glasses. Bonus: water all over the place!)
• Get ready. Pack up car. Try not to forget anything. Say goodbye to kitties, assuming they aren’t out playing in the sunshine, which they almost certainly will be.
• Leave by 8:00 am for 45 minute drive to the jobette.
• 12:00 pm: Purchase forgotten items at lunch.
• 4:00 pm: leave work for 4 hour drive to San Francisco.
• Dinner somewhere along the way. I have a $28 travel day meal allowance, so I guess this means Chez Panisse is out.
• Park car somewhere at SFO. Drag Self and Stuff into terminal. Suffer usual indignities of having the temerity to travel. I am betting that I will be behind a couple of oldsters who have been living under a rock in one of the square states and has somehow managed never to have heard about the enforced shoe removal rule.
• Festina lente, as our Latin forebears would have it, though they couldn’t possibly have imagined waiting for a midnight flight to a place you don’t want to go to in the first (or second, or third) place.
• Hope the bar is still open.
• Terrifying transport to O’Hare, the busiest airport in the entire US of A, arriving at the unsalubrious hour of 6:20 am.
• Change planes, which will probably include changing terminals with my terminally sleep-deprived self.
• Somehow manage to arrive in Detroit at 9:40 am. Couldn’t I have gotten to Europe in all that time? Or at least Hawaii?
• Drop bags off at hotel, resist urge to leap into Lake Ontario, and head to a meeting at our as yet unseen (to me) office near the ballpark. Needless to say, it’s the All Star Break, so the proximity to the ballpark is completely useless. I am even more certain that the American League will win than I was about the airport oldsters.
• Meet with our lawyers. I imagine this will take my mind right off the impending trip home and the crown that is awaiting me if I am (un)lucky enough to survive the trip. Bonus!

Sounds like fun, doesn’t it?

Well, I wrote a post a few days ago, and then I got paranoid and deleted it, and then I had second thoughts and thought I’d restore it, but it seems that when WordPress deletes something, it stays deleted.

Told you decision-making was not one of my strong suits.

Last Friday, my boss/partner called me to say that I have been subpoenaed to appear in front of the Grand Jury in Detroit in a couple of weeks. This is even scarier than that audit we went through a few years ago.

Also, it’s going to take forever to get there and I haven’t flown in so long that I can just feel my flying phobia in full bloom again. And then there’s the whole court thing.

Right now, I’m planning to work at the jobette on the Monday, drive to San Francisco after work, and take the red eye, arriving in Detroit early on Tuesday morning. I’m supposed to meet with our lawyers that day to be prepared for the Grand Jury on Wednesday. Then I’ll fly to San Francisco on Wednesday night, stay overnight, and drive home the next day.

That’s a lot of hassles and 6,000 miles just to tell people that I don’t know anything, because I don’t. I got paranoid and took the earlier post down because I was afraid that the Powers That Be might somehow find it and read it, even though I hadn’t said anything that could get me in trouble.

I think.

I told my good friend A about the whole thing, and she said to think of it as exciting and glamorous, and being part of a courtroom drama. Another friend said I should feel really special, since there aren’t many Grand Juries convened and your chances of being called to testify in front of one is about one in a million. It will be an experience, he said, but I think it’s one I’d rather not experience.

Ever since Erica and Jessica decamped to Portland last summer, the fabulous quotient in Hooterville and environs dropped by about 1,000%. I’m glad that Jessica is living a Ramona life in the land of Beverly Cleary and that Erica is revelling in city amenities, but I miss them.

Megan wants to go and visit the Dynamic Duo this summer, but her older sister has some reservations.

Number One: It’s a twelve hour drive. TWELVE HOURS. It used to take me 12 hours to fly non-stop to London from San Francisco, and even with the ability to get up and walk around, drink cocktails, read, sleep, and watch movies on my laptop, I could hardly stand it. At least there was Dad, London, and Europe at the other end.

The whole problem with driving is that it’s the worst of both worlds: really boring, but you have to pay attention. Also, it is simultaneously too fast and too slow. On the freeway, if you’re going 70 mph and everyone else is going even faster (as they usually are), if they hit you, not even Rico from Six Feet Under could make you fit for human viewing ever again.

And then there’s the whole dead thing.

At the same time, you are speeding along at 70 mph or whatever it may be, and it will still take you half a day or more to get to the next state.

And then you’ll have to do it all again in a week’s time.

Add in the fact that I don’t get paid when I’m not at the jobette and gas will be around $300 plus whatever other money we spend while we’re away, and you can add “expensive” to “boring” and “scary”.

On the other hand, we haven’t seen Erica and Jessica since Christmas, and they braved the hideous trip with their dog to see us, so we kind of owe them. Also, Megan is afraid that if we don’t make the effort, E & J will drift out of our lives, and that’s a fate worse than road tripping.

What to do, what to do?

*Honestly, have you ever seen a cuter school picture? None of mine even came remotely close.

Welcome to Napa

So I actually left the county for a couple of days. My passport remains dusty and sad in a drawer, wondering what happened to our relationship. “You used to take me out all the time – now we never go anywhere. I hardly ever see you!” it reproaches me. I think it expires next year, and for the first time in my life, I may not renew it. Why spend $100 on something I never use?

It’s a good thing I have a GPS*, since I’m geographically and map challenged. To me, it looked like you went to Healdsburg and took a left and that was it, whereas in reality you have to go south of Petaluma (about 40 minutes from San Francisco) and then take a labyrinthine highway, where there is road work (see above). It took almost as long to get there as it does to get to the city.

Also, for some reason I thought I was going to Sonoma, not Napa. Sonoma has the biggest public plaza in California and the northernmost Mission of the string founded in the early 1800s, like the one that starred in “Vertigo”. Napa seems to be nothing but wineries and overpriced antique stores. If you’re not into daytime drinking or overpriced antiques ($85 rusted metal garden chair, anyone?) or $25 plates of pasta, there’s not a whole lot to do there in the oppressive inland heat. Oh, and visitor guides cost $5.

However, all this was more than redeemed by the reason for the trip: seeing the legendary Brian Wilson in concert:

I happened to walk by the theater the morning of the show, and caught the roadies unloading the equipment for the show:

The concert was held in a beautiful old movie theater:

It was a great show. From the first notes of “California Girls”, the crowd was on its feet and Brian held us in his spell.

It was worth the drive.

*Jill, the GPS voice, does not enjoy those wacky foreign names. It’s hilarious to hear her pronounce things like “Carneros” and “Embarcadero”.

Seems like everyone in California is complaining about the weather, except Me. The media should really be alerted to that important factoid, since it’s practically unheard-of, no matter what the season. While everyone else bewails the fog, I just smile and think how glad I am that I’m not sweltering back east. I enjoy being lightly chilled, like a fine Chablis, almost as much as, well, a fine Chablis.

Having said that, though, summer is the time to go on vacation, or, in my case, daydream about going on vacation. Surprisingly, when I made up a list of places I’d like to go, many were right here in the Golden State. These are all places I’ve never been.

Bodie: The best-preserved ghost town in the state, and possibly the country, Bodie is also subject to extreme temperatures, with winter lows dipping to 0°F, with winds up 100 mph, and summer temperatures in the 90s. I read an article about the town’s lone ranger/caretaker, and it has to be one of the loneliest jobs around.

Burlesque Hall of Fame: I’ve always been fascinated by the golden era of burlesque. Famed dancer Jennie Lee established the Burlesque Hall of Fame in the Mojave Desert to showcase her collection of burlesque memorabilia and costumes. After her death, the equally famed Dixie Evans took over, and the museum is now being moved to Las Vegas. The annual Miss Exotic World Pageant is held every year on or near my birthday – what a gift that would be!

Chandelier Drive-Through Tree is less than an hour’s drive from town. When you get there, you can, as the name suggests, drive through a giant sequoia. Because Nature is much better seen from inside. I could probably combine this with a trip to the Lost Coast (see below).

Hearst Castle: Shockingly, I have never visited one of the Suzy-est places in the state, though Megan has. Even she was impressed.

Hotel del Coronado: Where “Some Like It Hot” was filmed, this Victorian confection has been restored to its Marilyn-era glory. Not to mention being conveniently close to Catalina Island, where you can take a glass-bottom boat* to admire reefs, shipwrecks, and sea life. Catalina is also home to plants and animals found nowhere else on Earth. Bonus Marilyn connection: she and her first husband, Jim Dougherty, once lived on the island.

The Lost Coast: I really have no excuse not to do this one, since it starts about an hour’s drive north of town. This is an exceptionally unspoiled and scenic part of the state, and the only part of it not served by a state highway. We could just hook up a little red teardrop trailer and take off!

Palm Springs: Of course, the best way to tour the fabulous mid-century architecture of Palm Springs would be renting Frank Sinatra’s old pad, at a mere $2,600 a night. You can also tour Elvis and Priscilla’s wildly futuristic honeymoon house.

Santa Cruz Mystery Spot: Supposedly a place where the laws of physics and gravity don’t apply (what girl doesn’t love that?), compasses and GPS devices don’t work there, and no animals, even birds, live within the Mystery Spot. I love it that there are still places, things, and phenomena that can’t be explained away by science. Even if they can, it’s still fun to see a ball roll up hill.

Winchester Mystery House: Home of the famous gunsmiths, the last Winchester owner was Sarah, who was convinced that if she never stopped building onto her house, she wouldn’t die. Her bid for immortality failed, but her architectural legacy lives on in San Jose, where her 160 room mansion boasts stairs to nowhere and doors and windows that open onto blank walls.

Places I’d like to re-visit include Bodega Bay, where we used to spend Christmases with Dad (and I think a movie was filmed there once); Monterey Bay and its incredible aquarium; LA, which I’m supposed to despise but don’t; and Lake Tahoe. Megan and I have a fantasy about spending Christmas there with the snow. Isn’t it amazing that you can drive a few hours and be where the snow is, but not have to live with it all winter?

I always say California has everything: the ocean, lakes, rivers, mountains, deserts, ancient forests, snow, sunshine, you name it. And that’s not even including the man-made wonders. Why don’t you come up sometime, and see me?

*Parts of the Doris Day movie of the same name were filmed there. I happen to love Doris Day movies, especially “Pillow Talk” and “That Touch of Mink”.

Audrey’s new hangout

1. I followed my sister’s advice and complained to the Motel 6 manager. He apologized and is going to mail me a gift certificate good at any Motel 6 in the entire US of A. I said thanks, but privately wondered why companies whose products have disappointed you offer you more of the same disappointing product to make up for it. “Sure, we lost your luggage and nearly killed you, but hey, why not try it again for free?”

   I kept that thought to myself, though.

2. Rob did fix the cat door of death. It’s sealed at all times, though I guess I could take the cover off during the day. It seems unnecessary with all the other doors being open, some of them in a so far vain attempt to get rid of the booze’n’condiment smell in the pantry.
3. It looks like we’ll have to come up with a Plan B for Star the foster dog if/when Meg has her knee surgery done. Star is just one of those dogs who like to chase anything that crosses her path, from quail to kitties, and the thought of her chasing my remaining kitty makes me quail, so she can’t stay here post-op as originally planned. Hopefully our collective ingenuity will come up with an alternative which will stop Star from bouncing on Megan in her Tigger-like fashion while keeping the local cats un-chased.
4. Speaking of cats, Harriet got sick of being an invalid yesterday and took off all day. [Update: she’s back!] I’m hoping this means that her leg is feeling better, though still dislocated, and also that she is back home by now (it’s too early to call and find out). Megan is much more philosophic about these things than her paranoid big sister. She says, “She’s lived here all her life, and if she doesn’t come home, it’s because she doesn’t want to.” Whereas I have already called Audrey with treats because it’s 8:00 and I haven’t seen her since I let her out two hours ago. She came, ate the treats, and left.

You can see in the picture that she has a new place to hang out. It’s to the left of the sliding glass doors and to the right of the bathroom door leading to the porch (the surprisingly useful one). I’m not sure why this part of the house is open like that, but I’m planning to put potted plants in there one of these days.

That’s one of my vague home improvement plans, like painting parts of the exterior, finishing the de-hippifying and clean-up of the garden, and doing something about that godawful lime green floor in the foyer and bathroom that may or may not ever happen. However, Mark has promised to buy me new carpet for the sleeping loft, so once that’s installed, maybe it will spur me to get going on the other projects.

Or not.