Suzy Says

My father would have turned 77 today.

He might have gone up to town and visited a gallery, maybe the Tate or the National, or done some research at the University library, or edited his journal, or gone for a walk on Wimbledon Common. He would almost certainly have done some gardening, spring being so near and his garden being so near to his heart.

Whenever I visited him, one of the first things we did was take a tour of the garden, with Dad pointing out the new additions and features (the one I liked best was the little table and chairs set above the goldfish pond which looked over the whole garden toward the house). At breakfast, we’d watch the birds in the garden while we had our toast and coffee and planned the pleasures of the day.

He would also have planned a menu meal, even though he never cared much about his birthday, or about fuss of any kind, especially when it came to himself, but an excuse for a menu meal could not be passed up. So here’s my menu meal for my father’s 77th birthday. It’s still his birthday, and it always will be.

I usually leave serious topics like politics to greater and wiser blogs than mine, but the need to complain has outweighed more weighty considerations.

Is it just me, or have the primaries gone on forever? I think they started when I was approximately 18, and now look! There are either too many states (really, 50 does seem a little excessive) or too many primaries. Isn’t there some way of streamlining this process? I can’t believe we have eight count ’em months until the actual elections. That’s almost a whole year, you know. Almost a whole year of bickering that would be considered petty in a grade school school yard. Almost a whole year of pointless, repetitive rhetoric. Almost a whole year of boredom. And you know how I feel about that.

Unable to escape the political tide every time I put the TV on (it’s either the primaries or Britney Spears, take your pick), I noticed that Barack Obama’s ears stick out in a truly comic manner. Now that I?ve noticed, I can?t stop staring at them whenever he?s on TV. I also think his name sounds like a noise a bird would make on ?The Flintstones?, maybe one of the ones they have doing all the work. ?Ba-ROCK, Ba-ROCK!? Something like that. I wonder if he ever wishes his parents had given him a middle name like Steve instead of Hussein. I did vote for him, though, in my spare time when I wasn?t musing over his name or mentally making over Hillary and then giving up on it.

As for the Republicans, I’m glad that Huckabee dropped out, not only because he’s a bananaheaded weirdo (“training our children to be our replacements”), but because it would be so embarrassing to have a president named Huckabee. It’s too silly. Maybe in Mr. Roger’s Neighborhood, but not in the real world.

Whenever I hear McCain’s name, I think of frozen food. Coincidentally, his wife’s face is so frozen that she looks like a scary doll. Barbie for First Lady?

I really should fill you in on the rest of the Film Noir Festival instead of blathering on about mundanities like my utility bill.

I soon learned that parking is nearly impossible in the Castro. I never had to worry about this during the halcyon days of living in the city: I either walked or took a cab. Sometimes I’d resort to public transit, but all the really important things, like the office, restaurants, gym and the lingerie store were within walking distance. And why waste valuable real estate on a parking lot? I discovered a street up the hill where there were no meters and am inordinately proud of my secret Castro parking space. I’ll tell you where it is if you come out and visit. I might even show it to you personally.

On with the show.

On Day Two, I saw Conflict (1945), which is widely regarded as the “lost” Bogart film, and is not available on DVD. Bogart and his then-wife, Mayot Methot, were known at the time of filming as “The Battling Bogarts”, and many people feel this played into his portrayal as a wife murderer with a crush on his wife’s sister. After spectacularly disposing of the troublesome spouse in question, he is haunted by her presence, smelling her perfume, glimpsing her on the street. Will his demons or Sydney Greenstreet catch up with him first?

Coincidentally, the woman Bogart couldn’t wait to get rid of is the same one Joseph Cornell was obsessed with: Rose Hobart. Cornell even took footage of one of her movies, cut everyone else out, colored it his favorite blue, and with a wild leap of imagination, called it…Rose Hobart. It is his most famous film. Like everything else, including your third birthday party and the time you stole that money from your mother’s purse, it’s on YouTube.

Also unfortunately unavailable for home viewing is Roadhouse (1948), with a sultry, sexy Ida Lupino stirring up trouble between friends Richard Widmark and Cornel Wilde at a small town roadhouse. Any movie fan knows you’d better not cross Richard Widmark, and after he loses the girl, he loses it and makes life hell for all concerned. With Celeste Holm in her always reliable gal pal role, and Ida Lupino singing torch songs in lam?. And driving Cornel Wilde wild in her tiny shorts and impromptu bathing attire. Yowza.

The final film was the bleakest, Night and the City (1950), with the most radiant star, the gorgeous Gene Tierney. Tierney plays a trusting woman in love with a scheming hustler played by our old friend Richard Widmark. Dark in every sense of the word, it ends in disaster. No happy ending here, but beautifully filmed on the mean streets of London and absorbing in its headlong rush to ruin.

I always disliked book reviews when I was at school. To me, deconstruction and analysis of a book, especially by self-centered adolescents, ruined the magic. If you dissect a bird to see how it’s made, it never flies again. Almost every book I was assigned to read and report on in school were thus ruined for me forever, save two, which I can still read with the same awed enjoyment: The Catcher In the Rye and In Cold Blood.

So it’s a little ironic that I have actually volunteered to write book reviews. I’ll put it down to bowing graciously to popular demand, but I’m not going to compare and contrast anything ever again. Just so you know.

Let’s get this party started.

Among Other Things, I’ve Taken Up Smoking, by Aoibheann (how on earth do you pronounce that one?) Sweeney

Given my fondness for “Catcher”, it may not be surprising that I enjoyed this postmodern coming of age novel, the first by its unpronounceable author. I could say it’s the story of a girl who grows up on an isolated island in Maine with her isolated intellectual father, her mother having died under somewhat mysterious circumstances. I could say it’s the story of this same girl approaching life in New York with na?vet? and charm. It is those things, but it’s also the girl’s discovery of herself and her father. The writing is lyrical, and I found myself turning back to re-read certain passages to experience their singular beauty all over again.

740 Park: The Story of the World’s Richest Apartment Building, by Michael Gross

It’s as if the author knew about my love of gossip, especially high society gossip, and my love of fantasy real estate (as pictured in the New York Times) and wrote this book just for me. I revelled in the descriptions of the impossibly luxurious apartments inhabited by Rockefellers and Bouviers and the baroque lives they lived. A delightful break from the reality of living in Oakland, though some of the 740 Park denizens also had trouble paying their bills.

Bad Girls: 26 Writers Misbehave, edited by Ellen Sussman

I found this one a little uneven, to say the least, but what else would you expect from a collection of essays that includes a meditation on the penis? Not to mention Erica Jong’s self-indulgent rant which unfortunately concludes the book. Joyce Maynard’s explanation of why she broke her silence about her youthful affair with JD Salinger was fascinating (I hope she’d be pleased that I sympathize with her despite loving his work) and I was delighted by Ann Hood’s account of making up a cool life to impress a makeover artist, but on the whole, not as fun as you’d think. You’d be better off getting together with your girlfriends, having a few cocktails, and swapping stories. Being bad might be one of the activities that are better to do than to read about.

The Almost Moon, by Alice Sebold

I have to agree with most of the critics who call it a disappointing follow-up to 2002’s best selling “The Lovely Bones”. The magic of the writing in “Bones” is missing in action in this tale of a woman who smothers the elderly mother who has destroyed, literally and figuratively, the lives of those around her. The characters and events are unsympathetic and unbelievable, and it’s hard to believe that the two books were written by the same person. Maybe some people really only have one book in them, and maybe we should be grateful that Harper Lee and Margaret Mitchell stopped when they did.

Dark Victory: The Life of Bette Davis, by Ed Sikov

A breezy recounting of the star’s life by a true fan who keeps it light and witty. I could have done without his constant drooling over Errol Flynn and knowing that Davis was difficult for costume designers to dress due to her refusal to wear underwire bras despite being in extremely desperate need of same (think National Geographic), though. If I have to suffer, you do, too.

Portraits and Observations: The Essays of Truman Capote

Someone once said “Anyone who says ‘I love Truman Capote’ has never actually met him”, and that may be true. Geniuses and artists are notoriously difficult to live with. But I do love his writing, so it was a treat for me to read all his short pieces all in one place. I just dove right in and didn’t come up for days. If you have never read Capote, this is a great introduction to his art. And if you have…oh, honey, don’t let me commence!

The Sweet Birds of Gorham, by Ann Birstein

Really, Tru? I can’t believe that this slight, unsurprisingly out of print effort was Capote’s favorite book (though I can believe he’d say so as a joke). Supposedly a satire on the world of academe, in which a girl moves to a small town college from the big city and supposedly makes a stir. I remained unmoved. The best thing about it was the cute cover.

Up next:

Bridge of Sighs, by Richard Russo

An Arsonist’s Guide to Writers’ Homes in New England, by Brock Clarke

Deluxe: How Luxury Lost Its Luster, by Dana Thomas

I hope luxury hasn’t really lost its luster. There’d be nothing left to live for.

Real life being so very unfabulous these days (stormy weather; three arrests accessorized by car towings on my block-and-a-half-long street in one week; a stinging case of mystery hives; the living room still garnished with unpacked boxes; my collapsing bed; and is that a bullet hole in the glass on my back porch?), I took refuge in the fantasy world of the New York Times Style Magazine. I can now tell you important things like:

• Orange is the new lip color for spring;
• I somehow managed to overlook the Osmoth?que perfume museum in Paris on my many visits;
• The perfect gift for the truly bitter: wedding ring coffins;
• Disco may not be back, but “disco waves” are (think Marisa Berenson); and
• I still can’t afford an estate in the Hamptons or a townhouse in the Village.

Besides the lack of escape from the horror of reality TV, the worst thing about the writers’ strike was the lack of glitz and glamor on the red carpet, the only good part of any awards show. It’s been months since there have been gowns and gems to admire. Withdrawal was setting in, so the Oscars are arriving not a moment too soon. I’m particularly looking forward to the million dollar Retro Rose shoes to be worn by Diablo Cody*, the writer of Juno. Who needs a glass slipper when you can have diamond slippers? And as Marilyn Monroe’s Lorelei Lee would say, “I just love finding new places to wear diamonds!”

I’d settle for these until I marry a millionaire or write an Oscar-nominated screenplay.

*If you think that name sounds like a stripper, you’re right: she was. You can read all about it in her memoir Candy Girl. Needless to say, I have it on order at the library.

I was chatting with my sister on the phone and minding my own business when I noticed an old man carrying a red plastic gas container coming up my front stairs. There’s a big window overlooking the stairs and porch, and the front door is mostly glass, so when I have the blinds open, it’s pretty much a two-way show. I can look out, and anyone who cares to peek past the giant camellia bush or come up the three front stairs can look in.

Since I rarely, if ever, do anything interesting to passersby or the police, this isn’t usually a problem. However, when strangers appear and start peering in, it is.

I told my sister about the unexpected visitor, and she told me (somewhat unnecessarily, but she tends to be protective of her older and sillier sister) not to let the guy in. Her view was that he was using the gas can scenario to get in the house. At this point, I had fled to the kitchen, making me temporarily invisible to Gas Can Man, though the TV and other stealables weren’t.

After a few minutes, I peeked out from my refuge and saw that my porch was once again weirdo-free. On further peeking, I noticed Gas Can Man shuffling away, presumably to scare someone else.

Nothing makes you feel like you live somewhere more than getting a library card and registering to vote.

As soon as I started camping in my house, I did both. Registering to vote was the easier of the two, since it can be done on-line, whereas the library requires a personal appearance. And the ability to read maps. The Oakland Library site just shows you a map of where the libraries are and lets you figure it out, not easy for the map challenged*.

Imagine my delight when I learned that the closest library to me did not require freeway driving and was in the Dimond District. Like you, I assumed that it was a misspelling of my favorite word, but no. Apparently it is named for Hugh Dimond, who made his money in the Gold Rush (how appropriate!) and bought the land in the 1860’s.

However…the library has a policy whereby new patrons such as myself have to be on probation for six count ’em weeks. Though I didn’t have to report to a probation officer, I couldn’t request more than four books at a time or have more than two out at a time, which you can imagine was quite the hardship for a book addict like Me, especially because I didn’t find out about the request thing until I had requested the first four of my long list. If I’d known, I would have selected the ones with the fewest holds/shortest waiting periods.

And you know how I love to wait.

I am pleased to report that I successfully completed my probation, and now have a comfortable 24 books requested and three in transit, which is just the way I like it.

In case you’re wondering what I’ll be getting in the next few days:

The Almost Moon,by Alice Sebold (how I adored The Lovely Bones)

Bad Girls: 26 Writers Misbehave, edited by Ellen Sussman

Among Other Things, I’ve Taken Up Smoking,by Aoibheann Sweeney

While I was on probation, I picked up the following:

740 Park: The Story of the World’s Richest Apartment Building, by Michael Gross
If I can’t be rich, I can read about those who are. And the real estate section of the New York Times is, after all, my porn.

Edie: Girl on Fire, by David Weisman and Melissa Painter
Purportedly the true story of Warhol muse, style icon and all around 60’s It Girl Edie Sedgwick.

The Sweet Birds of Gorham
Out of print; Truman Capote, whose writing I adore, always said it was his favorite book.

It occurs to me that I should perhaps review the many books I read. Any thoughts? Hit me at speakall@earthlink.net. You’re registered to vote, too.

*You know how it took me practically no time to buy the car when faced with not having one? It took me approximately the same amount of time to get a GPS to tell me where to go. I now have an unreasonable fear of the word “recalculating”.

I came across this cartoon while catching up on my backlog of New Yorkers. All I could think was, “Tonight, and pretty much every night.” Most days, too, in my case.

Fun factoid: the artist, Bruce Eric Kaplan (aka BEK) wrote several episodes of the incomparable Six Feet Under and was Executive Producer during the show’s final season.

Not all that surprising, is it?

Up next: Suzy’s Library Adventures!

The land of the free and the home of the Sharks.

Besides the legendary Neal’s Yard cheese, I have recently indulged in some truly Velveeta (or possibly Cheez Whiz) moments.

Last Saturday, I headed down to San Jose to watch the Sharks in action. The Sharks lose no opportunity to joke about their name (or maybe they’re not joking). They skate onto the ice through a giant shark’s head. The head gets hoisted into the rafters, still in sight, because every time they score a goal, besides the traditional horn honking, dry ice floats out of the shark’s mouth in a huge mist, like in a horror movie (or a heavy metal ballad). Before they even come out, the scoreboard “fills” with water, using stunning graphics and convincing water sounds, before informing you that you’re in the Shark Tank. Get it? Also, every time the Sharks had an advantage, they’d play the Jaws music and their fans would make snapping motions with their arms.

Add in the quite scary nachos with actual Velveeta being consumed around you, throw in an $8 beer or two, and you have a truly cheesy experience.

And I can say that I do in fact know the way to San Jose.

Devo in action.

On Tuesday, I went to see Devo play at MacWorld Blast, which as far as I can tell is a big budget office party given by Microsoft. My friend R had obtained tickets through convoluted means. When I finally met up with him outside the historic Warfield Theater on one of the skankier stretches of Market Street, the line extended around the block, so of course I immediately wanted to leave, especially after I told R I was having a bad day and he actually asked me “What were your challenges today?”

Really? Seriously?

Fortunately for him, at that point the line started moving and the rest of the night was too loud for conversation. I think I’m now officially old, because:

• The first time I saw Devo was on Saturday Night Live, which I was watching with my chronically insomniac mother (who had very good taste in music right until the end. She may have been the only 73 year old who liked Blackalicious). On further Googling, I learned that this historic event took place in 1978. Even the most math-challenged among us (Me!) can tell that was thirty years ago.
• I felt assaulted by the bright lights and literally ear-smashing volume, and I was partially deaf for a full 24 hours afterwards.
• The Devo guys are either graying, balding, or both. But they are in amazing shape, leaping around and on and off their knees for two hours. The lead singer was particularly manic that night. I’ve met him twice, once in New York, and once in LA, and I didn’t know what to say. But I never do.

I couldn’t help noticing that most of the crowd was recording the concert on their cell phones, and at least a third of them were iPhones. All the little screens held up in the darkness reminded me of how people used to hold up lighters.

When I left the theater, a stripper handed me a card for the Crazy Horse and asked me if I wanted to go to a strip club. Because, really, who doesn’t after watching Devo? It’s only logical.

It was a beautiful sunny Sunday morning. Personally, I was glad to wake up to the sunlight after a week of rain, but we’re supposed to be all thankful for the rain and tell each other how glad we are to get it, how much we need it, etc., while the weather people on the news keep telling us “The storm door is open”. For some reason, that expression annoys me out of all proportion and for no particular reason.

Anyway…I ventured out to inspect the be-Juned featherbed and see if it had aired out sufficiently and whether the Nature’s Miracle was miraculous as advertised (it was – I think). While cautiously sniffing the featherbed, I noticed a guy in the backyard of the house behind mine, the house whose back door light is always on, day and night.

It was hard not to notice him, since he was beating on the back door and screaming, quite the little monologue:

“Open the door, bitch! Open the damn door!”

Pause while guy looks at door, which looks back. At this point, I noticed that the light was out for once.

Guy resumes pounding door, with added attraction of kicking it:

“Open the damn door! I know you in there! I know it!”

Second intermission. Guy gives it one more try:

“Stop doin’ all that damn oxycotin ‘n’ sleepin’ all damn day. Then you can answer the damn door. Damn!”

And on the Lord’s Day, too.

One final kick, and he lopes off across her back yard. I found it slightly surprising that he closed the gate behind him as he muttered away.

I am definitely not in Pacific Heights anymore.

Oh, my. I am certainly crabulous today.

Last night, I was punished for unpacking by June. You guessed it: she expressed her horror at my doing something housework-esque by peeing on the bed. As if unpacking boxes wasn’t punishment enough in itself. It’s truly amazing how much liquid can come out of one skinny little kitten, let me tell you. So I hauled the sodden featherbed and linens off the bed – how she managed to include some of the pillows in her displeasure is beyond me – and washed what I could. The featherbed has been sprayed with Nature’s Miracle, and here’s hoping for one.

Now that the kittens have passed the 6 month mark, they’ve really kicked the naughtiness up a notch. Or three. They’ve been extremely successful in their search and destroy missions, and their escaping skills would make Houdini jealous. One evening this week, June escaped twice: once, she was under the car and had to be prodded out with a broom (Finally! An actual use for it!), and the second time, she ran into the Mexicans’ flowerbed and thought she was invisible. Of course, it was cold and raining, but she didn’t seem to mind. I did.

I wonder if I can get a nanny to teach these wayward girls to behave. A really mean one, like the Mary Poppins in the books. Or maybe reform school.

While I was in the city to admire Joseph Cornell’s amazing work, I decided to visit the old neighborhood and pick up some delicacies and delightfuls which are unavailable in Siberia by the Bay. Besides not actually being San Francisco, having to drive nearly everywhere, and the shopping cart people, the worst thing is the near-total lack of Suzy-standard take out and delivery in my immediate neighborhood.

In the month or so I have lived here, I have had the worst pizza and Chinese food of my long life. Seriously. And shocking in an area with such noted Chinese and Italian communities. In my desperation for decent pizza not made by Me, I drove to Berkeley to pick up one from Zachary’s. Zachary’s has starred reviews in the Zagat Guide and the New York Times, and folks far and wide proclaim its fabulosity, but I hated it.

They’re famous for their deep dish pizza, which I dislike, preferring the more refined thin crust. I ordered a thin crust, but the toppings had been shovelled on (I actually removed some of the cheese) and it was like eating a casserole with your hands. Add in the metallic sauce ordinaire and you have yet another pricey addition to my green bin.

~shudder~

So you can’t blame me for getting a real pizza, with house-made sauce and handmade, properly blistered crust from dear old reliable Victor’s. Though you could, and probably should, blame me for picking up:

• Some Neal’s Yard Marlborough Cheddar at what used to be Leonard’s but is now Cheese Plus. Good, sharp cheddar is as hard to find as decent pizza and Chinese food in my area.
• My favorite old fashioned doughnuts (only two!) at Bob’s Doughnuts, which happen to be the best doughnuts in the world. If you’ve only had factory doughnuts like Krispy Kreme, you don’t know what you’re missing. Bonus: there’s always a crazy person or three providing free street theater in or near Bob’s. If you’re visiting San Francisco, go off your diet it and check it. Suzy says.

My hair looked like a Muppet’s when I woke up this morning.

My email inbox contained one of those cute chain letters with photos of sleeping kitties and kiddies. Imagine my surprise when I recognized one of the pictures as one I originally posted on my blog three years ago, almost to the day.

So someone found that old post, clicked on the link, copied the picture, and included it on some massive chain mail message. Go figure. The photo was taken in Prague in the 1960’s by my friend’s uncle, who gave me the scanned photo on disk as well as a hard copy, since I found it so charming, so I know its true origin.

The title of the email is “tired”, and apparently it’s still making the rounds. The net can be a strange place. Can Six Degrees of Suzy be far behind?

Joseph Cornell: Taglioni’s Jewel Casket, 1940

You will be amazed to learn that I didn’t unpack the boxes, or tidy up. A stunningly beautiful (and informative) New Year’s card from a kind reader informs me that house tidying is to be completed by January 1, according to Hogmanay tradition. So that ship has sailed. Unless she means January 1, 2009. That might be do-able. Maybe. If I can train the kittens to put things away instead of messing them up, which, like me, seems to be their forte.

Leaving the kittens to figure it out, and the boxes to unpack themselves, I skipped into the city to catch the Joseph Cornell exhibit at MOMA on its last day. I meant to go both Friday and Saturday, but the storms kept me cowering inside as the wind and rain beat down. On the bright side, I had finally mowed the lawn* the day before the storms hit (and I do mean hit). On the other hand, the power kept going out on Friday and I realized how unprepared I am now for emergencies. I used to have a whole kit and everything.

I took advantage of the lull in the storm to venture across the bridge. The exhibit was predictably packed, notably with San Francisco Snoots, who were too busy appraising each other’s outfits to bother looking much at the artwork, and with uncontrolled and/or howling children, being bargained with by their beleagured parents.

If amusement parks can have signs which say, “You have to be this tall to take this ride”, can’t art museums? I mean, come on. Amusements parks’ whole raison d’?tre is to attract kids and possibly make them sick while simultaneously parting their parents from their hard-earned money. Art museums, to the best of my knowledge, are not. So institute a “5 years old or older” rule and let the rest of us enjoy the beauty in peace. If the kid’s being dragged around slobbering and screaming in its mother’s arms, it ain’t working up a sweat with art appreciation, believe me.

Don’t even get me started on the whole “If you’re good, you get a cookie” thing. Kids don’t need choices and bribery, they need rules. They’re good in public because that’s what their parents expect. End of story.

And end of rant.

The exhibit was fascinating, spanning Cornell’s entire working life from approximately 1931 until his death in 1972. The boxes, of course, are his most famous medium, but there were also collages and film. My favorites were:

• A small black box with a white pipe in the shape of a bird’s foot, with irregular, flat glass disks floating above it, silkscreened with white images of seashells;
• A tiny box with his favorite deep blue glass over it, containing a collage with a hand and silver doll’s plate, knife and fork; and
• A breathtaking series of collages of nudes. Surprising for someone so notoriously chaste (he lived with his mother and brother, who suffered from cerebral palsy, his entire life), but that purity of vision and love of beauty make them truly special. He saw the same beauty in these women as he did in the stars or other natural phenomena.

*The last time I mowed a lawn, I was 15. I used to quite enjoy it. On this particular occasion, I was unwisely barefoot and managed to electrocute myself. I still remember my heart slowing and the difficulty of pulling my hands from the electric field of the handle. I ran into the house sobbing about how I almost died. My father looked up and asked mildly, “Did you turn off the lawnmower?”

Like I’d touch that instrument of almost death after finally getting free of it! Dad went outside and turned it off. Nothing happened to him. I didn’t mow another lawn for 30 years.

Happy new year, everyone! Hope it’s a joyful and sparkly one.

I think my resolution had better be to unpack all those boxes before another year rolls around. There must be some logical math-type equation to explain the packing-unpacking mystery of the boxes. When I was packing, it seemed that no matter how much stuff I stuffed into boxes, there was still more stuff to be stuffed. Now that I?m unpacking, it seems that no matter how many boxes I unpack, there are still more awaiting my ministrations. Downsizing has its down side. I can’t help wishing for I Dream of Jeannie* to magically appear and blink the whole mess away. And whip up a martini while she?s at it.

*When I was a kid, I always wanted to hang out in Jeannie’s bottle, with all the velvet and the sparkliness. Come to think of it, I still do. Fun fact: Jeannie’s bottle was not created for the show. It was actually a special Christmas 1964 Jim Beam liquor decanter containing ‘Beam’s Choice’ bourbon whiskey.

So far, my new year is shaping up to be as festive as my Christmas, and that’s just fine with me. Both the champagne and I will be chillin’ with the kittens.

Audrey enjoyed the spaying experience as much as I had predicted. When I called to check on her post-surgery status, the vet described her as “grumpy”, and said that she was growling every time anyone came near her. Having personally witnessed the Rocky level fight she put up when they attempted to take her temperature, I’m not surprised. I think my reaction to that procedure would have been the same, to tell you the truth.

When I picked her up the following day, the vet had given her an extra shot of analgesic because of the continuous complaining – she wasn’t sure if it was Audrey being her charming self, or Audrey saying she was in pain, so the vet decided to be on the safe side. I wonder if extra complaining results in extra drugs for people, too. If so, I’m all set.

Once Audrey got home and out of her carrier, she raced up and down the length of the house like a crazy cat. I think she thought she could get away from the dreaded cone on her head if she could just move fast enough. I was terrified that she’d pull her stitches or cause some unspeakable interior harm, so I put her back in the carrier until I could locate a kitten sized straitjacket. I set her beside me for the next couple of hours, petting her and keeping my arm around the carrier. When I let her out, she seemed to have calmed down, though she managed to get the cone off in 0.02 seconds, the little Houdini.

I left June in charge last night and ventured into the City to see Jersey Boys with my partner and his two stunning daughters. I have to say, going into the city to do things, instead of actually living there and doing them, makes me feel like such a LOSER. Here I am, leaving the suburbs to go into the big city! Oh boy! Look at them city types, Harold! Ain’t they somethin’?

The theater was built in 1922, and is described on its website as “intimate”. Anyone who’s looked at real estate of any description soon learns what the code words mean: rustic = falling down, cozy = too small for a midget to live in in any real comfort, and so on. “Intimate” in this case meant “as crowded as airplane cattle class”, so I spent the whole show with my knees pressed against the seat of the giant sitting in front of me, with my arms pinned against me in middle seat fashion so as not to crowd the woman next to me who was singing along tunelessly with every song. I was about ready to expire from the heat, claustrophobia, and perfume when the intermission arrived.

The show itself was your basic Broadway musical, though for some reason whenever Jersey or something Jersey-specific was mentioned, the crowd went wild. I might have enjoyed it more if we weren’t stuffed in the back under airline conditions with an abbreviated view. At least I didn’t shell out $85 apiece for the tickets, since it was my partner’s treat.

So much for the hot time in the big city.

Wishing everyone a glittery new year, wherever you may live!

Wishing everyone a fabulous Christmas and a glamorous new year!

You’d have to figure a day that starts with a ticket before breakfast is not going to be a good one.

You’d be right.

Arriving home, ticket in hand, I found half the regulation number of kittens. June was hovering in the laundry room, overly interested in the broom closet for someone who does even less housework than I do. Audrey was nowhere to be seen, but she was heard – somewhere under the house.

Inspecting the broom closet, which, unsurprisingly, was free of brooms, I noticed a hole in the floor. Looking through the hole, I saw Audrey. In the crawlspace under the house. To which I did not have a key*.

Called landlords, got voicemail. Made executive decision to go to hardware store and get bolt cutters and new lock. Was pleasantly surprised to learn that bolt cutters could be (and were) rented, and returned home feeling moderately triumphant, only to be acccosted by next door neighbor, B, who informed me that there was raw sewage merrily percolating out of my house.

With B by my side, I went and peered under the bush to the right of the house and was horrified. B further informed me that the sewage situation had existed for approximately one week at that point. That’s not information that should be kept to yourself, my friend. Gah. Thanked B, called the landlords, got voicemail. Freed Audrey from under the house. She was remarkably ungrateful. I had pictured her clinging to me as if to say, “Thank you for saving me!” but instead, she kept trying to get back down the hole and when that failed, threw herself against the door, howling. For hours.

I longed for Marlin Perkins and a tranquilizer dart. For each of us.

*My landlords seem like nice people, though definitely on the flaky side. They keep meaning to get the keys to me for the crawlspace and the shed with the lawnmower, but haven’t managed it yet. I suspect they are a former couple, since they own the house together but now have separate addresses, so are possibly working out that whole post-breakup communication thing. And we all know how fun that is.

Well, that was fast. Faced with returning the rental and most necessities of life being somewhere down the freeway, I bought a car. It?s only the second car I ever had, and they?re both Fords. The second, a 1997 candy apple red Taurus with 62,000 miles on it, is much more practical than the first, a 1966 silver blue Mustang convertible. Both are pretty and have only been driven in California. I feel conflicted about owning a car, though. Now I?m officially part of the problem. Does it count that I?ll be taking public transit to work instead of driving?