Suzy Says

I was in the cute store buying a birthday card for a friend when a calendar featuring The Poky LIttle Puppy caught my eye.

It was my favorite book at one point in my childhood. Dad read it to me so often that he used to hold the book with the pictures facing me, and recite the story by heart, turning the pages at the correct time. I hadn’t thought of it in years, and I snapped up the calendar and its happy memories, smiling all the way home.

It’s not just me, either. According to Wikipedia, it’s the best-selling hard-cover children’s book of all time, at 15 million and counting. But I bet I was the only one with a Dad like mine.

Oh, and I couldn’t resist this little cuteness* for Self:

In other puppy-related news, I will soon be a published author! I wrote a book review for Dogs in Canada magazine, and they were nice enough not only to publish it (I think in October), but have already paid me for it. It’s just so shocking to do work and then get paid for it right away. Is it supposed to work like that? Really? I think my boss missed the memo. I’ll pass it on and see what he says.

Rita is unimpressed by my literary status, even though I spent much of the check on dog-related necessities. Every time I feed her, she looks at me like, “You expect me to eat this crap? Where’s the steak I ordered?”

*It says “hmm…what I can buy today?” but is a little hard of reading.

The next entry in the saga is an appropriate way to send off the Month of Death. I delayed in posting it because I was totally taken aback to discover that it was written on August 18, 1991 – 10 years to the day before Dad died. And I couldn’t bring myself to post it on the scheduled date of Friday, August 18, 2006. Five years passing doesn’t make his passing any easier.

Wimbledon, England, August 18, 1991

Flight arrived and left on time. Cleared Customs in minutes, and having no checked baggage [those were the days!] I was in no time among the hordes of people waiting to greet the arrivals. The two faces I was anxiously seeking were nowhere to be seen. It was so unlike Dad and Margaret to be late that I wondered if I had given them the correct date and time of my arrival. While I was wondering, a policeman and policewoman ran by, chasing a young man who they subsequently caught. By that time, I had found Dad and Margaret among the crowds trying to get into Gatwick, trying to park at Gatwick, and trying to meet people at Gatwick.

Dad had the tail end of a cold/flu and looked a little pale. He seemed to perk up during the day and was almost well by the end of the day. We were so happy to see each other that I can’t help thinking it was part of the cure!

It was a beautiful, sunny day, warm but not hot, with a fresh, light breeze. The house at Wimbledon is already like a second home to me. I was delighted to see how Dad’s study had changed since my last visit and the arrival of his things. I renewed my acquaintance with old friends I hadn’t seen in years – carved elephants from Africa, a train model in cast iron from Dad’s childhood, a lovely vase that had belonged to Grammie [Dad’s mother] – all these things reappeared. It is now the perfect place for Dad to work. [Though technically retired, he edited an international journal, Ecotoxicology, until his death, and also participated in and/or chaired international meetings held by bodies such as the World Health Organization. He was scheduled to chair a meeting in Germany three weeks after his death in 2001.]

The grandfather clock is in the living room. The Wedgwood salad servers and dish were out in the kitchen, having been used for a recent dinner party. [I inherited all of them, along with Grammie’s ivory-handled silverware and fish set.]

After unpacking and cleaning up, we had lunch on the stone-flagged patio outside the living room and then drove to a beautiful old house [!] with Adam interiors called Syon Park. It has a long history, including being the place where Catherine Howard was imprisoned and Jane Grey agreed to become Queen.

It is a remarkably lovely house and beautifully designed, but the rooms are at once ornate and chilly. The only room I can imagine actually living in is the delightful Long Gallery, which was designed for the ladies to repair to after dinner, while the men smoked cigars and drank port and told naughty stories. A door, cleverly concealed as a trompe i’oeil bookcase, leads to the garden, and another concealed door leads to a small private room for intimate conversations.

Syon House also has a grandfather clock which is the carefully restored twin of our own. Unfortunately, the gentleman who repaired it works exclusively for the Duke of Northumberland [Syon’s owner]. I believe that the Duke and his family still live there, as the upstairs is closed to the public.

We finished our visit to Syon with a visit to the Garden Center. Grammie’s gardening blood has come out in Dad with a vengeance; it seems he’s always there fussing or pruning or planning. [Just days after his funeral, the plants he had ordered for the autumn arrived.] He’s so happy, and that makes me happy, too.

Move over, Kirstie Alley! I am now my own dream girl!

Last night, I dreamed I was a stripper who used Daisy as a club name (not to be confused with the original Daisy). I had a short, fluffy pink wig, pink feather boa, and very high-heeled pink shoes, along with the usual sundries, also pink. I was having a great time. In the dream, I kept thinking, “These shoes are really comfortable! Who would have thought?”

Not as fun as T & A, but here goes:

Q: Are you a comment tease?

A: No, I’m lacking in techpertise (or techpertease, if you prefer). I thought I had turned on the comments, but I was wrong. You know how that can happen. Turning on does not seem to be my forte. At least I can make hollandaise sauce. And a great big noisy fuss.

Q: Why is Rita like a box of cigars?

A: They cost the same. I bought a box of good cigars for our biggest client (it wasn’t for them, I’d be living in a cardboard box under the freeway) and it was a surprising $250. Yikes. I’m theoretically going to be reimbursed for them, but considering the theoreticalness of getting paid, breath-holding is not in order.

Turns out the Actual Owner has not taken Rita to the vet for 4 YEARS. That’s 29 years in dog years, and considering that Rita is now a venerable 11 ?, I thought it was inexcusable. So we went to the vet, where her records had to be unearthed from the basement, and had a thorough check-up, blood testing, the works. Rita enjoyed it about as much as I enjoy the annual ritual of mammogram and Pap test, but endured it with much less complaint.

She’s in good shape for a vintage girl, but she’s the Nicole Richie of dogs, weighing in at a mere 44 pounds. The vet said to feed her twice a day instead of once. She also had an ear infection, so I’ve been putting drops in her ears twice a day. My popularity with my almost dog is probably at an all-time low, but I’ll be finished with the drops in a couple of days. The cost of the whole thing was $250, just like the cigars*, but worth it. I’m so glad she’s OK.

I’m so annoyed that Actual Owner didn’t get her shots and check-ups done for so long. John and I used to use our tax return to get all the cats checked out every year, and if they needed something extra, like dental work, we just did without to pay for it. When you adopt a dog or cat, you get all the responsibility as well as all the cuteness, and it’s for the rest of their lives.

Good thing I haven’t run into AO. If he has the nerve to ask for her back, I’ll tell him he has to pay me back for the vet, the grooming, the dog food, and the cost of boarding her Chez Moi for the past three months. Say $30 a day for 90 days – $2,700. Also nice in theory.

Q: Why is a raven like a writing desk?

A: I haven’t the slightest idea.

*Apparently nearly everything costs $250. I just refilled my prescription for the Evil Effexor and it cost, you guessed it, $250. I hope it’s the last time I have to buy it – talk about an expensive drug habit!

People have been telling me that they miss being able to comment, so I decided to turn the comments back on. I’ll just have to deal with the spam. As the Iron Duke of Wellington said, “Publish and be damned!”

Further proof that August is the Official Month of Death: the world’s oldest person, Maria Capovilla, died on August 24 at the age of 116. The previous title holder, Jeanne Calment, died on August 4, 1997* at the astonishing age of 122. Elizabeth Bolden, the world’s current Official Old Lady, is bucking the trend by actually being born in August (1890!) and still being alive. She must be relieved that there are only 3 days left in the Death Days of August.

*Jeanne had the last laugh. In 1965, aged 90, with no living heirs, Jeanne Calment signed a deal, common in France, to sell her condominium apartment “en viager” to lawyer Fran?ois Raffray. Raffray, then aged 47, agreed to pay a monthly sum until she died, an agreement sometimes called a “reverse mortgage”. At the time of the deal the value of the apartment was equal to ten years of payments. Unfortunately for Raffray, not only did she survive more than thirty years, but he died first, in December 1995, of cancer, at the age of 77. His widow had to continue the payments.

This time, it’s not the plumbing ganging up on me, it’s the appliances.

Apparently, they got together while I was in Detroit and decided to protest my absence by annoying me and/or going on a sudden, French-style strike.

The coffeemaker, previously my friend, now pees all over the counter every time I use it. I can’t find any particular reason for the incontinence, so I get to look forward to it every morning, when I am at my least tolerant (not that the level increases much throughout the day, but still). It’s as fun as listening to the mice squealing in horror and skittering away when I turn on the bathroom light. I hate the mice. I wish they’d move out and leave me alone, or become interesting prey for Rita. She never chases anything smaller than a pigeon or squirrel, but she does follow me around like I’m a giant cheeseburger when I’m trying to make dinner. Rita: she’s everywhere you want to be!

When I threw my Motown-soiled clothes into the washer, it worked fine. But when I attempted to use the dryer, it made a weird noise and then told me in no uncertain terms that it was never going to dry another damn thing, thank you very much. Now I have a dead dryer in the bathroom and damp clothes draped all over the place. I really am not good at laundry. I found a used one on Craigslist that looks good. The guy is supposed to bring it over and install it on Wednesday evening. I hope he’s not an axe murderer or anything. Maybe I should call Dial-A-Boy so I’m not alone when he gets here.

I’m not sure if the people upstairs are away, but their alarm clock isn’t. It’s been ringing for days and is pushing me closer and closer to the brink of insanity.

Oh, no! I just fell over it!

I’ve been gone so long, I need a maid to dust around here! I know you’ve been patiently waiting to hear about Suzy’s Motown Adventure, so here goes:

Arrived at the game so fashionably late that it was almost unfashionable. Plagued by traffic jams (2 out of 3 were construction; the third was an accident involving one of those huge trucks carrying cars, plus five other cars who all hit into each other) so bad that I just turned the engine off until it was possible to move again, my outstanding ability to get lost despite the simplicity of the directions, and the lack of parking spaces by the time I finally turned up at the stadium, I almost didn’t make it for the third straight year in a row. There was an inning and a half left by the time I found my dear Kathleen, whose hug forgave all.

To punish me, the Tigers lost the game, even though it was Kathleen’s birthday. But they gave her a lovely parting gift: a fireworks display!

To add insult to injury, my rental car was a Chevy Malibu. Not a cool Repo Man one, a bright blue hatchback which was hard to see out of the back of, which practically screamed “I’m not driving a Ford car in a Ford town! Haha!”

The next day, Kathleen picked me up in her car (thankfully, a Ford), which turned out to be a time machine. We stepped out of her car and into the past.

Once through the gates of Greenfield Village, a man in period dress rides by on a penny-farthing cycle. Farm workers in the field use tools that are more than a century old. We ask directions of a lady in a sunbonnet with a basket over her arm. We see wool, clipped from sheep we saw on the farm, carded and made into yarn. We see glass being blown, prints being made, tin ornaments being made, all with traditional materials and tools. We get to ride in a real 1926 Model T, driven around the village like princesses for the princely sum of $4. I am enchanted.

The Village is one of Henry Ford’s (“Mr. Ford”, as he is always referred to) many brilliant ideas. He collected actual historic buildings, such as the Wright Brothers’ homestead, and transported them to an idyllic setting. He even moved Thomas Edison’s Menlo Park (the Joisey one, not the Sharks adjacent one) laboratory in its entirety. There’s a man who truly understood transportation. While in the laboratory, we heard Edison’s very first recording and saw the chair he had sat in when he recorded it. Mr. Ford had kept the chair in the exact place, at the exact angle, nailed into place on the original floorboards. No-one was ever allowed to sit in the chair again. Kathleen and I were both moved to tears by this tribute to a dear friend and fellow genius.

To be continued…

I don’t know if it’s the dog days or the death days, but my creativity seems to have withered like the pansies in my windowbox during the heatwave. The heatwave is mercifully over, but inside my head looks like one of those bleak landscapes by Salvador Dali (of course, the watches have melted from the heatwave, and my landscape would be littered with martini glasses, lipstick, and a scattering of diamonds, but you get the picture). No movie nights, no reminiscences, no nothing.

However, all this should change this weekend, when I am finally able to attend my dear Kathleen’s Birthday Baseball Extravaganza. For the past two years, Mom was either dying or dead, so I had to send my truly regretful regrets, but this year, I can join a couple dozen of Kathleen’s closest friends and admirers at the Detroit Tigers game on Saturday! I’m also planning to take the Ford Factory Tour, only fitting for a girl whose only car was a Ford.

In construction site news, yesterday the big crane managed to hit an electrical wire, causing a power outage chez moi, and, less importantly, the entire block. Fortunately, I was out for several hours going to the gym and primping (I had my eyebrows threaded for the first time and the results are fab) for the Birthday Baseball Extravaganza. When I got home, the power was back on, and Rita thought I looked mahvelous. She should know.

Rita’s charm seems to be off the charts these days. Maybe it’s the grooming, maybe it’s just her native loveliness, but when I was walking her the other evening, an older gentleman came out of his house as we passed to pet her and fuss over her. When the construction workers convene in the morning, they fuss over her, too, and sometimes give her part of their lunches. She’s the Queen of the ‘Hood. Guess that makes me her Lady in Waiting*.

*Especially when she’s sniffing around in the bushes so long that I’m afraid she’s found a body.

The ancient, creaking freight elevator in my ancient, creaking building is right across the courtyard from my front door. Since the weather has finally changed from blistering to balmy, I had the front door open (with a baby gate across it to keep Miss Sneaky from sneaking out for some illicit sniffing) this morning. A girl came to the door and asked for help – her cat was trapped in the bottom of the freight elevator.

I suggested she call the Fire Department – I know for a fact that firemen, even volunteer ones, rescue cats – but she was convinced that she could bring the elevator down just far enough to reach over the platform and catch the errant kitty. The elevator descended properly, but then stuck stubbornly. I ran up to the second and third floors to try and call the elevator up, but to no avail. It refused to go up or down. I have seldom met an elevator more adamantly opposed to working on the sabbath.

I paged the building manager, but he was not home or not answering, which is the usual result when you phone or page him. I lent the girl a flashlight, so she could see that the cat was OK (the cat was loudly informing us of our incompetency and her need for food), and a towel, which she hoped to hold over the edge, thinking the cat would climb on to it and be pulled up. She must be a neophyte cat keeper if she thinks cats will do what you want them to.

Finally, another of the building’s residents walked by, and he knew a way to override the stalled elevator. So the cat was rescued, and all is right in the world.

Scene: 8:00 on a sunny summer morning in a big city. The street has a huge construction site and several Victorian houses, along with miscellaneous buildings of unclear purpose. In front of the houses are four trucks. The first in line has letters saying “City Waste Management” on the side and is growling loudly. The other three are dump trucks destined for the construction site and are silently napping until needed.

A woman wearing a pink bathrobe emerges from one of the houses. She’s clearly upset.

Woman: (Yelling at five construction workers half a block away) I’m trying to get some sleep! Turn off the truck!

Construction Guy: (Yelling back) It’s not our truck!

Woman: You shouldn’t be parked on the sidewalk! Get that truck out of here!

All Construction Workers: (In unison, with hands cupped around mouths) It’s not our truck!

Woman: (Increasingly exasperated) Well, can’t you do something about it?

Construction Workers: (Still in unison) Call the City!

Woman: Well, what about the other 20 trucks behind it?

Construction Workers: They’re turned off!

Final Score: Construction Workers: 3 Irate Woman: 0

March 29, 1991

Drove to Leeds Castle through the sunny morning. I was delighted with the beauty of the countryside – the impossible green of the grass, rolling hills starred with daffodils and crocuses, trees misty with buds, tall hedges bordering narrow lanes, wood violets, hyacinths, the transparent green of weeping willows.

The approach to the castle was breathtaking – ducks, swans, geese and plovers in ornamental ponds, and one very ornamental and ornery peacock who refused to be photographed. The castle itself is beautiful, situated in a lake with stunning views over the countryside. However, the lovely interior was brought there by Lady Baillie, who owned the castle for 40-odd years from the 1920’s on.

She brought over entire staircases of oak, 16th century fireplaces, tapestries, etc. For example, the beautiful ebony floor in “Henry VIII’s Banqueting Hall” was put in by Lady Baillie in 1926, together with the centuries-old fireplace and Florentine table, so, in other words, Henry would not have recognized this room. Practically nothing belongs to any of the several previous owners before Lady B. It is a beautiful building, but basically the fantasy of a wealthy woman who could import and recreate anything she wished. There is no trace of the medieval or Tudor queens and kings.

I was impressed by the number of windows. There were several large windows, with window seats, which dated from the 13th century, a time more notable for its arrow slits than its windows. Possibly the owners of the castle felt safe because the castle is surrounded by a lake.

Had a wonderful farewell dinner at a Thai restaurant. Full moon and stars tonight.

Sadly, not the & Gabbana type, which is the very best Dolce there is. But there were other kinds, and also a little Dior.

My friend Charlie’s return from his Roman holiday was the perfect reason to be Suzy the Showoff Chef this weekend. To celebrate the occasion, I made scallop cakes with cilantro-lime mayonnaise, served with asparagus and lemon-herb risotto, accompanied by sparkling Prosecco and sparkling conversation. And for dolce: orange sorbetto, presented in orange halves. Dolce, indeed.

The after-dolce flick was, as you’ve probably guessed, La Dolce Vita. I’m not a big Fellini fan, but I love this movie. Everyone looks so great, and it’s so fabulously 60s in look and feel. And what’s not to love about the surreal opening scene, with the huge statue of Jesus being hauled up in the sky on a crane? Fun fact: it was so cold while shooting the Trevi Fountain scene that Marcello Mastroianni, who was wearing a wetsuit under his clothes, drank an entire bottle of vodka in an effort to warm up. He was toasted for the whole scene, if not toasty.

But the most dolce part of the evening for me was the gift of a Dior bag from Rome. Dolce, dolce, dolce!

March 28, 1991

There was a bunny in the garden this morning!

Dad & I took the Underground to the Embankment and from there, a boat to Greenwich. Dad says he really feels the approach to Greenwich should be made by boat. It was a wonderful trip down the River Thames – under Tower Bridge, past the Tower of London, and other historic sites.

Visited the beautiful Cutty Sark and bought Jonathan [My brother has sailed from the age of 4 – Dad always said he’d trust his life to Jonathan on any boat. Many years later, he actually worked with a friend on restoring the Cutty Sark!] some souvenirs. We had a lovely time climbing all over the beautiful old ship. I especially enjoyed the account of one of her captains, who brought his collies aboard and learned to ride a bike on the between decks!

Had lunch at the Trafalgar Tavern, built in 1837, and a favorite of Dickens, Thackeray, and Wilkie Collins. The food and the view were both excellent. Dad takes his pubs seriously, bringing the Good Pub Guide with him and making notes. [He even sent in reviews for pubs he felt were much better or worse than their rating in the Guide.]

After lunch, we visited the Royal Observatory. It was fascinating to see all the old instruments and the beautful – one of the few remaining – Christopher Wren interiors. Standing on the time line [the Prime Meridian, from which all time and distance is measured in the whole world] was as exciting to me now as it was when I was a child.

We could have spent the whole day at the Maritime Museum. Not only is it a lovely building, but the collection is arranged so well – you follow the course of British Naval history. There were models of ships made when the ship herself was being built, from the 1600s on, an exhibit on Nelson, Cook, & Arctic exploration, as well as a minutely detailed exhibit on wooden boat-making which I wished Jonathan could have seen.

We took the boat back to the Tower [Tower Hill Underground station] and then the train back to Wimbledon. Dad & I were both sleepy and sort of dozing on each other’s shoulders. As I watched the familiar landmarks flash past, I started to think that this would be the last time during this visit that we’d ride the train together. I feel so lucky that my father is my very dear friend and that we take such genuine pleasure in each other’s company.

I discovered a small, pale blue budgie wandering around in a daze in the courtyard today. He was either flight-challenged or over-served at a nearby bar, since he was easier to catch than a cold. I put a box (whose previous tenant was a dozen bottles of chardonnay) over him, slid a piece of cardboard underneath, and the poor thing was boxed instead of caged.

After giving my captive a drink of water, I set the box on the kitchen table (out of Rita’s reach – look what happened when I left groceries unattended) and did an informal survey of the neighborhood. After knocking on doors and calling everyone I knew who lives in the building or the neighborhood with no takers, I put up posters and then took the little bird to the SPCA. Hopefully, his owner will turn up sooner rather than later, and take better care of the little guy in the future. He’s way too small to be all alone in the big city.

While I was filling out the form for the little lost bird, a guy came in with a bigger box. I asked him what he found, and his was better: two kittens. He said he was unpacking a truck that had just finished a long haul and found the two fuzzy stowaways in the very back. They were harder to capture than the bird – gloves were required – but I just had to look at them. One was pure black and fuzzy, and the other a sweet brown tabby. They were both young enough to still have blue eyes, and they were incredibly cute. I don’t think it will take long for the littlest hitch-hikers to find a home.

It may look like the country, but it’s not*. It’s the vacant lot behind the rambling old building where I live. If Rita wants a quick outing before bed, or if one of us isn’t ambitious enough to go to the park, we go to the vacant lot. It’s conveniently fenced in, so I can let her off the leash to run and prance and get covered with grass and wildflower petals.

Looking at the photos, isn’t it hard to believe that it’s in the heart of the city? Right next door to the halfway house, and the train tracks are on the other side of an old brick wall. Does that mean I live on the wrong side of the tracks?

*Not quite as melodious as the slogan at the end of this commercial!

This weekend’s feature was the first movie filmed in Psycho-Rama (and probably the last, too)! There are supposed to be subliminal messages flashed throughout the movie, but as far as I could tell, Psycho-Rama consisted of flashing skulls and devil heads during the dream sequence at the beginning. Very distracting, and nowhere near as enjoyable as Brad Pitt’s splicing job in Fight Club. Psycho-Rama will only make you scream out of sheer annoyance.

Essentially, the movie is a low-rent Rebecca, Alfred Hitchcock’s 1940 masterpiece:

Terror: Filmed in Psycho-Rama!
Rebecca: Famous opening shot where the camera seems to melt through the mansion’s gates.

Terror/Rebecca: Young girl marries mysterious man abroad after whirlwind courtship and returns with him to creepy mansion. The Terror Mansion is the “mad Tierney place” – no relation to ravishing Gene or rambunctious Lawrence. Unfortunately.

Terror: Creepy caretaker with giant unblinking eyes who knows the family secrets and dies an unpleasant death.
Rebecca: Creepy housekeeper who knows the family secrets and dies an unpleasant death.

Terror/Rebecca: New husbands both seem to be unfeeling jerks and have dark pasts.

Terror: Cast of B actors. Cathy O’Donnell, who spends most of the movie screaming, was in Ben-Hur after this movie and that was the end of her movie career. I would have thought it would be the other way around.

Rebecca: Laurence Olivier and Joan Fontaine.

In the end, both couples flee their respective creepy mansions and, we assume, live happily or neurotically ever after.

What to serve with the movie: a Green Ghost, of course. Gotta use up that blue cura?ao left over from last week!

March 26, 1991

A wonderful day. We all went to the Tate Gallery in London. We came across a lecturer who was speaking to a group of school children about Turner. He was so fascinating that we followed him all over the gallery. The Turners were magnificent – I was most impressed with some very impressionist paintings of Venice, done a good 40 or 50 years before Monet & friends.

We had a delicious lunch in the Tate restaurant, which is just about the most delightfully whimsical room I have ever been in. It is decorated with a mural depicting the search of a royal party for exotic food to tempt their jaded palates. The mural is by Rex Whistler*, who painted it when he was 23!

Started lunch with grilled, spiced crab. Dad & I had guinea fowl, and Margaret had game casserole. We had half a bottle of 1985 chablis and half a bottle of 1985 Puligny-Montrachet. We all enjoyed the chablis the most. We finished with profiteroles in an intense chocolate sauce. It was all incredible.

After lunch, we looked at the small collection of Impressionists, inclusing a lovely Monet of a summer day.

Dad’s old friend, CW, came for dinner. We had a delightful evening discussing everything under the sun, but especially wine. CW is a fascinating man, and I imagine he’s a very good teacher – he teaches at the University of Reading and also orders their wine. We had a New Zealand and an Australian chardonnay with dinner, which was chicken in sherry, apples, and raisins with rice. So it was a day of one pleasure after another – beautiful artwork, exquisite food, and good conversation!

*Not to be confused with James Abbott McNeil Whistler, of “Whistler’s Mother” fame. Rex Whistler was an English artist who specialized in exquisite trompe l’oeil murals, some of which can still be seen at National Trust houses throughout Britain, my favorite being Plas Newydd in Wales. Whistler died in action in 1944 at the age of 36. His memorial, created by his brother, is a glorious crystal engraving at Salisbury Cathedral.

The overwhelming heat and the overwhelming amount of work I’ve had in the past week have resulted in stupor for Suzy. Looking at the weather map, it seems the entire country, except possibly Seattle, is either literally or figuratively burning up. In this case, I’m pretty sure that misery does not love company.

Here’s what been going on around here:

Work

Apparently, I am now a consultant. I find this slightly unnerving, since it sounds like a grown-up job that I may not in fact be grown-up enough for. Also, it reminds me of this New Yorker cartoon. Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.

Gym

Still going three days a week. Not obviously thinner – I feel I’m more Star Jones: the early years than, say, Kate Moss, but definitely stronger. My easily amused Self never gets tired of opening jars with her newly-acquired super-strength. I feel like a very minor super-heroine.

Pill rehab continues apace. I’m pleased to announce that as of next week, I’ll be down to two 75 mg pills a day. So far, so good. No psychotic episodes, crying jags, or tropical depressions. Now I can laugh carelessly when I pass the conveniently located nearby loony bin, confident that I will not be among their number any time soon.

Rita

Rita-Belle loves the heat as much as I do, i.e., not at all. Our strolls have slowed to moseys, as we drag our tails around (too bad owners don’t look like their dogs – Rita is Hollywood thin). When we get home, we hit the water with the alacrity of someone who has crawled across the Mojave.

Last week, the Actual Owner turned up on my doorstep, accompanied by a friend, and asked to “borrow” Rita for a few days. The presence of the friend made it impossible for us to have the Talk about our Relationship (normally something I avoid like housework), and AO left with the chilling words, “I’ll call you.”

Like every girl who hears those words, I spent the next few days wondering if it was the usual boy code for “You will never see me again.” Should I call him? What if he doesn’t call? All with no Rita to comfort me. It gave me a horrifying dating flashback. I wanted to rinse out my mind with minty fresh Scope.

Fortunately, she was returned to me just three days later, though with the caveat that AO’s friend would be taking Rita to the country for the month of August. I was jealous of the friend, happy for Rita, who could bound around freely and chase squirrels in relative coolness, and sad to know I’d be without her for a month. Will I get her back afterwards?

Dog days, indeed.

PS: Hey Raven – happy birthday, kiddo!

First of all, I have turned off the comments thing because of the abomination of spamification lately. I have zero technical ability, so can’t understand how to make that Type Pad Key thing work, and just reading about MT’s spam filtering thing made my brain go “La la la, what’s for dinner?” I am, after all, a girl who can’t program her VCR (remember them?). So you’ll have to email me: speakallATearthlink.net, if you can help this helpless (and possibly hopeless) girl. Note to Harry: I know you’re holding out on me, which a fellow hooligan should never do.

And now, for the question of the week. It’s such a good one that I’m going to have to call in a panel of experts to help. Any girl over the age of 16 will have valuable advice and insights, so email me & I’ll pass it on. Extra points if you have technical advice AND dating advice.

Why do I bother dating or think about dating, when men come from a whole different plane of existence? Why do I freak myself out about dating, instead of just going with the flow and not stressing?

– Kathleen

Dear Kathleen,

You don’t freak yourself out about dating, society does. Everywhere a girl looks, there are articles on how it’s more likely to be struck by lightning than get married over the age of 35, books like “The Rules” (how I loved it when the author got divorced), and fashion magazines with airbrushed, nipped’n’tucked fake women*. We are supposed to want to be the fake women, and fear being unmarried. Really, have things changed much since the days of Jane Austen (other than plastic surgery)?

The very name “spinster” compared to “bachelor” tells a girl that being single is undesirable for a woman, unless she’s in some bachelor’s pad. Why isn’t there a fabulous word for the fabulous single girl? I know Bridget Jones tried to foist “singleton” on us, but it just doesn’t have that ring of carefree irresponsibility. As a linguist, you’d think I could come up with something good. Is “freegirl” too Lynyrd Skynyrd?

I’ve been married, and I’ve been single. If you’re single, you can see your friends any time you want. You don’t have to apologize or explain. You won’t alienate them by forcing them to wear hideous bridesmaid dresses. No-one expects you to reproduce, or explain why you haven’t. Everything in your apartment is the way you like it, and the way you left it. It’s all your way, all the time. What’s not to love?

On the other hand, loneliness sucks, and we’ve been trained to believe in the soul mate (one of the worst self-esteem destroyers of the new millennium) and that having a man makes a woman whole, or more worthy than she is on her own. I have to say that I have had my fair share of masculine attention over the years, and never more so than when I’ve given up on them, generally and personally. It really does seem that once you’ve decided you don’t need them, they get all interested.

So my advice is to try not to stress on it. With your boundless freedom, do what interests you and what makes you happy. You don’t need some guy to validate your existence. My guess is that if you’re strong and happy and unconcerned about what guys think, they’ll find you as irresistible as you truly are. And if worse comes to worse, you’ll be happy by yourself and being yourself.

*Apparently, we now need to worry about what we look like everywhere. Used to be, men were so happy to be invited to the party, they didn’t notice the decor.

There’s no jungle in this movie, but there’s definitely a definite female in it – Female Jungle is the film d?but of Jayne Mansfield, a 21 year old aspiring starlet (seen here looking much like her daughter, Mariska Hargitay). Jayne plays the deliciously named Candy Price, a girl who definitely has her price (she answers the phone by purring, “What can I do for you, honey?” and proceeds to make a “date” with the caller while one of her lovers glowers in the background). Wearing skin-tight leopard print capris and asset-enhancing lam? top, she steals the show.

The film is shot in murky black and white, a literal film noir in which all the action takes place between 2 in the morning and sunrise. A glamorous movie star is murdered, and a drunk and disorderly off-duty cop played by legendary tough guy Lawrence Tierney is the prime suspect. The role can’t have been much of a reach for Tierney, who was infamous for being drunk and disorderly when he was off-duty, too. It’s said that he posed for more mug shots than publicity photos, and on the day his mother committed suicide in 1960, he was arrested for knocking down a girl’s door and assaulting her boyfriend. Despite all his misdeeds, Tierney ‘s career was long-lived – he made Reservoir Dogs when he was in his 70’s.

The other main suspect is the creepily suave John Carradine (seen here looking appropriately creepy), a gossip columnist who was in love with the dead starlet. Despite the creepitude, he manages to lure a young married woman (played by the lovely Kathleen Crowley) to his cool bachelor pad after 2 am, where she marvels at the speakers built right in above the fireplace, and the swimming pool. Of course, Se?or Suave has a bathing suit that will fit her…

Fortunately, by the end of the night, the real killer is caught and everyone can finally go home. The oddly named Bruno Ve (not De) Sota and Burt Kaiser share screenwriting credits and cast themselves in the film, too. Kaiser never made another movie, or wrote one, either. Drinking Swamp Juice (vodka, blue cura?ao, and orange juice) made this Jungle a lot more fun to watch!

It’s only right to end this mini review with a nod to fabulous movie fan and photographer Mike, who is trying to save his local movie theater. Happy birthday, Dad-Dad-Daddy-O!