Suzy Says

My one and only nephew, Ben, works as a bartender at his local pub. Though I may be accused of bias, I think Ben is pretty memorable, being over six feet tall and with the Scandinavian coloring* so rarely bestowed on girls who are not of the Nordic persuasion. (My brother also has the bright blonde hair and blue eyes, and is equally unimpressed by it. Just another one of those bad jokes made by the mistress of them all, Mother Nature.)

I think Ben is a classic name, short and easily remembered. But apparently not, since according to Ben:

“Names I have been called while bar working:

Ken
Tim
Paul
and I think once Steve

I dunno why people can’t remember Ben”

I don’t know either, unless bar math dictates that too many pints equals memory loss. It’s certainly not because Ben isn’t memorable!

*Yet he’s always trying to convince me to return to my naturally mouse shading. I remain unconvinced, though blondes, in my case at least, do not have more fun.

I thought it might be fun to post some excerpts from the diaries I kept on my trips with my father. They go from 1984 to 2000. Keep in mind that I was 22 in 1984!

I spent part of 1984 with my father, mother, and younger sis (who was all of 13) in Siena. Dad was working at the University there for a few months, and the rest of us just came along for the ride.

[Notes in square brackets are from the current version of Me.]

March 4, 1984

The courtyard of the Uffizi [in Florence] was covered in graffiti, almost shockingly so. There was really too much to take in at the gallery itself, but the unforgettables for me were the Botticelli “Spring” and “Birth of Venus”, which were breathtaking & could make you cry, they are so exquisite, and the wonderful 5th century BC Venus, which looked so alive and so beautiful you could fall in love with her. There were also two wonderful self-portraits by Rembrandt, one 30 years after the other. In the older portrait, he looked very dissipated indeed!

Florence is quite small (600,000 people) & all the historical buildings and art galleries, etc., are close together, so just walking around is an experience and you get a feel for the city and its people. We explored the market in the Piazzo San Marco, which was a great deal of fun and full of lovely things – lace, scarves, shoes, jewelry and gloves all jumbled together.

It was a long drive to Pisa, but it was a radiant day. When you leave a town in Italy, they have its name on a sign, crossed out! We drove through the chianti wine-making country, through groves of trees and up & down hills. You seem to climb imperceptibly in Tuscany, and then you look down on a splendid view of the country beneath: farms, vineyards, houses.

I can’t get over the way they still live in these medieval structures; they just shove in new windows & that’s it. Sometimes you see an ancient crumbling building that no-one could possibly live in, and then you see the inevitable line of laundry hanging from a window. Yet this doesn’t seem to indicate poverty, just a fidelity to the land or the house itself.

Some delightful details en route: two carved wooden dragons over a doorway; a forsythia tree in full bloom at the base of a palm tree. One English word the Italians seem to have taken to is “Jolly” – there are Jolly hotels, cafes, restaurants, even garages!

In Pisa, the only thing to see is the [Leaning] Tower, which was much smaller and prettier than I imagined. 60% of Pisa was destroyed in WWII, so most of the town is new and not very interesting. The Tower is white and grey, and Dad, Meg, & I climbed it – Meg even went up the part you had to climb a ladder to reach. [Megan has always been completely fear-free.] You get a token and go through a turnstile to get in, just like the subway.

For reasons beyond my control (read: the mail), I received my new bank card approximately three weeks after the old one had expired. Now there’s a reason to go postal.

My bank card doubles as a Visa card, and since my only other Visa card was rudely and summarily sold my Pacific Heights tenement, but I couldn’t get any, since I didn’t have the bank card.

In the immortal words of the immortal A.A. Milne, “He could see the honey, he could smell the honey, but he couldn’t quite reach the honey.”

Having been assured that the card was on its way, I haunted the post office where I get my mail to the point that the guy behind the counter now thinks I have a crush on him. I began to think of alternate ways to get money. Rob a bank? Too risky. Set up myself as a charity? Too much work. Find a sugar daddy? Way too old.

In the immortal words of the immortal A.A. Milne, “Piglet lay there, wondering what had happened. At first he thought that the whole world had blown up; and then he thought that perhaps only the Forest part of it had; and then he thought that perhaps only he had…”

I had come to the end of my rope when the card magically appeared. I reinforced the crush illusion by hugging the post office guy. I skipped away to activate the card and start using it. Yay!

I really should have known that my happiness would be short-lived. Have I learned nothing in the past few years?! Apparently I have equal amounts of optimism and bad luck. The card was declined. “Declined” is now my least-favorite word in the English language. It’s even worse than “work” or “boredom” (these are synonyms in Suzy vocabulary).

I called the bank, filled with righteous indignation. It had taken my card forever to reach me, and now they wouldn’t let me use it, even though their very own automated systen had given me its impersonal blessing to go ahead and spend with impunity.

The bank informed me that the card had been flagged for fraud detection, given that it was almost a month between their mailing it out and my using it. Bankers appear to be even more impatient than I am, assuming death if you don’t pay your bill for two months, and fraud if you don’t use your card for a whopping three weeks. They assured me that they would decline to decline my card now. Yay!

I bought enough groceries for the Brady Bunch, gloating over a stocked refrigerator (including wine).

I really should have known that my happiness would be short-lived.

I got an email from the incomparable Candi, the hostess with the mostes’ over at the aptly-named No Hassle Hosting, telling me that my card had once again gotten a D. I once again called the bank. Guess what? They had put the fraud tag back on the very next day after they took it off. They were at a loss to explain it (how scary is that?). They were so apologetic that I considered asking them to come on over and clean the house for me, and maybe pick up a pizza on the way. They promised me earnestly that I would never again get a D as long as I lived.

So far, so good. But I’m just waiting for the next bad grade. See, it’s like this. I really should know…

With thanks to my father, who told us Pooh stories so often that we nicknamed him Pooh. And apologies to the divine Miz Cline.

I spent a lovely Saturday afternoon with my fab friend K.

First, we had a late brunch (Eggs Florentine for Me; cheddar & broccoli omelette for Miz K), over which K floored me (it was good that I was sitting, but I did splutter quite a lot) by admitting that she had eaten a roast beef sandwich – au jus, no less – for lunch one day that week. Now, K has been a vegetarian for many years, so this admission shocked me much more than the news that the sandwich had been followed by a snogging session in the car of a most unsuitable suitor, thus rendering K late for a meeting at work. Possibly beef is an aphrodiasiac. Who knew? Maybe all those mad cows.

Following the scandalous revelations, we repaired to a Grand Hotel. Not, as you might think, for a scandalous snogfest of our own, but for a Worthy Cause Fundraiser K was attending that night. I must say I envy her all those galas and fashion shows she always seems to be attending. Anyway, I was the Designated Dresser, as I was soon to discover.

As soon as we got to K’s room, I immediately sprawled on the bed, because I love hotel beds so much. Actually, I love hotels so much. I told K I wanted to live in one, and she said that her grandparents had lived in that very Grand Hotel for many years, many years ago, back when her family had money. Then she grabbed the bedspread and threw it on the floor, claiming that the hotels, even Grand ones, rarely clean the bedspreads. I thought they cleaned them between guests, but no. I tried not to think of all the bedspread cooties I had sprawled on in the past.

To help avert the horror, I explored the mini-bar and started reading the Room Service menu while K was prepping in the bathroom. I kept calling out to her: “Canapes! And hors d’oeuvres – hot and cold! Aren’t canapes & hors d’oeuvres the same thing?” and “Look, there’s a water menu!” (There was: it listed and defined artesian, mineral, and spring waters. Educational.) The list for the valet laundry included arcane items like housedresses and tuxedo shirts. So retro! I tried to interest her in the Bath Sommelier, where they would bring you a tin of bath salts and essential oils and other bathing goodies, but she got exasperated and came out of the bathroom and informed me, “Of all the people I know, you’re the one who really, really needs to be rich.”

Truer words were never spoken. I couldn’t have put it better myself.

At this point, I learned that I was her Designated Dresser, and was told to focus on helping her look fabulous, but not as if she were trying to look fabulous, which we all know is the hardest look to pull off. With the help of wine from the mini-bar, we selected a short, flirty, silky skirt, high heeled boots, and a top that was just boobalicious enough to be alluring, but not sleazy. I applied false eyelashes to K’s baby blues for the first time in her life, so her eyelashes were like flirty butterflies. If I say so myself, she looked gorgeous. And I love it that she put on her nail polish as we were leaving the room.

My father was born 75 years ago today, in Croydon, England.

Here are some of my favorite memories:

• Waiting for Dad to come home from work when I was a young girl and he was a young scientist. In those days, he’d come home in his white lab coat, smelling faintly and comfortingly of chemicals. I’d watch for him from the living room window, and when he came through the door, jump on him, yelling delightedly, “Daddy! Daddy!” He’d ruffle up my hair, ask “How’s my pixie?” and proceed to shake me upside down, in a fruitless effort to get the nonsense out. It’s still in there.

• Dad was never much of a swimmer. He had an almost pathological aversion to putting his face in the water, so he mostly swam (when he did), in a modified dog paddle (the Dad paddle). More often, he lay on a towel on the beach, soaking up the sun and reading the Herald Tribune (also his newspaper of choice when we were in Europe). I’d emerge from swimming in the Atlantic, off the coast of Maine, blue-lipped and shivering, and lie down, cold and dripping, on his sun-warmed back, nestling my wet head into his neck with my towel over me. He never complained!

• He loved to recite Shakespeare while making dinner, especially the Witches’ speech in MacBeth which starts, “Boil, boil, toil and trouble”, which he’d recite with gusto while putting in ingredient after ingredient. He also liked intoning comic gems such as:

  “Harry was a chemist’s son
  A chemist’s son no more
  For what he thought was H₂0
  Was H₂S0₄” [the formula for sulphuric acid]

  “Oooey-gooey was a worm
  A mighty worm was he
  He stepped upon the railroad track
  The train he did not see…
  Oooey-gooey!”

  To get the full effect, picture a distinguished English gentleman with matching accent, reciting nonsense with the same enjoyment he gave to Shakespeare.

  Although tone-deaf, he’d happily sing, too, mostly from the oeuvre of Gilbert & Sullivan. I can sing most of HMS Pinafore, almost as well as he could. The cats used to flee from my impromptu performances. If only I had inherited his math and science abilities instead of the singing one!

• I believe that Dad’s telling of Pooh stories sans books started when travelling with us kids in England by train when we were all very young. In order to keep us under some control while waiting for trains, he’d tell us Pooh stories, using different voices for all the characters. The storytelling never lost its appeal, and fortunately, my sister Megan convinced him to put the stories on tape, so we have them still.

• When Dad retired to his native England in 1991, I promised him I would visit once a year, and I did, sometimes twice. Once I had cleared Customs, I’d almost run to the Arrivals hall, where Dad would be sitting, reading the Times (he read the Guardian on Sundays to get a different point of view) while he waited for me. He’d look up over his reading glasses, and his face would light up at the sight of me. He’d jump to his feet and reach across the barrier to hug me and kiss my cheek. I can still feel the rough tweed of his jacket and the joy of his hug. When I came round the barrier, he’d hug me again.
  

His last words to me, and mine to him, were “Love you lots.”

I am pleased to report that I can now stand upright, and look slightly more evolved than I did sporting that Missing Link look over the past few days. I have a sudden and profound sympathy for anyone playing the roles of Igor or the Hunchback of Notre Dame. It’s not as easy as it looks. And a pain in the back is a real pain in the butt.

So now I just have muscles bitchin’ about the Bitchin’ Backache, a renewed resolve to get stronger at the gym so this doesn’t happen again, and an unimpaired love of libraries and their books (not to mention librarians! Go, Cas!). And a slight cough as a reminder of the Fiendishly Fierce Flu, gone, but not forgotten.

Recently, I admitted to my niece that I am guilty of Sloth. Actually, I indulge it, as can be seen by the paltry 6 posts I managed in February, which is the shortest month of the year. I’d say I’ll try and do better, but I’m not fooling anyone, least of all myself. Anyway, my niece pointed out that Sloth is considered the least sinful of the Deadly Sins. In fact, it’s Sin Lite. So I’m even lazy about sinning. Still, deadly, right? That’s got to count for something.

Yesterday, I ventured out of the house for the first time since the Fiendish Flu attacked. I wobbled weakly to the library, where I picked up a delightful armful of books. When I attempted to stand up again, I discovered that I had tweaked my back so badly that I now look like a greater than or less than sign (< or >), depending how you look at me.

Karma must be telling me not to gloat over the misfortunes of others, however well-deserved.

If I can’t think something nice, I won’t think anything at all.

Well, that was not fun.

What I thought was a simple cold turned out to be a Fiendishly Fierce Flu. It included such unlovely symptoms as:

• The Red Hot Chills. I huddled in bed under all the blankets I could find, also wearing a fleece and a HAT, and I was still shaking like a 6.0 earthquake, and my teeth were chattering more than everyone on the Red Carpet combined. The alternative to the Chills was the Red Hot part, with my hair and t-shirt soaked with sweat like the least attractive contestant in a wet t-shirt contest. In Appalachia.
  
• The Eponymous Fever. In an effort to bring down the fever, bathed burning face with cool (for about 5 seconds), damp cloth, looking like an extra from a hospital scene in a Civil War epic made by Ed Wood.
  
• The Volcanic Vomiting. As if its mere existence wasn’t bad enough, The VV liked to make sudden, surprise appearances, when its Victim was as far from the salle de bains as possible. Its sense of humor is as sick as I am.
  

Add to the mix lungs that sound like a dying bagpipe every time you breathe and a savage dose of monthly girl grossness, and you have a perfect recipe for perfect misery.

I’m now experiencing the Exhausted Aftermath, with aftershocks of coughing and baling out my nose, which just keeps refilling. No word on the transplant yet.

I coughed myself awake this morning, and that’s even worse than being woken up by the phone* or someone snoring, or, say, a noisy older sister barging into a house for coffee (I know who I am). I have progressed to the achy-breaky bod (even my fingers – practice for arthritis! Awwwriiight!) and chills.

However, I have a project due at the end of the day tomorrow, so it’s drippy nose to the grindstone. Maybe that will get me a nose transplant. I’m thinking something retrousse. What do you think?

Speaking of work, I was delighted to learn that all the folks at my last job who laid me off were laid off themselves. I couldn’t help a wicked little snicker and a passing thought that maybe they just couldn’t make it without Me. Hope that doesn’t bring bad karma my way. What do you think, Earl? In my mind, their dastardliness definitely deserved the snicker and thoughtlet.

Once I knock off for the day, I’m going to try my father’s cold remedy: whiskey. Though in my case, it’s bourbon, bein’ the Yankee Do-Little that I am. I remember being awed when I was a kid by Dad’s ability to swill gin (shudder) and codeine immediately before a lecture (medicating a toothache until the dentist’s office opened the next day) and doing a great job. What a role model!

*I am reminded of a Calvin & Hobbes cartoon in which Calvin asks his father why they don’t have a computer, so they could be connected to the whole wide world. His father replies, “Because it’s bad enough we have a phone.”

In my delusional youth, I not only assumed I’d go to college, but that I’d go to grad school, because that’s what you did. Dad had enough letters after his name to fill a bowl of alphabet soup, and Mom had enough for a cup.

I did go to college, but it wasn’t the incredible intellectual awakening I had envisioned. Not only did I discover almost immediately that I had no idea how to study, having coasted effortlessly through school, merrily collecting A’s as I went (I remember getting a 98 on a Latin test in high school, and my mother asking me “What happened to the other two percent?”), but that the actual point of school is to teach you how to work within The System and to get you a job that actually makes money, no matter how irrelevant your degree may be.

Mine couldn’t have been more irrelevant. I ended up drifting into a degree in linguistics, possibly one of the most pointless degrees ever invented. I realized too late that all you can do with a linguistics degree is get another one, and you won’t get paid all that much more. I saw my life vanishing into a haze of ever more arcane semantics, with the horror of teaching when the haze cleared. I didn’t want to teach. For one thing, I hated school, and for another, I can’t stand most people. The last thing I wanted was a room full of people staring at me and expecting wisdom from someone as widsom-free as Me.

I ended up getting a job in finance, and I’ve worked in that field (or swamp) ever since. I have never had a job that had anything to do with my degree, but I bet they wouldn’t have hired me without one. The System, you see.

What my degree really did for me, or to me, is to make me irrationally irritated by people saying things like, “It’s between him and I” or “I could care less”, and spelling/grammar errors in books, magazines, and newspapers. Lately I have come to hate the following expressions:

Big-time: As in, “Barry Bonds is an asshole, big-time.” Or, “You owe me, big-time.” Yet I am unperturbed by “Suzy is a big-time spender.” Go figure.

Bump, (variant: baby bump): As in, “Angelina Jolie proudly showed her bump” or “Katie Holmes’ baby bump seems to change size.”

Channel: As in, “Jamie Fox channels Ray Charles” or “The starlet channeled Edie Sedgwick, wearing capri pants and a mink jacket.” Change the channel, I’m begging you.

On Tuesday, I was still bored from the Stuporbowl on Sunday, even though I wasn’t in the same room with it. I had been assured that it would all be over at 9:00, but when the half time show started at 8:00, I began to have my suspicions. Next year, I’m going to hang out with K in her civilized antique house and drink wine and watch Gilmore Girls and pretend it isn’t happening. We might make a few prank calls to sports-watchin’ guys we know, but that’s as close as we’ll get.

To recover from the proximity-induced tedium, I went to have my hair highlighted. It was the first thing on my to-do list for the year, and voila! It’s done, even though it’s only February. I met up with K at the salon – she was getting preened to attend the freak show in Madison Square Garden next week, also known as The Westminster Kennel Club Dog Show as a reporter. To get an idea of the level of freakosity we’re talking about here, check out Best In Show.

I was third in line at the 99 Cent Store, where those who have lost their cred with creditors shop.

First in line was a guy who was buying six big bags of bird seed. Each bag was probably ten pounds. He paid with a $50 bill. When the cashier (the one and only in the whole store) scanned it to see if it was real, he started babbling about the scanning process, how you couldn’t trust anyone these days, how he once got paid for a job (unspecified) with a $1,000 bill…

The cashier, who was fortunate enough to have very little grasp of English, nodded and smiled politely, which only encouraged the birdseed buyer and discouraged the line lengthening behind him. Finally, having exhausted his topic and our patience, he left, presumably to feed thousands of birds or start a new diet craze (“Eat like a bird!”).

Second in line was a handsome young couple. They bought:

3 of those candles with Mary or Jesus on the glass container

4 different sized packages of drill bits

1 package of batteries

1 pair of “heavy duty” leather work gloves

Behind me, I heard a guy on his cellphone ask, “Do you like Spaghetti-O’s?”

Now I was really scared.

Sure, there are great things about working freelance and/or part-time. You can sleep in, work strange hours, wear pajamas (or nothing!) all day, and are blissfully free of office politics and soul-destroying commutes. On the other hand, you can’t steal office supplies or gossip by the water cooler or rely on a steady paycheck.

The lack of the steady paycheck led to my missing two months’ payments on my one and only credit card (other than Victoria’s Secret, but it’s hard to buy groceries, gas or plane tickets with it, for some reason). When the apartment sold, I paid off the balance, and a few days later, foolishly tried to use it. It was declined. I was confused. I called the friendly folks at Customer Service, and guess what they told me?

If the bill isn’t paid for two months running, “in 85% of cases, the card holder has passed on.”

They weren’t kidding. Either Visa card owners have an exceptionally high mortality rate, or this is their party line to the folks whose finances have declined to the point that their card is, too. Oh, and the past due amount in my case was a whopping $200.

The Customer Service mortician said that you cannot have your account reopened, even if you have paid off the balance and are not in fact dead. You have to reapply, and let’s guess that the rejection rate for live people who have had their account summarily slammed shut after more than a decade of dedicated use, no longer own a home, and are partially employed is even greater than the assumed mortality rate of those who haven’t paid their bill for 60 whole days.

So where does that leave our heroine? She will have to {gasp!} live within her means;and/or pay cash for everything (except lingerie); and/or get herself a sugar daddy. All suggestions and introductions welcome.

Since you can’t ask me for a note from my mother, you will just have to accept my excuse for my recent and rampant absenteeism:

Work. And lots of it.

I feel as if I were buried in work, only now digging out from underneath it like Punxsutawney Phil, making a hesitant appearance in the outside world, and blinking at the unaccustomed sunshine while looking around. Look at those horseless carriages! Women in pants! My goodness, how things have changed since the Work Avalanche of Ought-Six!

Every quarter, I research mutual funds for a client, notifying them if there are changes in management, fees, etc. Every quarter there are more, and for the quarter ended 12/31/05, there were 1,000. Count ’em (and I did), 1,000. It’s a positively Sisyphean task, though since it actually did have an end, let’s just call it Suzy-phean and be done with it. I’m already afraid of next quarter.

So after spending hours on the internet and phone researching this stuff, I couldn’t bear to even look at the computer, hence the lack of blogging and emailing. To quote the great Mark Twain, the reports of my death have been much exaggerated.

But Real Life (not Work Life) was seriously curtailed the past couple of weeks, though as previously mentioned, I did retreat to a friend’s house for a couple of days, where I did not touch a computer or even think about it for two whole days. Freedom, I’m telling you. It’s great.

Other Real Life events: Went to the dr., and she reduced my dosage of the Evil Effexor. So far, so good. While waiting to see her, enjoyed the following exchange between a mother and her young son in the waiting room:

Kid: Where are the crayons?

Mom: They don’t have crayons here.

Kid (reasonably, but perplexed): Why not?

Made me wonder why there aren’t crayons everywhere.

When taking out the trash, I went through the labyrinthine hallways of the main building (I missed the regular pick-up and had to rely on the Dumpster out back). On the way, I encountered:

The sound of Wilco’s I Am Trying to Break Your Heart (possibly my fave song ever);

The smell of weed;

An exhausted-looking hairnet, as favored by food service workers and certain tough guys in the Mission; and

What seemed to be part of an exploded set of dentures. I hope.

I spent the weekend with my fabulous friend K. She recently bought a 150 year old house in a quaint town, and I couldn’t wait to see her and the house (which has the cardinal virtue of being older than Me, unlike the lovely K, who is way behind me, at least in age).

I went by train, which I really think is the only civilized way to travel, though not as wonderful as in the halcyon days of observation cars, bar cars, and actual furniture. Still, there’s no traffic, you don’t have to drive (a big plus for Me and the unsuspecting world, since my driving is rarely, if ever, uneventful), you can get food and drink at your seat, get up and stretch your legs, and you don’t have to fight the laws of gravity by leaving the ground. Not to mention not having to get to the station half a day before your trip, or being searched (all you paranoid types: maybe trains will be the next terrorist targets! Call Amtrak now!).

After my delightfully uneventful trip, I met K at the station and repaired to her house. It is a charming jewel box of a house, and her hard work since acquiring it really shows. She has a real flair for decoration, too. The highlight for Me, of course, was the bathroom, with a to-die-for soaking clawfoot tub, (looking much like this),which I wasted no time in appreciating, up close and personal.

Since the house is still a work in progress, and the guest room is mostly used for storing tools, K and I slept in the same bed. Well, I slept. It turns out to my horror (a la Mary Tyler Moore) that I snore. Eeek!! I asked her if it was like the gentle buzzing of a distant bee, and she hesitated before telling me that it was “girlie.” Prospective bedmates, you have been warned.

I can’t say I was sorry to see the end of 2005. Here’s what happened:

January: In which Suzy gets to fly, and packs up for a winter in Florida.

February: In which Suzy thinks it’s a good idea to drive to Florida. Discovers her getting lost, being preached at by billboards, and eating scary food. Learns that the South is like a whole ‘nother country. Arrive in Florida with a sigh of relief and thinking nostalgically of the joys of air travel.

March: In which Suzy learns that Florida is like a whole ‘nother country, too. At the State Fair, learns that E.B. White was a big, fat liar, that pretty much everything can be deep fried, and what the hecks “funnel cake” is (hint: it’s deep fried).

April: In which Suzy attends leaves Florida (by plane).

May: In which the fashion show. Mystery remains unsolved.

Unfit for blogging: the sudden death of Sophie, the sweet, shy orange cat who was my beloved Buddy’s companion up until the end of his life. She was 12. She died in her sleep of a heart attack. Now she’s with Buddy again, curled up together and purring happily.

June: In which Suzy spends most of the month in the country, visiting Mom in the hospital. Her puppies!

July: In which Suzy goes home, leaving Mom still in the hospital. Never sees her again.

August In which Mom dies, four years and eight days after Dad died. The four orphans spend the month together. We’re all we have now.

September: In which…well, you can probably guess.

October: In which things are sale.

November: In which Suzy doesn’t have all that much to blog about (or brag about).

Unfit for blogging: The death of a beloved friend of more than 20 years, the beautiful and kind Genevieve. She was like a second mother to me, and losing her so soon after my mother’s death was especially painful. However, I’m grateful that she died at home in her sleep after attending Mass and didn’t suffer pain or indignity. I will always treasure her friendship.

December: In which Suzy is surprisingly Resolutions are made (to be broken).

Despite last year’s theme of death and despair, I am feeling hopeful about the new year. I’m definitely on the road to recovery from the breakdown and depression which occupied most of 2004 and 2005, and feel as if I’m ready to rise from the ashes, like a phoenix. Look out!

It is a truth universally acknowledged, that an exceptionally adorable two year old with an exceptionally wonderful mother, must be in want of a kitten.

Off they went to the local Humane Society, where the girl headed straight for the ugliest kitten there – scrawny, tiny, messy fur, “salvaged from somewhere”, as the shelter worker put it. It was love at first sight. And what did she want to name her kitten? What any two year old would: “Mine”.

When my niece was small, my sister Beth made the mistake of telling her that if she did something, she’d get a kitten. Of course, the task was completed immediately, and Beth was faced with traumatizing the kid with a lyin’ mama, or getting the promised kitten.

Off they went to their local humane society. On the way, my niece explained that her cat, Jimmy, was waiting for her there. On arrival, they roamed past the cages, with my niece calling “Jimmy, Jimmy! Here, Jimmy!” Guess who answered the call? Yes, the ugliest kitten there – to adult eyes. My niece thought he was beautiful. As she lifted him out of the cage, she told her mother, “I told you Jimmy was here.”

When my younger sis Megan was a kid, she went to camp, where she discovered a starved, stray dog, a mongrel mix beaten within an inch of his life (he actually had a broken bone over his eye, and both his back legs had been broken). She hid him in her tent and fed him until the inevitable discovery. Mutt was shipped off to the pound. Megan went crying to Dad, and told him she had found the most beautiful dog in the world and wanted to bring him home.

When they arrived at the pound (with Dad’s friend Ted in tow, who happened to be a veterinarian), the dog was tethered outside. Megan ran up to him and hugged him, saying to Dad with shining eyes, “Isn’t he beautiful?” Dad asked if she was sure this was the dog. An enthusiastic yes. He asked if she was sure that it was in fact a dog. Yes again. Ted checked him over and said other than fleas and malnutrition, he was healthy, so they took him home.

Little did Dad suspect that this funny-looking dog, Jesse, would become his beloved companion for the next 13 years, until Jesse died, an old and happy dog. Their ashes are scattered together beneath a tree, per Dad’s request. As for the kittens, they lived happily ever after, though “Mine’s” name was changed to Mia. I think children can see beauty in people, places, and things that we grown-ups can’t. If we’re lucky, they share it with us.

This year’s resolutions should be easier to keep than last year’s, which were to be better at answering emails and blogwalking. Considering the many emails still awaiting my attention and the lack of writing my own blog, let alone reading other people’s, I don’t think I get a passing grade for the passing year. Hopefully this year’s model will be more attainable:

1. Get hair highlighted. It’s been 5 months now, and the roots of darkness are only lightened by rogue silver hairs. It’s time for a Pentagon-sized cover-up.

2. Get divorced. It’s been two years since we separated, the apartment is sold, and in the words of more famous former couples, we remain committed and caring friends. It’s time to get on with our lives.

3. Get off anti-depressants. They are expensive and bad for one’s girlish figure. It’s time to get off the pills and get real.

4. Find the perfect nude lip gloss. It’s time to go to Sephora!

Wishing you all a happy and peaceful new year.

You know how it always seems that you have a million things to do right before Christmas? Especially if you’re a dyed-hair, dyed in the wool Procrastinator like I am. My last-minute Christmas Eve tasks did not include malls or shopping, but rather, a trip to the notary, Barney, and then there’s the OnStar incident.

I was invited to spend Christmas with a friend and her family in another city, so I had to rent a car. As with most rental cars, it was far too fancy and complicated for the non-mechanically minded Me (I don’t care how anything works, as long as it works). Picked up car without incident, but faithful readers will know that if I get anywhere near a car, something will happen sooner or later. This time, it’s later, so you’ll just have to wait and see.

Of course I had not packed for the trip or wrapped the presents, though I had at least bought the presents. I was about to pack up the car and go when I got a phone call informing me that I had to get some documents notarized and Fed Exed for arrival on the morning of December 27 at the latest.

Swearing in a most un-holiday manner, off I went to the notary, thankful for their non-holiday work ethic. I took a number, and was banished to the waiting room, which was dominated by a TV set bolted to the wall and inflicting Barney on an unsuspecting public. As he cultishly sang repeatedly how much he loved his (presumably unknown to him) audience and informed them that they seconded his emotion, I looked vainly for an off switch or volume control. Barney, wherever and whatever you are, you freak, I do not love you. In fact, I think you’d make one fine target.

The three kids planted squarely in front of the set would have disagreed with me, except they were in a narcotic haze. If it weren’t for the evidence of Barney so unmissably present, I would have suspected their parents of improving the kids’ juice boxes with a calming hit of an opium-based derivative. But it was Barney himself who caused the slack-jawed, glazed eye look of these brainwashed infants. I was scared.

Fortunately, my number was called, I was relieved of some cash, and I was on my way before there was an incident.

On the highway, an old gentleman driving a white Cadillac and wearing a Santa hat passed me. I wonder if that’s how Santa gets around now? So much more comfortable than a sleigh, where he is exposed to the cold night air and reindeer butts and their products. And just wearing the hat instead of the whole costume is much more modern. Stylish Santa for the 21st century. About time he updated his look.

I stopped at Denny’s en route (I know, I know, but I really had to pee. Those among you who indulge in caffeine will know that a coffee-induced pee is more unstoppable than Barney), and I swear someone was doing coke in the next stall. All I can say is, she went in, didn’t avail herself of the usual facilities, but there was lots of sniffing going on. It seems eccentric to do coke in the Denny’s ladies’ room on Christmas Eve, but perhaps we all need a little help in dealing with our holiday stress.

Back on the road, it was dark, and the inevitable occurred. I got lost. I pulled over to consult the minutely detailed instructions so thoughtfully (and fruitlessly) provided by my hostess. My attempts to turn on the lights in the complicated car resulted in:

1. Opening the moon roof to the cold and rain.

2. Accidentally hitting the OnStar button.

I tried desperately to turn it off, to no avail. A creepy computer voice informed me that it was connecting, connecting…then Kanye West abruptly stopped playing and a voice over my stereo speakers said, “This is Darnell. What’s your emergency?”

I didn’t have the nerve to tell Darnell that my only emergency was being lost, bored, traumatized by Barney, and sick of driving, or to ask him if he was the same Darnell as Crab Man on My Name Is Earl, so I just stammered out an apology for my mistake. Darnell forgave me with the grace of a Wise Man, and vanished from my life, leaving Kanye West and a blushing Suzy in his wake.

I’m never calling OnStar again.