Suzy Says

This is a 162 year old Christmas card – one of the very earliest. Who says Victorians didn’t know how to party? I think it’s going to be a goodnight pretty soon for the wine-guzzling kid in the foreground!

Wishing you all a joyful holiday season (and lots of presents)!

I was awakened this morning by someone shouting, “Who the fuck do you think you are?!” angrily and repeatedly. I lay in bed, wondering what the answer was until curiosity overcame me and I peeked out the window.

There was an ancient-looking man, intoxicated, insane, and irate, walking out of the courtyard, gesturing at no-one (no-one visible, anyway) and screaming the age old, unanswerable question at the uncaring sky.

I discovered that Santa had come early this year, and had broken with tradition by substituting the oh-so-fashionable germ warfare for the usual stocking full of coal for those of us who are habitually naughty rather than nice. A seasonable, but so far, small-sized case of a flu-like illness. I never thought Santa would look like a crazy homeless guy, but then again, so many things are disappointing as an adult. Undoubtedly, an efficiency expert told him to get the bad ones out of the way early, and don’t bother dressing up for the likes of them.

With even more excuse than usual to languish and lounge, I checked out the December issue of Vanity Fair. The Letters section was frothing with rage about the November issue’s cover starring Paris Hilton. I thought I was underemployed until I saw the letters from rabid readers who angily cancelled their subscriptions and/or tore off the offending cover and mailed it back to the magazine with their complaints.

The most amusing letter for me was from none other than Mama Partridge herself, Miss Shirley Jones, she whose TV son was arrested for beating up a TV hooker, and whose catalogue of his many, many misdeeds can be found in his very entertaining and well-written memoir, Random Acts of Badness. As far as I know, Miss Jones never publicly railed against Mr. Bonaduce for being a bad role model, and I would venture to say that being a socialite who likes to have her photo taken is not as bad as being arrested for assault or being a crackhead.

But that’s just me.

Being an equal opportunity reader, I decided to check out La Hilton’s memoirs, too. However, they are less of an autobiography and more of a picture book. On the other hand, I did get diet tips, which, as you may recall, my dream girl wouldn’t give me:

Eat fast food, pasta, and chocolate as often as you can. Only eat carbs at night. Never take diet pills or drink diet soda or go to the gym. You might get sweaty.

And words of wisdom on topics of vital importance:

On tiaras: People act differently toward you when you have jewelry on your head.

On skincare: I’m over tanning beds, because I don’t want to get skin cancer. Mystic Tan instead. Be tan all year round. I go to sleep with my makeup on, because it makes my skin look all dewy, and there’s less to do in the morning.

On my beloved Weeki Wachee Springs: My first job (on the Simple Life 2) was at Weeki Wachee, a kids’ place with an underwater show. I got to play a mermaid. It was kind of stupid, but Elvis has been there, so that makes it kind of cool

On public transit: Yes, I admit I’ve taken the subway in New York – and it smells. It literally smells like pee. Why can’t they do anything about that? Does anyone ever clean down there?

And unlike the rest of us insecure girls, she only hates one thing about her body. It’s her size 11 (transvestite sized!) feet.

Observant readers like the eagle-eyed Mike (I’m betting his kids don’t get away with much!) may have noticed that although my door has a wreath, it did not have a doorknob. Typical of Me to accessorize without worrying about those dull necessities.

It really wasn’t my fault, though. A couple of days ago, I woke up to discover that the door would not open. The diva doorknob generally expressed her temperament by refusing to stay closed, but decided that an amusing variation would be to stay closed and see how I liked it.

I didn’t. I also could not open the door, and sooner or later, I would almost certainly want to venture out into the Wide World, despite generally agreeing with the Water Rat’s dim view of it.

With the doorknob snickering in the background, I called the building manager, Mister Anonymous. Yes, that’s his legal name. No, I don’t know why. I just call him Mister.

He came over as soon as he could. First, he had to oversee the ejection of an enraged and screaming Boob Girl, who managed to smash the glass in the building’s front door on her way out, in spite of the fact that she was in a straitjacket and being carried by a couple of strong men. I learned later that she had expanded her sales campaign from knocking on doors to slipping flyers advertising her sexual services under them. Imagine my annoyance to learn that everyone I know in the building had summarily disposed of these erotic ephemera. Now I’ll never see one.

So Mister went from one broken door to another. You can imagine that he was in a pretty good mood by the time he got to mine. First, he took the doorknob off. Still stuck. Tried to take off the hinges, but only two out of the four would come off. Finally, in exasperation, he kicked the door – and it opened. I still have the deadbolt to keep it closed, but Mister hasn’t brought me a replacement doorknob yet. Fortunately, the wreath was unscathed.

I am feeling all festive this year. This is a bigger deal than you’d think, since it’s the first time I’ve felt like celebrating Christmas since Dad died, four years and four months ago. We always had such a wonderful time at Christmas. He and my stepmother would come every other year, and we’d rent a house right on the ocean in Bodega Bay. Often, it would be warm enough for a Christmas Eve picnic on the beach, and one of my very favorite photos of Dad was taken on New Year’s day at nearby Point Reyes, as he paddled in the ocean, loving the sun and the shore birds (the sanderlings were his favorites, and are mine as well: they’re like charming wind-up toys).

That can of GrinchBeGone must have really worked, because I have a tree! Naturally, it’s unnatural, being a vintage, silver and white number, originally from the long-gone, legendary Gimbels department store in New York. It may be even more vintage than I am, since the price tag reads $2.88!

I thought it would be a lot easier to set up than it was. I sort of imagined that you’d just open it up like an umbrella, but no. You have to put it together, and fluff out the branches. Then you have to find a tree stand to fit a trunk approximately the thickness of your average broom handle. I soon discovered that in the world of tree stands, you most certainly can be too thin. Nothing fit my tree’s svelte silhouette, so I ended up trapping it between bricks I found at the back of the building and covering them with cloth napkins I liberated from some first class travel some time ago. Who says crime (well, pilfering) doesn’t pay?

It’s also much harder to take a good picture of the tree than I had anticipated. It has three sets of twinkly lights that twinkle at all different times, so it’s never all lit up at the same time, and the photo was the best I could get. I love the twinkling, though.

As if that weren’t enough, I also have a wreath. This one is real Scotch pine and smells all Christmassy. You can tell I decorated it, since the ornaments are all haphazard. I think it looks pretty anyway.

The phone rang at the ungodly (well, un-Suzy) hour of 8:00 this morning. It was my doctor’s secretary, asking if I could come in this afternoon. Caught unguarded and uncaffeinated, I agreed. Later, considering the fact that I have to take two buses to get there (that’s two too many) and that I was overwhelmed by slothfulness (one of my personal favorite sins), I regretted this, but reflected that the dr. visit might result in a reduced dosage of happy pills, which should also result in a reduced size of Suzy. One of the side effects of the expensive, yet unamusing, happy pills is that one goes from Ab Fab to Ab Flab.

So I grumpily went to the bus stop an hour before the appointment, and as in Casablanca, I waited. And waited. And waited….

Finally, the long-awaited bus appeared. I got on, all unsuspecting, and suddenly, it took a detour. By the time I realized that it was not, in fact, going where I wanted to go, there were 15 minutes left before my appointment. No way I could make it. I got off the bus, called the dr.’s office, and got their voicemail, which breezily informed me that they were at lunch and – get this – they do not check messages left during their 1 &1/2 hour lunch break (despite the fact that my appointment was scheduled during that time). I left a detailed and annoyed message, and then spent almost the same amount of time I had spent waiting for the bus trying to get a taxi. There was no way I was dealing with any more public transit that day. I had waited and smelled enough, thank you.

By the time I got one, I was homicidal. When I got home, the phone was ringing. It was, you guessed it, my over-lunched dr.’s receptionist asking where I was. I explained everything yet again and told her I had left a message, but she said she hadn’t gotten it. Not checking your messages will do that, dontcha think? And why have voicemail at all, if you’re not going to check it? And PS to the public transit people, who are no doubt snickering evilly about the success of their practical joke, you might want to consider posting signs warning innocent patrons that the route has changed, and what it has changed to. Just a thought.

Martini o’clock is going to be a little early today.

I know they say hearing about other people’s dreams is really boring – and while I may be many things, I hope boring isn’t one of them – but I promise to keep it brief. Also Kirstie Alley wasn’t in this one.

I dreamed that I called a company to complain about something, only to be informed that they had closed their complaints department. No further complaints would be taken. I was furious, because complaining is one of the few things I do well. And often. If there were a Complaints competition in the Olympics, I’d get a gold medal. They could give you a topic, and the one who complains the longest and most entertainingly wins.

I don’t know why there isn’t, come to think of it. Practically everything else is an Olympic sport these days. Synchronized Knitting, with players all knitting and purling at the same time with the precision of the Rockettes. Points will be dropped for dropped stitches. Relay Speed Coloring, where one player feverishly fills in as much as s/he can before passing the crayon to the next player. The first one to fill in the entire coloring book without going out of the lines wins. False Eyelash Application, individual and whole strips. There will be mandatory eyelash extension testing, and anyone who fails will be condemned to using mascara only for an entire year.

As requested by La Candina:

1. What time did you get up this morning??8:30 am (and I had to set the alarm!)

2. Diamonds or pearls? Do you even have to *ask*? Gotta go for the sparkle, every time.

3. What was the last film you saw at the cinema? Capote. It was brilliant.
?
4. What is your favorite TV show? Glimore Girls, Everwood.

5. What did you have for breakfast? Pink grapefruit & black coffee.

6. What is your middle name? Jean (ugh – so unglamorous)

7. What is your favorite cuisine? Italian or French.

8. What foods do you dislike? Tofu. Anything soy-related, actually. Most dairy (milk; yogurt; sour cream, etc.) other than cheese. Oysters, caviar (why won’t anyone admit it’s fishy Jell-O?), smoked salmon, tuna, sushi. I don’t eat beef or pork. Maybe I should have listed the foods I do like instead!

9. What is your favorite potato chip flavor? I don’t really eat them. I do like Lundberg’s rice chips, though. Sesame-seaweed’s my favorite.

10. What is your favorite CD at the moment?? Blackalicious, The Craft, Janis Joplin, Pearl

11. What kind of car do you drive? I don’t have one at the moment, though I used to own a silver-blue 1966 Mustang convertible. My first and only car.

12. Favorite sandwich?? Chicken Caesar wrap.

13. What characteristics do you despise? Ignorance, cruelty, piety, intolerance.

14. What are your favorite clothes? My lavender suede Manolo Blahniks.

15, If you could go anywhere in the world on vacation, where WOULDN’T you go? Most of Asia, other than Thailand.

16. What color are your eyes? Green.

17. Favorite brand of clothing? In real life, I seem to wear a lot of Gap and J Jill. If money were no object, Prada.

18. Where would you want to retire to? Like I’ll be able to!

19. Favorite time of day? Twilight.

20. Where were you born? Syracuse, New York. Other than that, it has no redeeming qualities.

21. Favorite sport to watch? Sporty Suzy is teetering on the edge of extinction.

22. Coke or Pepsi? Champagne – if you’re going to drink calories, you might as well get a buzz. Or Perrier, despite the opinion of a well-known socialite who said, “I never drink water. Fish fuck in it.”

23. Are you a morning person or night owl? I’m a reformed morning person. So I’m a dedicated night owl now.

24. Any new and exciting news you?d like to share with everyone? New news? Isn’t that redundant?

25. What did you want to be when you were little? Idle rich. Still hopin’.

26. What are the different jobs you have had in your life? Au pair on the French Riviera; all-purpose worker (checking people in and out, making breakfast for hundreds, giving tours) at a youth hostel that was formerly a 150 year old jail; about a thousand temp secretarial jobs (commitment phobic); investment analyst, wife.

27. Nicknames: What is your nickname? Suz, Suzy (my family also likes to call me things that rhyme, like Floozy, Boozy, etc. and always laugh when I answer).

28. Piercings? Both earlobes, the cartilage of my right ear. A friend pierced my cartilage in 1984, so I feel well ahead of the trend on that one.

29. Ever been to Africa? No.

30. Ever been toilet papering? No.

31. Been in a car accident? Once, when I was about 9 years old. No serious damage. I wasn’t driving.

32. Favorite day of the week? They’re all the same to me.

33. Favorite restaurant? Swan Oyster Depot.

34. Favorite flower? Lilacs, sweet peas, lilies of the valley.

35. Favorite ice cream? Double Rainbow White Pistachio.

36. Favorite fast food restaurant? Those roadside stands in New England where you can get fried clams and lobster rolls.

37. How many times did you fail your driver?s test?? None, even though I hate to drive.

38. Before this one, from whom did you get your last e-mail? Sadly, my boss, if you don’t count junk mail.

39. Which store would you choose to max out your credit card? Do I have to pick just one?

40. Bedtime? When I’m sleepy.

41. Last person you went to dinner with? My fab friend Kelly.

42. What are you listening to right now? The whoosh of traffic and my life zipping by.

43. What is your favorite color? Pink.

44. How many tattoos do you have? None. Makes me feel all distinctive. Am convinced that there will soon be a porn fetish for girls with unmarked and unpierced bodies, since tattoos and piercings are so commonplace.

Awright, sports fans (and you know who you are). The neophyte and knowledge-less Sporty Suzy (who has no stats at her manicured fingertips and nothing in her brain cell that isn’t frivolous, shallow, and non-athletic) needs your help.

How and why does one keep supporting one’s home team?

1. The players rarely, if ever, actually come from the city whose team they play for, so it’s not like they personally embody the spirit of the place.
2. While they do get paid a lot of money, they are more or less helpless pawns who may be traded at any moment. Despite this sword of Damocles hanging over their heads, they have to be team players in the most literal sense, all working toward the same goal (no pun intended). If they do get traded, they have to start all over again with people they don’t know, or possibly with former enemies.
3. Your favorite players get traded and you don’t get to see them play anymore. Do you switch loyalty to the team they play on, or keep watching the old team with the new people you don’t care about?
4. Do you have to overlook things like Barry Bonds’ deplorably diva-like behavior, both on and off the field (I find the way he treats the women in his life more deplorable than the steroid accusations)? Do you have to overlook the fact that the Giants didn’t can his overbearing ass, but they did dump several players so late in the season that it was almost impossible for them to get picked up by other teams? I admit this rankled with me the most in the case of Marquis Grissom, my favorite Giant, who was a total gentleman about the whole thing. He was the Anti-Bonds. I really miss him.
5. The whole embarrassing NHL d&eacuteb&acirccle. I can’t believe they were all so damned childish that there was no hockey for a year, and when it came back, the schedule was stupid, the rules had changed, and with the salary cap, some of the best players became instantly unaffordable. The Maple Leafs, for example, were dropping like, well, leaves (why are they the Leafs and not the Leaves, anyway? Anyone? Anyone?), losing stellar players like Brian Leetch, Gary Roberts, and Joe Nieuwendyk faster than you can say Don Cherry.

   Leaf it to a bunch of men to mess things up. I wonder if sports would be different if we girls ran the show. I bet the uniforms would be cuter.

Apparently.

Last night, I dreamed that Kirstie Alley and I were in a public restroom somewhere (no, not like the infamous cheerleaders – sorry if you were hopin’ for some hot hot voluptuous girl-on-girl action, guys). She was earnestly trying to convince me that I had thrown something in the sink. I maintained my innocence, claiming that it was, in fact, pink confetti*.

I was distracted from the argument by the fact that I was unable to open the clasp of my adorable new pink handbag. I kept fiddling with it, to Kirstie’s great annoyance, until she finally grabbed it and opened it for me, dumping it back on my lap with disgust. I, on the other hand, was perfectly happy and starting rummaging through the contents: lip gloss! A sparkly hair ornament! Oooh, money!

I still say it was confetti. And I didn’t even get any diet tips.

*This reminded me of when I visited the Motown Historical Museum and found a single red sequin on the floor of the ladies’ room, as if one of the ladies from that glamorous era of music had just swept out the door in a fabulous gown.

Ever wondered what to do with those pesky wedding rings, promise rings, and other sentimental jewelry which are no longer sentimental? Assuming, of course, that you refrained from throwing them back at the giver (though I believe tradition dictates that the one who gets left gets to keep the jewelry, as a sort of consolation prize: “And thank you for playing our game!”).

Worry no longer. The good folks at Goddammo will help you out. For a nominal fee, they will transform your unwanted rings’n’things into something much more useful: a bullet. Keep in mind: they don’t include gunpowder, and platinum costs $5 extra.

Paint It Black

Today I followed the Rolling Stones’ advice and painted my front door black (though I probably wouldn’t take their advice on anything else, especially dating and cosmetic surgery). It’s all shiny and looks great. Now, if I could just find a way to haul home the two cement lions discarded outside a defunct night club down the street, I’d be all set.

Somehow painting your door black seems so Halloween. I also have a plastic light-up pumpkin in my window, but I doubt if I’ll get any trick-or-treaters, since I’m a little off the beaten track. The building was originally a coffin factory (and how Halloween is that?) in the 19th century. It was built onto as needed, so it’s full of strange passages (some underground) and weirdly-shaped rooms. Some of it is used as businesses, but most are live-work lofts, though officially, no-one lives here.

The part I live in is the former woodworking shop, and is attached to the big building, but has its own front door. Everyone else has to share. And to get to my shiny black door, you have to go through a semi-creepy brick, pigeon-infested passageway and then there’s the courtyard and Chez Suzy.

This can be a little annoying when having necessities of life like booze and groceries delivered, since I almost inevitably get a semi-irate delivery guy on his cell phone, saying, “I’m right outside, where are you?” and I have to direct him in. Nothing like a guy frustrated from making his delivery, is there?

In other building news, Boob Girl has been thrown out of her roommate’s apartment, but is still living somewhere in the building. Rumor has it that it’s a windowless room which used to be an office. Charlie has stopped answering his door at night.

Phil, the owner of Rita the Wonder Dog, has a new ladylove, which is good for me, since I get to keep Rita when he’s away at his girlfriend’s overnight. And you know how love is, especially in the first throes. So I get companionship, too, and I have to get my voluptuous butt out to the park twice a day to walk the dog, so that’s good, too.

However, I don’t think I’ll ever get used to picking up poop. I’m just not scatologically inclined. I laughed so hard when I read this on PostSecret. I wonder if I could teach an old dog that new trick?

Wild, Wild Life

Bigger is not always better. For example, thighs. Or butts. Or To Do Lists. Or obstacles.

Or vermin.

The home invaders have gotten bigger and badder recently. In the past week, I have been visited by a squirrel and a pigeon (on different occasions, but both uninvited). It’s my own fault for leaving the front door open, but that doesn’t seem to matter all that much when you have a pigeon flapping around overhead or a squirrel scrabbling in your kitchen.

I’m sorry to say that I was unequal to the Nature challenge (as usual). Being the Hysterical Female Poster Child, I fled the premises and grabbed the nearest boy. Fortunately, the building is well-equipped with boys, available to deal with sudden emergencies of the plumbing and wildlife kind. Here are the lessons I learned:

1. What a broom is for. It’s for removing pigeons. Broom in hand, brushy side up, you wave it around over your head, and sweep the pigeon out of the door. Any fallen feathers can be removed by the cleaning crew, who probably already know how to use a broom.

2. In the case of squirrels, the approved method is to block all methods of egress (as PT Barnum would say) other than the door. Make a loud noise to flush squirrel out of hiding. Chase it out the door.

Alternate method: Get Rita the Wonder Dog to chase it out for you. This is one of her specialties.

3. Boys: they’re not just for opening jars!

4. Mr. Mouse is not as scary as previously thought. Of course, I haven’t seen him in about a year, and supposedly absence makes the heart grow fonder*, so this opinion is subject to change. After all, it’s a woman’s prerogative to change her mind.

5. Don’t leave the front door open.

Well, this young lady has learned her lesson.

*And they also say, “Out of sight, out of mind”, but which one is it? I mean, you can’t have it both ways.

Suzy’s Top Five Reasons For Not Blogging:

1. Mom’s death hit me harder than I thought it would. In addition to working through the grief, I’m also working through the regret and guilt of not being a better daughter to her.

2. I’m selling my apartment. Any takers? I’d love it, since….

3. I’m broke and have the overdraft to prove it. I now understand how those English aristocrats can live in a castle, but not have enough money to pay the milkman. That’s how it is when all your money is tied up in real estate and not cash. And have failed to achieve idle wealth (the best kind).

4. The happy pills from the doctor aren’t making me happy. It’s an expensive, yet unenjoyable drug habit (the worst kind).

5. All this is making me suspect that the premise of the delightful comedy My Name Is Earl is correct, and all the bad things keep happening to me because of all the bad things I’ve done. If I followed his example, my list would take the rest of my life – and that’s just the stuff I remember.

Now I’m really scared.

The party lived down to my expectations, ending at 4 am. In addition to the catering, there was a professional DJ, so at least I was annoyed with no expense spared. I’m probably just jealous of the Trust Fundies, since at about half my age, they have already achieved the goal of being idle rich – a goal which has so far eluded me.

I have a pre-season cold, which seems as unfair as having to go back to school before Labor Day. However, it’s a good excuse not to do much of anything except feel sorry for Self (one of my special skills) and lounge (ditto).

I was lounging around watching the spectacularly freaky Varietease, starring the spectacular Bettie Page and Lili St Cyr, along with transvestites (why do they always have such great legs?) and an MC who was definitely high on something, I know not what, when the fire alarm went off. Trained since elementary school in fire drills, I assumed it was a mistake or a prank or a test. Imagine my surprise when I heard fire engines and they stopped right outside the building. Not even Bettie Page was more interesting than that. I ventured outside and saw smoke coming from the roof of the main building.

I let the firemen into the building and left them to it. I knew it wasn’t my part of the building on fire, and since my bro is a fireman, I know how much they hate an audience. Later, I learned from the superintendent that:

– The fire started on the roof, because the guys who were tarring it (though not feathering; that was the pigeons’ job) went to lunch, leaving the tar and its heating accessories unattended.

– The super had put it out before the firemen got there.

– The firemen were furious, because the funky old building has all these mysterious hallways and doors and passages, and it’s hard to get where you’re going unless you already know or have a native guide. They weren’t too happy to find the fire was out by the time they had negotiated their way Through the Looking Glass.

– There was a naked man sitting calmly on the fire escape, holding his clothes and watching the proceedings.

“Plus Ca Change, Plus C’est La Meme Chose.”
(“The more things change , the more they remain the same.”)
— Alphonse Karr, Les Guepes, January 1849

I’m still here, folks. Suzy has not (as yet) left the building.

I’m still struggling to come to terms with being Little Orphan Suzy. I have a lot of regrets about my relationship with my mother, as well as the sorrow at losing her. There’s no easy way to work through these things, and as you know, I’m not a big fan of the hard way or the long way in anything.

Speaking of which, I haven’t given up on my beautification project. Reason dictates that it’s easier to fix up the outside than the inside (either physical or psychological), but as anyone who has ever lived through renovations will tell you, it takes longer and costs more than you’d ever think. There are sudden, inexplicable work stoppages. Things that should have been done weeks ago are not finished, or half-finished. Sudden problems are discovered. And then there’s the noise and the mess.

The road to hell (aka the gym) is paved with good intentions, especially mine. I only went once last week, and the only other real exercise I got was dancing to Blackalicious at a small club. The club cardio was probably cancelled out by the two Cosmopolitans I had, though they were each just a tiny puddle in a huge glass. If gyms had martinis, I’d probably be more likely to go, but even my poor math skills tell me that 1 workout+2 martinis = no thinner (though definitely happier). And there you have it: the conundrum of this girl’s life. One of them, anyway.

Others:

– What to do about my temperamental computer, which had a temper tantrum last week and lost my email for that week, along with changing the URL of my blog (it must have felt like being incognito for a while). Other computer-related issues are that the track pad doesn’t work, necessitating the use of a mouse with an iBook, and only one USB port (that used by the mouse) works. The iBook is about 4 years old, but I think computer years must be even longer than dog years, and mine is about 90 now, hobbling around on a cane and being ornery.

– What to do about the upstairs neighbors. Their G-rated nickname is the Trust Fundies, due to their outstanding youth (about 25) and sense of entitlement (boundless) and apparent disposable income despite lack of obvious employment (ditto). Their dogs are still howling and barking, and when the guy who lives above them had the temerity to complain, Mr. Trust Fund went psychotic and the neighbor fled in terror. They have informed me that they are having a catered party on Friday, meaning: don’t complain about the racket, even if it goes on until 3 am.

Of course, it’s catered. These are the same people who spent $5,000 on hardwood flooring for their rented apartment and have their windows professionally cleaned, despite their youth. Can’t they afford to put their dogs in daycare, so they don’t howl and bark all day long? The only consolation I have is that Mr. TF and both dogs got thoroughly skunked a couple of days ago. Thanks, karma, but I’m kind of looking for a bigger gesture here.

“When you die, they let you off the hook.”
— Bob Dylan

I’ve been having some random thoughts since my mother died, of varying degrees of weirdness and self-involvement. In fact, I’m self-involved enough to tell you what they are:

1. The tragedy of 9/11 happened only days after I returned home to California from London after my father’s death*. The disaster of Hurricane Katrina occurred days after I returned home from dealing with my mother’s death*. In both cases, I watched the news and just cried, feeling the grief of those who had lost their loved ones along with my own.

2. In both cases, I went home and watched Six Feet Under, which seems even to me to be an odd TV choice, but maybe it has its own peculiar logic. Or not.

3. I’m finding my family’s diminishing life expectancy a little disturbing. My great-grandparents, all four of them, lived into their 90’s. My grandparents, who all died within one calendar year, were all in their 80’s. My father barely made it to 70, and Mom was only 73. Does this mean I only have 20 years left? If so, I better start having fun right now.

*Why do we say “someone’s death” like they possess it somehow, that death belongs to the dead person? Clearly, it’s very much the other way around.

It certainly seems to be about time we brightened things up around here. Though you all know I’m not a big fan of Nature, I can always be persuaded by the pretty, shallow thing that I am. So here are some photos of pretty things I recently saw:

The beach at MacKerricher State Park.

A sassy squirrel, at home in the Park.

Baby harbor seals chilling on the rocks (they are the white blobs. Really. I swear!). They were unbelievably cute.

Canna lilies in my sister’s garden.

Casablanca lilies (white house lilies?) in her garden.

A white rose in the afternoon sun in her garden.

The following is a public service announcement, brought to you by Miss Suzy:

If you ever see a car ahead of you with Colorado license plates 651 BZZ, do yourself a favor and hit the gas. Pedal to the metal! Pass him with the speed of Superman, or fleeting youth! I’m begging you! If you don’t, you will have to gaze at his unappealing ass until one of you reaches your destination or commits suicide or murder (choose the appropriate crime).

My good and kind sister Beth drove me to Santa Rosa to catch the bus back to the city. OK, she also had to exchange her rental car in Santa Rosa, but still. She got my portion of niceness as well as her own, and is a better driver. She also had to put up with me expressing my feelings about Mr. Colorado, who stubbornly refused to let us pass him for 65 interminable miles. I tried to convince her to honk at him, to bring to his attention the error of his ways in ignoring not only the turnouts (the road was two lanes, so to pass, someone has to get outta the way), but the signs stating that the State of California orders you to use the turnouts and has provided them for this very purpose.

However, Beth felt this was rude and unnecessary, despite having a Suzy right next to her who was incandescent with impotent rage (I think we can all agree that’s the worst kind) and yelling things like, “651 BZZ, buzz off!” accompanied with illustrative hand gestures. Why she was more concerned about consequences from someone who was in a whole other car and apparently oblivious to anything going on in the outside world than an enraged sister only inches away, I do not know. Anyway, we and our fellow unfortunate travellers were a convoy of misery right up until the end of the road. Unbelievable. Oh, and did I mention that just for fun, wherever we could pass him, he speeded up just enough that we couldn’t?

I’m telling you, if you see him, get away as fast as you can. You have been warned.

On the bus, I was entertained by:

1. The couple sitting ahead of me. Whatever the girl said, the guy responded with “For real.” Now, “for real” can apparently be a question, agreement with a previous statement, or an expression of surprise. For real. Examples:

   “That girl ain’t no damn good. I don’t know why your brother is still going out with her.”
   “For real.” (Resigned to brother’s bad taste in girlfriends)

   “So I stole his car, drained all the gas out of it, an’ left the keys in the ignition. Then I tol’ him where to get it. He didn’t mess with me no more.”
   “For real?” (Questioning; possibly reflecting that bad taste in girlfriends may run in the family)

   “You got that class on Fridays, right?”
   “For real.” (Agreement; should be taking a class in how to pick a girlfriend)

2. Two guys comparing their sentences at San Quentin (for real!!!) and exchanging tips on how to pass drug tests while still taking drugs. One of the guys had finished an eight year sentence two days earlier; the other had been out for a while. They compared personalities of the guards, including one called Butter Bean and another one:

   Guy One: “He a Nazi, man!”
   Guy Two (nodding vehemently): “A black Nazi!”

   Talk turned to drug testing. Guy One hadn’t had to do his yet, but Guy Two had one every week:

   Guy Two: “Here’s what I do, I take niacin and lots of B3.”
   Guy One: “B12?”
   Guy Two: “No, it’s gotta be B3. Makes you hot, your face gets all red, but it gets everything outta your system.”
   Guy One: “I heard drinking lots of water works. Or Gatorade.”
   Guy Two: “That shit don’ work. Gotta be the B3.”

For real.

Thanks for your kind words and thoughts, everyone. My family and I really appreciate it. Sending you love & hugs right back!

Faithful readers may remember that today marks the fourth anniversary of my father’s death. I’m happy to report that these freshly minted orphans were actually able to laugh, sharing some of the sillier memories of Dad:

1. How he always woke us up for school, snapping open the blinds and merrily carolling, “Wakey, wakey, rise and shine!” Not surprisingly, we often did not rise, and we never shone, though it was pretty much impossible not to wake(y). If we did not rise soon enough for Dad, the covers would be yanked back, admitting the cold morning air, while Dad said “up, up, up!” like a drill sergeant, each “up” accompanied by a hand clap. More effective than any alarm clock.

2. How he never did learn to change a tire. My brother used to work as a cook, and Dad actually called him while he was at work and told him he needed him to come and change his tire. My brother was caught between the chef, who had big, sharp knives, and Dad, who informed my brother that he put him on the planet and he could take him off it, too. He went and changed the tire.

3. How I saw pictures of myself as a really little baby and was horrified by how ugly I was. I was, too. I had a giant, blocky head and a pig nose and the general effect was something like one of the Whos from How the Grinch Stole Christmas. I told Dad how appalled I was by my babyhood hideousness, and he said, “Yes, I felt quite sorry for you.” Dad always said what he thought, even when he shouldn’t.