Suzy Says

The cold is proving to be one of those visitors that just don’t know when to leave. I’ve done the dishes, turned off the music and most of the lights, yawned obtrusively, and yet it still sits comfortably at the table, sipping yet another glass of wine and telling stories. A week of pretty much anyone is enough for me, but a week of a cold is too much. I’m beginning to think I’m just going stay sick forever.

This Sunday morning, I was awakened by the building manager not exactly taking the Lord’s name in vain, but rather, performing an impassioned monologue wherein he used the word “fuck” with a fluidity and number of variations that was truly remarkable. Like a really raunchy and furious Shakespeare hero.

The cause of the early morning theatrics was this. Somehow, overnight, person or persons unknown had somehow managed to wedge the sad remains of a once-proud piano up the stairs and right outside the building’s main door. Equally mysterious is how it got there and how/if it can be removed. I can understand the building manager’s horror when he realized that this little problem is now his. He might want to consider just letting it stay there, like the cold. It makes quite a conversation piece. Or at least a monologue.

Seen in the food court at the airport:

– A woman saying grace very earnestly (eyes closed, hands clasped, lips moving) over her tray. At first I thought, “Is fast food really worth praying over?” Then I figured it could use all the help it could get. There was something both touching and absurd about the whole thing.

– A man with a club sandwich, cut into the traditional triangles and held together with toothpicks (no festive tassels on the end, though: utilitarianism rules in food courts, my friend) before the guy removed all the toothpicks. He then proceeded to take a toothpick and spear a bread triangle with it and eat it from the toothpick as if it were a canap&eacute. This was followed by doing the same thing with all the bread, then all the tomatoes, etc. Piece by piece by component, all eaten one piece at a time from the toothpick. Really creative, or really weird? Or both?

Made my day:

A little girl, riding on her father’s shoulders (how I loved that when I was a kid!), calls out happily, “Hi, there, doggie!” as a Golden Retriever and his guardian pass by.

Every adult in sight, no matter how faux, burst into smiles and/or delighted giggles.

How Not to Entertain:

1. Spend a delightful afternoon giggling with your most fabulous friend and playing with her most fabulous dogs and drinking chocolate martinis.

Have you ever had one of these good/evil concoctions? Remember those cartoons where there’s an angel on one shoulder urging the conflicted cartoon character to do the right thing and a devil on the other urging him/her/it (it’s a drawing, right? Or several of them) to do the fun thing? Well, it’s that in a glass. It tastes soooo goooood, but it’s entirely composed of booze, so after one you’re pretty much smashed and recounting tales of your youthful misdemeanors.

2. Go home and nap off the martini until your dinner guests (visiting from out of town) arrive, thus ensuring no time to put in contacts, apply makeup, brush hair, or put on a better outfit. Oh well.

3. About five minutes after they arrive, get phone call with bad news. Go outside and pull yourself together. Come back inside to discover that guests have not only brought dinner in those reheatable aluminum dishes favored by caterers, but wine, dessert, and napkins(!). One guest is making salad dressing for the salad she brought and the other one is setting the table.

While this is the easiest possible way of entertaining, it kind of hovered on the edge of unflattering. If they’d brought dishes as well as napkins, that would have tipped it over the edge into totally unflattering.

I guess everyone knows how very domestically disabled I am.

I was awakened yesterday morning by the shrill voices of teenagers and the exasperated, English-accented voice of their teacher (“No more disparaging remarks!”). They were standing outside discussing architecture and history. It’s truly astonishing how loud a bunch of kids can be. What’s the correct term? Flock? Gaggle? Herd? I’m thinking gaggle is the most appropriate. Note to self: Never be outnumbered 30 to 1. Them’s unwinnable odds, my friends.

After that surreal start to the day, I had:

One cup atomic SuzyStrength coffee (non-Suzys who have dared to drink this dark, passionate brew – including my mother – claim that drinking it will almost certainly remove tooth enamel. They have recommended alternative methods of consumption that are less dentally dangerous, such as intravenous, but you know how I love living on the edge. Also, I have been drinking caf&eacute Suz&eacute for 25 years and I still have all my teeth, unlike my mother);

One watermelon flavored Jolly Rancher;

One blue raspberry flavored Jolly Rancher (this was news to me, and happy news, too, since everyone knows that blue raspberry is the best flavor, whether in SweeTarts or Slush Puppies or Freezies, despite the fact that, to my vast and worldly knowledge of the fruit world, blue raspberries do not exist in nature. Red ones, yes, and white ones, yes, but the blue ones are entirely artificial as well as making the raspberry species patriotic by adding the blue to the red, white, and blue. Also artificial is almost always preferable to the horrors of nature, with the notable exception of boobage);

One Popsicle Xtreme Sour (everything is extreme, or as it might be, Xtreme these days, from sports to antiperspirant. I’ve been Xtreme for more than four decades, so I feel like a trendsetter) in raspberry, and yes, blue raspberry. Is there a theme here? Write an essay in 100 words or less comparing and contrasting and email it to me. Your marks will be posted when I get around to it.

One dark chocolate delight filled with sea salted caramel. Sounds disgusting, but is one of the most delicious things I have ever tasted. Good thing the dealer of these wicked delectables is on the other side of town, or I would have a bad addiction and an even bigger butt than I do already.

Looking at this list, I think I belong in the gaggle of kids rather than with the responsible adults. But you knew that.

Leave me alone for five minutes, and I go to sleep. Just watch:

1…

2…

3…

4…

5…

~nap!~

Narcolepsy? Neurosis? The advent of old age? An exponential increase in my pathological laziness? A complete lack of interest in reality? You decide. But don’t wake me up. Just leave me a note.

For my father:

“the total emptiness for ever,
The sure extinction that we travel to
And shall be lost in always. Not to be
here,
Not to be anywhere,
And soon; nothing more terrible, nothing
more true.”

— Philip Larkin, Aubade

Suzy?s Hamptons Diary, Part III

Where there?s Vacation Suzy, there?s food?n?wine. Even more than usual. I hadn?t been in the Hamptons more than 2 hours before making the wonderful discovery that the island is packed with as many wineries as the Napa Valley, making great wine that doesn?t cost an arm or a leg. My personal favorite was Pindar Winery?s Autumn Gold ? one of the most delicious wines I have ever tasted. Even Paul, who doesn?t drink, was unable to resists its delightfulness. I brought a bottle home, but I really wanted to bring a case. Curse the inconvenience of flying without a sommelier (or someone to carry a case of wine through Laguardia for a cute and helpless girl and make sure it arrives unscathed).

It looks a lot like New England there, and I was able to immerse myself in the old favorites from childhood summers spent on another island, off the coast of Maine. Steamers (clams steamed in white wine and herbs, served with garlic butter ? Paul found two “pearls” in his and gave them to me); lobster roll, chunky lobster and celery and mayonnaise, on the classic white bun; fried clams; calamari; exquisite, fresh-caught local flounder; and local scallops crusted with almonds and served with citrus beurre blanc. Not to mention the fabulous blueberry pancakes, positively purple with tiny wild blueberries, at Dave?s Bun”N”Burger* in Westhampton.

*Dave?s punctuation, not mine. I swear. (Frequently)

Suzy’s Hamptons Diary, Part II

Welcome to New York State!

Paul, my guide to the Hamptons. Great friend, raconteur, caterer to the stars.

The Westhampton jitney stop. Everything’s fancy in the Hamptons – they call a plain old bus a jitney. Doesn’t it sound classier that way?

It’s very patriotic there.

Even the pinwheels…

…and the cereal.

And the school is, of course, drug-free.

Suzy’s Hamptons Diary*, Part I

Thanks to my fabulous friend K, who introduced me to her original and absorbing pastime of deciding whether random girls walking down the street have butts that are bigger or smaller than ours, I have become as avid an ass appraiser as the gayest denizen of the Castro. And almost as critical! Try it, it’s addictive (though it can also be very, very depressing, depending on where the game takes place).

No girl in the Hamptons has a butt bigger than mine, whether she’s famous, infamous, or just plain wealthy and privileged. It’s an indefinable quality that the rich, especially old money, have. They can be wearing shorts, t-shirts, and sandals with no jewelry, but something about them just says (in a refined tone of voice, of course) money and high society.

Other than the Guatamalan day laborers milling around outside the Seven-Eleven, hoping to get a day’s work, I was the poorest person for miles around. Even living in San Francisco couldn’t prepare me for the level of power and money in the Hamptons. I’m talking $17 million estates, people with private planes or helicopters to get them to the city once a week or so to check up on the little people, or the po’ folks who have a share in a beach house for $150,000 a summer.

*Not the real Hamptons Diary, which appears in the irresistibly and delightfully trashy New York Post. And yes, I read the Post every single day I was in the Empire State, sometimes while wearing the pink wig. I’m delightfully trashy myself at times.

Seen in Manhattan:

The fabulous Ed Ruscha exhibits at the fabulous Whitney;

Tall buildings;

Not one famous person;

Taxis (but not for Suzy!);

But that’s OK – she’s shopping in the Village (including a pink wig!);

A tree grows in Manhattan;

Better be careful! (the entrance to the Queens-Midtown Tunnel); and

Promises, promises!

Next: Hamptons Diary!

Overheard in midtown Manhattan:

“Everyone’s attracted to crazy. It’s just a fact.”

This could be a good investment for me. My burning isn’t just confined to appliances – I am on my second sunburn of the summer, and we aren’t even halfway though July. First the ballpark burn, and now a burn I actually acquired through my clothes. Did anyone know this was possible? The ozone layer must be thinner than Kate Moss.

Proof, if any were needed, of how very domestically disabled I am – one of my birthday tributes was this mug, so it appears to be a matter of common knowledge – is at hand. In attempting to toast a crumpet (well, I am half-English) in the toaster oven, I managed to set the crumpet and the toaster oven on fire.

It was a mini-inferno before I even noticed, and once I did, I had no idea what to do. Throw water on it? Maybe that makes it worse, though. Do I even have baking soda – doesn’t that work? Why don’t I have a fire extinguisher? Is there a responsible adult in the house who could fix this for me? Now? All these thoughts scurried rapidly through my petite mind – they didn’t have far to travel – and finally what I did was grab an oven mitt, then the hunka hunka burning appliance, and toss everything outside. The rain put it out for me.

Toaster oven is a write-off, and the outlet into which it was plugged looks a little Dali and is no longer white. As if all this weren’t embarrassing enough, my brother is a volunteer fireman. Don’t tell on me, ‘K?

The ballpark burn is now peeling in a very unappealing manner. My arms look like I have leprosy lite, and it appears the burn is going to devolve into a tan – one that ends abruptly at the elbow, where I rolled up the sleeves of my Giants shirt. Gives a whole new meaning to tan lines.

On the bright side, when I was out shopping for some new music, the clerk at the record store, who looked to either be in college or fresh out of it (possibly everyone looks young to a vintage babe like me) complimented me on my taste in music. Here’s what got the 20-something Record Store Clerk Seal of Approval:

Madvillain: Madvillainy

Gift of Gab: 4th Dimensional Rocket Ships Going Up (silly names on both of them, but both are fab. He’s one of the Blackalicious vocalists)

Wilco: A Ghost is Born

Nappy Roots: Watermelon, Chicken and Gritz

J-Kwon: Hood Hop

Cee-Lo Green: Cee-Lo Green…Is the Soul Machine

None. Ever.

As promised, here’s a picture of Sporty Suzy at the A’s-Giants game in Oakland last night.

It was strange being in enemy territory, though of course I was far from being the only Giants fan there. The A’s fans are at least as fervent as the Giants’. The rabid A’s fan sitting behind me now owes me my hearing back, though I’m not hopeful of collecting on the debt. It will have to be enough that my Giants kicked his A’s a’s.