Suzy Says

Happy summer, everyone! You can tell it’s summer because it’s cold (a mere 54&deg this morning) and foggy. The bells on the cable cars are jangling with the shivering. Everyone keeps quoting that Mark Twain chestnut, “The coldest winter I ever spent was a summer in San Francisco”.

Sporty Suzy* has been preoccupied with the historic Giants-Red Sox series the past few days. It’s the first time they have played each other since 1912 – the year Titanic was both launched and lost. The games sold out within half an hour of the tickets going on sale, and rabid Boston fans have invaded the Giants’ town. People paid more than $1,000 for tickets, if you can believe that.

On Friday night, I had fabulous Thai food, champagne (OK, you purists, m&eacutethode champenoise) and, being po’ folks, watched the first game on TV. The Giants lost that one, but won the next, and both games were incredibly entertaining.

I didn’t see all of the second one, though. I watched the first couple of innings and then went to an outdoor concert featuring my beloved Blackalicious. It’s hard when a girl has to choose between two loves, but I’d been spending more time with my Giants lately and felt the boys in the band deserved some attention.

After the show, I stepped across the street to check out the Pop Art exhibit at MOMA, which was fabulous. I adored the Warhols and Ruschas (especially the photos of every building on Sunset Boulevard, circa 1966). In the Art of Design exhibit, I fell in love with a clear lucite chair with red artificial roses embedded in it. If money were no object, I’d have a set of those chairs. And tickets to the Giants-Red Sox games! And…

*To those of you who have been requesting photographic evidence of Sporty Suzy’s existence: I’ll see if I can persuade an innocent bystander to take a picture at the A’s game next week. But I reserve the right to withhold all unflattering photos. If Marilyn could do it, so can I!

It was a beautiful day at the ballpark. So beautiful, in fact, that I ended up with Ballpark Burn on my forearms, and only my forearms. I wore a hat and sunglasses and sunscreen, but pushing up the sleeves of my Giants t-shirt and sitting in the sun for three hours means that I now look like I have on elbow-length red gloves. I sort of look like Neapolitan ice cream. Even less appealing than trucker’s tan.

But on the bright side, my Giants beat the Toronto Blue Jays* 8-5, and Barry Bonds even made an appearance as a pinch hitter just for Sporty Suzy. The fact that the game was tied at that point wasn’t a factor, of course. This was the first time the Jays had played the Giants, and after being beaten for all three games, they probably aren’t in a hurry to come back – unless they want a rematch, or more of those fabulous Gilroy garlic fries.

*I have to admit, their logo is adorable.

I’ve been thinking that I should ask you guys for possible captions for the photos, like The New Yorker’s annual contest, only without the fame and prizes. This one hardly needs one, though I suppose the correct response would be, “I do, too”, or possibly, “Who doesn’t?”

I decided to take wise Michelle’s advice and take pictures until my blog blockage either conquers me or is conquered.

So, here you go. First in a series:

I’m three years old today. No wonder I’m so immature!

I managed to do something to my lower back (not, as you would suspect, by lifting the bottle-laden and oh-so-heavy recycling bin, but by pushing the sofa in a non-Erica-approved manner, and now look) and am hobbling around like an 80 year old, all bent over. I even make little involuntary noises when I sit down or get up. It’s beginning to feel like a preview for when I’m an old lady*.

Bette Davis was right: old age ain’t for sissies.

*I have this fear that one day I’ll wake up and it will all have caught up with me. Wham! I’ll look like hell and/or Keith Richards. If/when that happens, I’m heading straight to the plastic surgeon without passing Go or collecting $200 (hey, I’ll be spending waaaay more than that). And no-one can stop me. So there.

Way to go, Barry!

Papa’s got a brand-new blog!

Part of the lengthy process of attempting to make my computer stop its hissy fit was to bribe it with shiny new software. It turned out to be as ineffective as using this approach with a small child, but in my defense, I’m equally ignorant of both subjects, and in both cases, I think they can tell and (mis)behave accordingly.

The new software is thrillingly named Panther (though I don’t know why), and includes all this fascinating stuff which I will almost certainly never be clever enough to use: iPhoto, iTunes, iChat, iThis, iThat. Despite all these i’s, they are missing the most important one: iSuzy.

iSuzy would include things like iShopping; iSparklyThings; iWine; iTravel (really: iBeingSomewhereElseNotTheHorrorOfGettingThere. but that’s too long and not catchy enough); iArtGalleries; iJewelry and iSports (really, iBaseball, or to be totally accurate, iGiants).

What would iYou have in it?

Typically, I never forget a birthday or an anniversary, but this year has been atypical, because I have forgotten (or been late for) pretty much all of them. However, I am trying hard to overcome this and hopefully those special dates located later on in the year will get the attention they deserve.

One of the most egregious oversights of this recent character flaw was forgetting the third birthday of Mike and Jennifer’s fabulous son, Matthew. Poor kid didn’t even get a card, and today is his birthday. Fortunately, he’s still too little to remember this, so it shouldn’t scar him for life, and he’ll get even better gifts for the next few years until I stop feeling guilty about blowing it this year. And in celebration of his birthday, here are some of my favorite photos of him.

Happy Birthday to Matthew!!!!

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Even those of us who are normally immune to the charm of children can see this one is cute as a button. And here’s good news: the co-creators of Matthew are currently working on a second project, which will debut very soon. Unlike most sequels, I fully expect this one to be as good as the original.

Sooner or later, everyone wants his/her own room, and John’s getting his at last. So head on over and say hi, keeping in mind that there’s still construction going on, so there may be dust, stray nails, bad language, and other hazards.

For those of you who haven’t followed the story of my little blog since its birth almost three years ago, I wrote it alone until my father suddenly died. I then had to fly to England as fast as I could to deal with all the things that people do in such circumstances, so John filled in for me as a guest writer. He enjoyed it so much that after I got back, he and I shared it.

But my little site is running out of disk space and he’s ready to strike out on his own. Also, I have never been good at sharing or played well with others. And sometimes I even run with scissors.

I don’t think my computer loves me anymore. It happens.

Maybe it’s tired of being hauled all over the world, where it not only has to cope with the hard work and horror of dial-up, but being fondled by airport security and endless changes of time zone.

It won’t tell me what’s wrong, even though I have begged and pleaded. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t, and I never know why. There is no discernible pattern.

Finally, I decided to wine it and dine it with expensive new software, which it seemed to like at first, but now it’s being diva-like again. It may be even more temperamental than I am.

It will be even more annoyed when I blame my lack of posting and inability to respond to emails on its bad behavior, despite the fact that it’s completely true, and will probably punish me by acting even worse.

That, or it will act all perfect just to make me look bad. We’ll see.

Remember the Kathleen who saved Christmas? The one who couldn?t bear the Grinchitude of our pathetic little family not having presents, so she made them and mailed them to us? The picture I posted of her then with her lovely handiwork did not do her loveliness justice at all, but I have since been fortunate enough to locate a picture of her which actually does. She?s the one in the middle. So you can see that her outer beauty matches her inner beauty.

She is one of the least judgmental and most giving people I know. And she?s gotta be one of the few girls in the US of A who look like that and love hockey and race car driving as much as the symphony and Iggy Pop. She?s not only a giver of gifts, she is a gift.

My lack of posting while in Florida was entirely due to a fatal combination of Florida Suzy¹ and the cabana boys? complete inability to understand that “Please write something witty and tropical in my blog” does not in fact mean “Please bring me yet another in a series of mojitos” or “Please bring me more of that delicious coconut shrimp, and what about some Key lime pie² while you?re at it?”

I?ll fill you in on the adventurettes of Florida Suzy when I get unpacked. Look out.

¹Florida Suzy is an even more frightening version of Vacation Suzy. In addition to the Vacation Suzy qualities of eating too much, drinking too much, going to bed late and getting up late (rarely, if ever, going to bed on the same day she finally got up on), with shopping as her only cardio, Florida Suzy wears sequined sandals, toe rings, and glittery t-shirts and fits right in.

²If you haven?t had Key lime pie made from actual Key limes, which grow in Florida, you haven?t had Key lime pie. Though I normally don?t eat dessert, I ate that pie every chance I got, which was pretty much every day. Good thing there was lots of shopping cardio and swimming.

Surprise! I?m going to Florida!

I?ve never been before, but my sis, who is taking some much-needed R&R, persuaded me to join her there on Sunday for a few days. She says the beaches are beautiful, even prettier than the ones in SoCal, and I got an amazingly cheap airfare, especially considering that I just decided to go today.

Any talk about Mom or getting a job or any other real-life, grown-up-like stuff is banned while I?m there. We?re just going to lie on the beach and drink umbrella drinks. If I get too lazy to post while I?m there, I?ll get one of the cabana boys to do it for me, so entries will be something like:

“The beautiful Miss Suzy has not yet arrived on the beach today, but I have her favorite chair waiting for her. My only wish is her happiness.”

“The beautiful Miss Suzy surpassed her own personal best in drinking umbrella drinks yesterday, so she is now passed out in the shade with 20 paper umbrellas in her hair.”

“I am too busy flirting with the flirtatious Miss Suzy to write in her blog.”

The truth is that I?m only breaking my lifetime rule of not going to Florida because Colin promised me a bit part in his next movie, following the smash hit “Wat That Hook Gon Be”, and I?m gon collect on dat promise.

Sunshine, beaches, umbrella drinks, being a movie starlet ? what?s not to love?

I?m ready for my close-up, Mr. Moris.

Today, my trainer was telling me that your face is the first place you lose weight, but the last place you gain it. Or, as she put it:

“If your face is fat, your ass is already there.”

Words of wisdom, n’est-ce pas?

And speaking of words: why do “flammable” and “inflammable” mean the same thing? Despite a perfectly useless degree in linguistics, I have no idea.

While reading the always entertaining and informative New Yorker with my coffee this morning, I discovered that although I, too, am always entertaining, there are egegrious lapses in my information department.

A small ad caught my eye (I always check out the ads in the New Yorker, since quite a lot of them are for vintage jewelry and I love to decide which pieces I’d buy if I were the Idle Rich Suzy I should be) and revealed the appalling fact that the Statue of Liberty has been closed for the past two years (actually, since the dark, dreadful day of September 11, 2001). Despite being almost as patriotic as Colin, and born in the great state of New York, and an avid reader of the New Yorker, I had no idea.

The Statue is arguably one of the great American icons, a symbol of what our nation stands for, and should be available to people all over the world to visit. If you need a fabulous gift idea, why not make a donation in the name of your friend or relation to help reopen the statue? Talk about a win/win: you reduce your shopping (and wrapping and mailing) stress, your recipient doesn’t end up with yet another object s/he doesn’t really need, and you’ll be part of history, helping to relight the torch of liberty so it shines once again as a beacon of hope. Or make a donation in your own name and bask in the reflected glory.

Spending so much time in the country over the past few months has pretty much cured my fear of the dark. I’m still not its biggest fan, and I would still hesitate before walking into an abandoned house or a cemetery in the middle of the night, but I find I can’t sleep now if there’s too much light in a room.

All this country time seems to have made me more sensitive to noise, too, and I wake up more easily than ever.

Last night, I found myself an unwilling audience member at Snoreapalooza 2004. The featured act would not cease and desist no matter what methods I used to disencourage it, so I flounced out to the living room to sleep on the couch.

Once the flounce had worn off, I discovered that the majestic ticking of the grandfather clock in the hall was driving me crazy (not to mention the hourly chiming), so I couldn’t sleep there, either. I returned to bed, frustrated and cranky and unfit for sleep for several hours.

Early on the following morning, I was still enjoying my hard-won sleep when I was rudely awakened by Cleo playing with her mouse. When Cleo plays with her mouse, she feels the need to swear at it so loudly that you can hear it for miles. It’s one of the well-known San Francisco sounds, like fog horns and cable car bells.

In my semi-conscious state, I yelled at her to stop, still hopeful that I could go back to sleep. But no. She was as persistent as Snoreapalooza, so I finally gave up on the whole thing and got up. Whereupon she dropped the mouse and became as quiet as one.

Adrian may be right. Cats can be evil.

Faithful readers will recall how John and I got landed with Mom?s cat. If you?re curious about how that?s working out, her life is still pretty much like a hunted gazelle on the Nature Channel, with our cats chasing her and/or hissing at her, when they bother to acknowledge her presence at all. After 6 months. I have serious doubts about whether they will ever accept her.

Anyway, the challenge (is thatever a good word?) of having the cat is nothing compared to what Megan has dealt with for more months than either of us care to count, and it?s not just because I have problems counting. In addition to Mom, she has no fewer than three dogs in her petite maison. All of them Mom?s. All of them completely untrained and/or neurotic and stinky. They have put me off dogs for life other than Jed the Wonder Dog, who isn?t really a dog. She?s in a class by herself. She?s Jed.

Being around these hell hounds recently has made me realize that dogs are much like children*. If you don?t train them properly when they?re young, they become incurable assholes. Well-trained dogs and well-trained children are as rare as a flawless 2+ carat diamond. Both dogs and children have an unfortunate propensity to pooping and peeing in the house. Both tend to be on the stinky side if not regularly cleaned up by grown-ups. Both tend to be loud (barking or whining dog = howling baby or tantrum-throwing child). Both require excessive amounts of attention, and you have to worry about both of them reproducing at an inopportune time and try to prevent it at all costs.

On the one hand, you don?t have to send your dog to college or pay for its wedding. On the other hand, children tend not to lick you or smell your lower regions with immoderate enthusiasm, though they are, in their younger stages, also prone to jumping on you at inconvenient times and demanding to be fed.

As if battling my non-nurturing nature wasn?t enough, every night it?s as if someone opened a can of dogs and sprayed them all over the floor. I?m convinced that the dogs, though intellectually challenged (see? It?s never positive), conspire to lie between me and the stove, which has to be fed several times a night (keep the home fires burning!) and the table where Mom?s personal pharmacy is (it would be worth a junkie?s while to find his/her way to this isolated place), with which Mom has to be fed several times a night.

The country darkness combined with several nights? worth of sleep deprivation (being woken up every 1-2 hours, every night, and then trying desperately to get back to sleep before being yanked out of it yet again) makes it difficult to maneuver my way without adding to my budding scar collection, and I can say with complete honesty that I?m completely sick of tripping over them and/or climbing over them in the watches of the night.

I am also sick of being a dog doorman (doorperson?) at any hour of the day or night, as they whine to be let out or bark to be let back in. Better than walking them, but not much. And then there?s my personal favorite, the late night Wake?n?Shake, in which the dog(s) lean against the couch I?m trying to sleep on and have loud, intimate and vigorous yet ineffective baths with such ferocity that it?s as if they?re trying to reproduce the ?89 quake by shaking the couch as hard as they can, waking me up yet again.

Can I go home yet? Nurse Suzy and Frontier Suzy need to retire. In every sense of the word.

*Of course, some among you may also have Wonder Dogs (such as Kelly and Candi) and/or Wonder Children (such as Mike & Jennifer), but I haven?t met most of them (yet). So no offense meant. And I realize I?m a cat person and (in most cases) baby-intolerant and therefore prejudiced.

Here at Green Acres (and I do mean green, since it only rains here in the winter, and yeah, it?s winter, and yeah, it?s raining), there is no cell phone service and no TV unless you have a satellite dish. These two phenomena may well be related, but I neither know nor care ? they both fall into the category of “I just want it to work and I don?t care how”, like cars ? but what it means for us is that we have to keep renting DVD?s and videos in the Big Town to entertain bedridden Mom.

The Big Town (approximate population 5,000), is where they keep all the non-picturesque necessities of life, like Safeway, the DMV, the police station, the hospital, and the video store. It?s about half an hour?s drive each way, so we try to rent as many videos (and run as many errands) as we can to make the voyage worth it.

One of our recent rentals was Sex & the City, Season 4. In one episode, Charlotte sets up Anthony, her wedding gown designer, with her friend Stanford. Anthony asks Charlotte who would play Stanford in a movie before accepting the date*, and since I have too much time on my hands and am too self-centered anyway, it made me wonder: who would play Me in a movie? And who would play You?

*Charlotte said “Ed Harris”, and when Anthony met Stanford, he snapped at Charlotte, “Try Ed “I have no hair-is”. The set-up was not a success. They seldom are.