Suzy Says

It’s a beautiful day today. When I left for work early this morning, the cloudless sky was the eerie electric blue seen in medieval enamel work. It was faultlessly accessorized with a single sliver of silver crescent moon. The sun was getting ready for its day of work, too, getting glorious behind a veil of pale lavender fog floating serenely on the cold, dark waters of the Bay. Surely the sun gets dressed in Oakland because it has such a great view of San Francisco.

Today is Candi’s husband Brian’s birthday! I hope he’s having a wonderful, happy day. It couldn’t happen to a nicer guy.

It’s also Andy Warhol’s birthday. Makes you wonder about horoscopes, because really, Andy and Brian could not be more different despite being born on the same day. On the other hand, I think they are both totally fabulous in totally different ways, which is classic Gemini.

Last, but definitely not least, today is Jo Day. Ten years ago today, we first met her as a tiny kitten and brought her home. Our time with her was short, but happy, and she changed our lives forever. Every year since she died, we have honored her memory with a gift to Animal Care & Control, to help other strays find loving homes. And remembering the day we first met the one and only Jo always makes me smile.

It seems that UC Berkeley, aka Miss Chelsea Clinton’s alma mater and widely considered to be one of the best schools in California, is planning on offering a blogging course this Fall. I found the fuss contained in the article somewhat amusing, especially the Altamont remark, but I find the whole idea that the purpose of blogs is to disseminate news and/or possibly replace newspapers laughable.

Maybe I need to take the course, but I think the point is to get a glimpse into other people’s lives and opinions. We are all naturally curious about each others’ lives, whether it’s celebrities in the tabloids or those weirdoes down the block, and I think that’s a big part of blogging’s appeal. Unless the course is designed to show people how to set up and maintain a blog, what’s the course for? And am I doing this right? After all, what could be more subjective than blogging?

It remind me of the Notorious Florence Incident.

In 1984, I was spending a few months in Italy with my father and little sister, recovering from heartbreak. This process was greatly speeded along by the attentions of the male natives. Blonde girls in Italy get lots of attention, and there’s nothing like getting flowers from complete strangers on the street and being told your arms are like alabaster to make you feel that your ex-boyfriend was a complete deludinoid. One day, my sister (who was 13) and I (22) were shopping in Florence, trying on sandals in an open-air market and having a great time, when she dropped this bomb into the conversation:

“I understand what the boy does in bed, but what does the girl do?”

This completely derailed my thoughts on whether the heel was too high on those mules, and I had no idea what to say. I mean, it’s not like you do A, then B, then C, and then you’re done, and I didn’t want to like scar for her life, you know? So I ended up saying something lame like “When the time comes, you’ll know what to do”. My sister dropped her shopping bags, put both her hands on hips, and said with the greatest disgust, “Well, I thought you’d tell me.”

I have to wonder: can this course really tell you what to do, any more than I could tell my sister? Can’t some things just be up to the individual?

Love/hate for Friday, July 26, 2002
Art Museums

As long as I can remember, I have loved going to art galleries and museums. My father started taking me when I was quite small, and to this day I count a love of art as one of the best gifts he ever gave me.

I was about 10 years old the first time he took me to the National Gallery in Washington. I remember it very well, because the cherry trees were in blossom and it was impossibly beautiful, like being in a fairytale. On the same trip, we visited Monticello (I was already a huge Jefferson fan, and have found no reason to revise my opinion over the ensuing 30 years), which is one of the most beautiful houses in the world.

When my father retired back to his native England, I visited him at least once a year, and during these visits, one of our greatest pleasures was going to art exhibits together, both in the UK and on the Continent. We ventured as far as Russia, just to see the great collection in the Hermitage. We went every day for four days, but still didn’t see it all. In London, there were certain galleries we visited every year: The Tate, The National Gallery, The Courtauld, and The Queen’s Gallery.

I would still rate the US National Gallery as one of the greatest collections in the world, though I have a deeper affection for the National Gallery in London, whose collection is certainly as good as its American counterpart. The NG in London houses one of my all-time favorite paintings, by my all-time favorite painter, JMW Turner: Rain, Steam, and Speed: The Great Western Railway. Turner was Monet 50 years before Monet, who himself acknowledged his debt to Turner.

Which brings me to the Tate Gallery, which houses the Turner Bequest, the greatest collection of Turners in the world. Dad and I would visit our favorites and when our feet gave out, repair to the glorious Restaurant, decorated by Rex Whistler, for wonderful food and wine.

The Courtauld is housed in an elegant Georgian building in the heart of London. The star of the collection for me is the Impressionists, including Manet’s Bar at the Folies Berg&egraveres and Renoir’s painting of his radiant auburn-haired mistress dressed in white. If I could be painted by anyone, it would be Renoir, even though my father used to dismiss his portraits as “chocolate box.”

The Queen’s Gallery has changing exhibits from Her Majesty’s vast collection. If you are fortunate enough to be in London when Buckingham Palace is open to the public, do go if only to see the paintings. The most remarkable for me is one by Rembrandt of a woman called Agatha Bas, painted with her hand on the frame as if she could lean right out of the painting.

I guess if you develop a love for something as a child, it never leaves you. I used to feel like Frederick the Mouse on my trips to London, absorbing enough art and beauty to sustain me until the next time.

I’m off for a weekend in the country with my brother and sister, so no posting until I’m back. It’s not just the fact that I’m impatient with dial-up (though I am), but that it’s all about outside fun while I’m there in the summer. Swimming, playing with Jed (my brother’s wonder dog), hanging out in the hammock, stuff like that. In the meantime, here’s the love/hate of the week. Enjoy!

Love/hate for Friday, July 19, 2002
Country Living

Like Eddie Albert and Eva Gabor in Green Acres, John likes the country, and I like the city. John would like to sell our apartment and flee the madness of the city, but the thought of doing so fills me with horror.

For one thing, if we did, we could never, ever afford to move back here. And as for living in the country full-time…I like to visit, but I wouldn’t want to live there. I’m a city girl. I like the energy and excitement of the city, though of course it does have its annoyances. What doesn’t? San Francisco is big, but not too big, like London or New York. It’s blissfully tolerant and multi-cultural. The climate is perfect, as far as I’m concerned, rarely dipping below 40&deg or soaring above 80&deg. It is one of the most beautiful cities in the world. Readers of this blog have undoubtedly noticed by now that I love this city as if it were a person, so why would I want to leave it, especially since the way back would be forever barred due to financial considerations?

I just can’t imagine living in such isolation, and with the accompanying hazards of country life. The way the outside refuses to stay outside, where it belongs, so you encounter unwelcome forms of animal life from insects on up to rats and raccoons in what should be the privacy of your home. Having to drive miles to go to the store. No theater, or art galleries, or museums, or home pizza delivery. In the case of where my brother and sister live, no garbage pick up, either. All too scary for a city girl! So I’ll enjoy my visits to the country, and breathe a sigh of relief when I cross the Golden Gate Bridge going south, and happily pay the $3 fee to enter the City (even if I have to write a check to do it, which I have. But that’s another story).

My stepmother had her eyelashes permed. Despite being about as vain and silly as they come, I had never hard of this particular frivolity. Here’s how she describes the result: “My eyelashes look just like a baby doll – amazingly long black and curved.” Sounds kind of weird. I mean, does a girl really want to look like a baby doll? Or any kind of doll?

It reminded me of seeing a sign in the window of a salon recently for permanent make-up. According to the sign, you could have permanent eyeliner, eyebrow color, and lip color. The first thing I thought of was, do you really want only one lip color or eyeliner color for the rest of your life? I wear different lipsticks with different outfits, and though I rarely wear eyeliner, I don’t wear the same color when I do. Maybe you could put lipstick over the permanent color as you do over your natural lip color, though.

And how insecure would you have to be to have your face tattooed in a semblance of make-up? Seems like the kind of thing we find quaint and odd in back issues of National Geographic, doesn’t it? I can’t help but wonder how well it wears. Ordinary tattoos don’t usually look that great after 20 years or more.

I guess we all have our vanities. I have been semi-considering getting botox for the lines on my forehead. I have had them since I was 20 or so, and they are likely the result of lifting my eyebrows in disdain so often. They aren’t much worse than they have always been, but when a girl gets to be 40 she starts to worry about such things. My niece, who is half my age, tells me that botox is just the latest thing in a long line of stupid, dangerous beauty treatments, like people applying arsenic to their skin to whiten it in Elizabethan times, or putting belladonna drops in their eyes so they’d look big and black, or plucking their hairlines so their foreheads would look higher. While beauty standards have clearly changed in the past 400 years, the lure of a lineless youthful look is still hard to resist.

But perhaps it would be a slippery slope, and I’d become a cosmetic surgery junkie, just another California stereotype when we already have so many. I should take to heart my stepmother’s remark about a certain television star who was at the spa with her earlier this month and has had so much cosmetic surgery done that “without make-up, her face is positively grey.” Maybe she hasn’t heard about permanent make-up.

It was a weekend of genius.

On Saturday, we went to see Road to Perdition at the nearby Metro, one of the few remaining neighborhood theaters. We followed Kelly’s movie rules to the letter, and had a wonderful time.

Great cast (Tom Hanks, Paul Newman), great director (Sam Mendes, he of the clever and cutting “American Beauty”, which was written by the brilliant Alan Ball, creator of Six Feet Under), beautifully photographed (one scene in particular is shot with nothing less than poetry, yet it’s the most violent scene of the movie). Much has been made of whether the movie-going public is ready to see Hanks play a “bad guy”. His character does do some bad things, but he’s certainly not pure evil. His motivations are primarily loyalty and the safety and well-being of his family, not personal gain or evil for the hell of it. This story is really one of fathers and sons, whether they are born that way, or find each along the way.

I find it interesting that Mendes, an Englishman, is able to see into the American psyche, both past and present, with such incisiveness and clarity. Maybe you have to be somewhat removed to really be objective.

On Sunday, we attended an amazing event at the glorious Castro Theater, home of the San Francisco Silent Film Festival.

We saw a screening of Harold Lloyd’s hilarious film from 1924, Girl Shy. Not only was there a perfect new print from the Harold Lloyd Trust, the film was introduced by Lloyd’s granddaughter and prefaced with one of his family home movies, never before seen in public, and with sound! I was delighted to see that the speeches and the home movie were given in sign language at the same time.

Harold Lloyd was Jackie Chan 50 years before Jackie Chan. He did most of his own stunts, and suffered the consequences. Two fingers on his right hand were blown off in a stunt with a bomb which turned out to be a little too real, and he wore a prosthetic glove after that. In “Girl Shy”, he was knocked out cold during the chase scene by the heavy brass nozzle on the fire hose, and as soon as he regained consciousness, re-shot the scene. By the way, that scene inspired the chariot race in the 1925 version of “Ben-Hur”, directed by Fred Niblo. Niblo had Lloyd join him while filming the scene to give him tips!

It was wonderful to watch the movie accompanied by live music, as originally intended. Chris Elliott, the organist, had actually studied with the legendary Gaylord Carter, who had scored and accompanied Lloyd’s films himself. The audience was of all ages, and I think nearly every one of the 1,500 seats was occupied. The audience really contributed to the pleasure of the movie, laughing, clapping, booing, and having a wonderful time. I think Lloyd would have been pleased.

I followed Gail’s recent recommendation and bought this book. Though I had seen (and very much enjoyed) the movie based on one of stories in the book, I didn’t even realize that it was based on a short story. Nor have I often read anything with the power and lyricism of these stories. There is incredible richness contained in this slim volume. Go and buy it, or get it from the library. And Gail is right: you won’t be the same. And that’s a good thing.

Love/hate for Friday, July 12, 2002
Packrat-itis

I seem to be having a hard time lately coming up with good titles. I must be in need of a creative consultant. I’m like this New Yorker cartoon.

Anyway, back to the topic at hand. My philosophy is: if you haven’t looked at it, touched it, or thought about it in, say, three years, you don’t need it. The object in question should be given away, donated, recycled, or just plain thrown out. If the object is of a particularly negative emotional or unpleasant nature, you might even want to burn it, like the girls on “Friends” did with their ex-boyfriend mementoes.

This does not apply to sentimental articles like wedding albums, family photos, love letters, etc. Everything else: get rid of it if you don’t really need it. I agree with William Morris, who said, “Have nothing in your houses that you do not know to be useful, or believe to be beautiful.” And also – though this is a little extreme, even for me: “I have never been in any rich man’s home that would not have looked the better for having a bonfire made of nine-tenths of all it held.”

When I was a poor college student, my girlfriends and I would get together once or twice a year. We’d go through our closets and bring with us the clothes that didn’t fit, were no longer fun, or had been mistakes. You know you have some clothes like that in your closet right now! And we’d trade. It was a lot of fun, and whatever was left over was given to Goodwill.

I think it’s liberating to get rid of things from the past that you don’t need or use, and it makes me happy to donate items to places like the very underfunded Humane Society near where my brother and sister live, knowing that it helps animals in need. You might be surprised to find that your local SPCA or Humane Society needs things as simple as newspapers and old towels.

So the next time you do your spring cleaning, think about what you can give away or recycle. Your house will look better, and you’ll feel better.

Yay, Candi has a kitten! Go read the story of how she met him and congratulate her. I’m so excited, you’d think it was my own kitten!

I think that anyone who says they don’t like cats just hasn’t met the right one. John said he didn’t like cats before he met my cat Buddy, who changed John’s mind about cats forever, and John was also the one who fell in love with Jo at first sight. If we had a bigger place to live, we’d have more cats. They bring so much joy and amusement to our lives. I love to watch them interact, too – they are their own little family, their own little tribe. We’re lucky that they found us.

According to recent statistics, the population of San Francisco is pretty much evenly divided between women and men. I had expected that there was a severe, post-WWI type of male shortage since it appears that the hideous troll who lives in the apartment under ours actually has a girlfriend.

For the first time in the more than eight years we have lived there, this guy has finally been able to lure a woman (although admittedly one of the least attractive representatives of the species) to his apartment, which reeks of cheap cigars, mysterious, pungent food with unknown components, and is decorated with a Pepsi clock and other Pepsi memorabilia, since – you guessed it – the guy works for Pepsi. He even wears Pepsi shirts and caps with his carefully ironed jeans on the weekend.

This guy forms the lower shit layer of the sandwich we live in. He blasts his radio, either classical music, with all the commercials, or “soft rock” all weekend, and his TV during the week. Though he appears to be hearing impaired in the extreme, owing to the volume necessary for him to listen to the radio or watch TV, he is hyper-sensitive to any sound we make, including walking, and bitches endlessly to us, the building manager, and anyone else who will listen. He snores so loudly that I can hear it clearly as I get ready for work in the morning, and coughs so loud and long on a daily basis that I am always lightly surprised that he hasn’t actually expired, since it sounds as though he is at Death’s door. Possibly yet another of the unlovely side effects of all that cigar smoking. He looks through all the mail, investigates everyone coming in or out of the building, and had the tree on his deck brutally cut back so now the neighbor’s kitchen looks directly in our bedroom. Thanks, Mr. Pepsi.

The upper layer is a tiny woman who probably weighs 90 pounds soaking wet, yet stomps around like she weighs 300 pounds, actually causing earthquake-style shaking and quaking of objets d’art and books. So there is rarely any peace and quiet to be had chez nous, though that is obviously one of the hazards of apartment living. And our building is almost 80 years old, so it must be beyond belief to live in one of those modern boxes with paper walls. As Dorothy Parker said, with some truth, other people are hell. Particularly when they live above you and below you and you can’t call either your floor or ceiling your own.

But to get back to Mr. Downstairs, it amazes me that someone so devoid of personal charm (short, bald, surly, whining, appearing to be lightly greased at all times) has actually found someone willing to spend time with him. I guess there truly is someone for everyone. I will be interested to see how long she can take it.

Love/hate for Friday, July 5, 2002:
Messy luxury food

I couldn’t come up with a good title for this one. Basically, it’s about those foods which are lot of mess and work for not that much food, such as lobsters, crab, and artichokes. Although I am not, as a rule, pro-mess, I am always pro-luxury, and perhaps that aspect cancels out the mess factor for me. But I do love the afore-mentioned shellfish and artichokes. Not to mention corn on the cob.

When I was a child, we spent our summers in Maine, where lobster was cheaper than hamburger, which is the way it should be. So I can’t remember a time when I didn’t know how to eat a lobster. The fact is, there is no elegant way to eat lobster, unless you’ve had it already Newburged or similar. You have to attack it with your bare hands in Henry VIII style, though unlike Henry, with the assistance of nutcracker or other instruments of destruction. Then it’s just dipping it in melted butter or lemon and it’s minutes of greasy, messy fun.

Crabs are possibly even more work than lobster, for almost certainly less reward, unless they are soft-shelled and then you can just eat the whole thing. I have to admit that the low crab reward does make it worthwhile to go somewhere like Swan Oyster Depot and get the insides without the outsides. That reminds me: one of the luxury foods I have never acquired a taste for is oysters. Too slimy. Too icky, no matter what you put on them. Also never developed a liking for caviar. It’s like fish-flavored Jell-O in my opinion.

It seems that most shellfish is a certain amount of work, but it’s fun work. Who doesn’t love fishing the mussels out of their shells and dipping them in marini&egravere sauce, especially when sitting at a bistro in Paris? Then you can mop up the remaining sauce with your remaining baguette.

In one of those e-mails that circumnavigate the globe more times than any explorer past or present would have dreamed possible, the arcane art of knowing how to eat an artichoke is listed as being a peculiarly Californian skill (my most arcane and least useful skill developed from years of living in San Francisco: a close to unerring ability to discern which sex a person is, no matter how s/he is dressed). Returning to the artichoke, however, I knew how to eat one long before moving here. Do you non-Californians know how to eat one if confronted by it in all its thistly glory? They are definitely worth the trouble in my opinion, but I don’t think John has ever eaten one.

One messy food we can both agree on, though: corn on the cob, especially eaten at an equally messy barbecue. While not luxurious in cost or rarity, it is in nostalgia value and simple pleasure. And that is priceless.

“I believe that it will be celebrated by succeeding generations as the great anniversary festival. It ought to be celebrated by pomp and parade, with shows, games, guns, bells, bonfires, and illuminations from one end of this continent to the other.”

— John Adams, writing to his wife, Abigail, about the 4th of July

Well, Adams called that one. This day has been celebrated for more than 200 years, all over the country. This Independence Day is arguably the most emotional since WWII, the last time our nation was attacked. In the aftermath of 9/11, what struck me most was how we came together as a nation in the face of tragedy, united by our common love of this great country, like no other on earth. I was deeply moved by the display of flags in our neighborhood immediately following the disaster, and we have held fast to that spirit since that fateful day.

I know this country’s flaws, like my own, are neither small nor few. Yet I could never happily live anywhere else. I think you can love a country in the same way you love a person: knowing both the good and the bad, the strengths and the weaknesses, sharing the good times and the bad, your common, shared history uniting you and enabling you to walk together into the future, whatever it may hold.

Am truly a retard. I just called my niece Cat to wish her a happy birthday, and apologized that her present was going to be late, since I’m sending it home with Cat’s Mom on Thursday. Cat then pointed out that if I really wanted her present to be a surprise, I shouldn’t have Shown and Told last week. Sometimes I forget that she reads this. OK, I’m a retard. No excuses. The Dunce Cap is mine. Good thing I have Cat and her premature wisdom. Half my age, twice as smart. Love you, sweetie!

I really shouldn’t let Canada Day pass without good wishes. I realize that my life is full of wonderful Canadians, reformed and unrepentant alike.

My husband used to be Canadian until he became an American citizen several years ago. I stole him from Canada and imported him here…

…much as Shawn did with Kelly, one of my all-time favorite Canadians.

Another fab Can: Amber, one of the nicest people on the planet (well, Canadians are world-renowned for their niceness) and always a fun read.

And let’s not forget Babs, who so understands how much John misses his Canadian delicacies that she actually ships them all the way to California from the beautiful Maritimes. Quelle femme!

Not to mention:

The very talented Mike C. and his wonderful wife Jennifer of Toronto. Mike is an artist, but his greatest work to date is a collaboration with Jennifer: little Matthew, just over a year old. What babies should be, but so seldom are.

The one and only Raven, also of Toronto. Great friend, gifted musician, my other little brother. There’s no-one I’d rather go to the Real Jerk with, and his e-mails always brighten my day.

Mary-Lou, who has been one of my dearest friends since we were in high school. My only bridesmaid other than my sister. About-to-be famous author. Keeper of my darkest secrets and permanent party girl extraordinaire.

Richard, who wants to move back to Canada because it’s too cold in San Francisco. Who lures me out of my glass tower for lunch, and brings the food, too. Who has been my friend since high school, and who is always there for me. Who always makes me laugh and forgives me for not calling him back sooner.

Did I forget anyone? Happy Canada Day to all of you!

Things are looking up. Since it’s us, though, there is a decided good news/bad news flavor to it.

The doctors told Mom that she has a year or two. They are going to start some kind of hormone treatment to stop the cancer from spreading and to help with the pain. If it doesn’t work, then they’ll go on to chemo, radiation, and the really bad stuff. That’s about as good as one could hope for once they say “advanced breast cancer.” So good news: years, not months. Bad news: probably not more than two years. But who knows? That woman is a survivor. And she has a positive attitude, which goes a long way.

My sister Megan has spent the past few months training to be an Emergency Medical Technician (EMT). She got her exam results in Friday’s mail, and I am proud to report that she got 100% on the practical and 90% on the written. Also on Friday, the Coast Hospital called to see if she could come in to talk with them about the one EMT opening they have, which she applied for on the day she had her accident. Ironically, she was on her way to drop off her application when it happened, so she ended up at the hospital after all, just not the way she intended. But she did drop off her application once they released her from the ER.

So she went in to talk to them yesterday, and just when they were offering her the job, they got a call, and asked Megan to come with them. But the call was, sadly, for a 22 year old boy who had committed suicide with a deer rifle. There was little to do but listen to his stilled heart and call the time of death before the police took over.

Megan took it well. I guess it’s a baptism by fire that shows she can do the job. One intense first day at work! Good news: you get the job. Bad news: you have to immediately go to a suicide scene. But I guess if you take on that kind of job, you have to expect that kind of thing.

I’m so proud of her! And I’m glad my Mom is OK for now.

Things are looking up.

Love/hate for Friday, June 28, 2002
Scary Stuff

I think real life is scary enough without adding to it by reading scary books and watching scary movies. Although I am technically a grown-up, I’m still uncomfortable in the dark. I usually blame it on my extremely poor eyesight, which makes it impossible for me to see what monsters and danger are lurking until I locate my glasses by groping around on the nightstand. But the truth is, I never outgrew the fear of the dark, which is simply fear of the unknown. I think fear of the unknown is a very basic human emotion, and has probably been with us ever since we first crawled out of the primeval swamp and started walking. So I find it amazing that anyone would actually want to be scared on purpose, provoking the age-old “fight or flight” response.

Unlike John, I watched very little TV as a child. We only had one little black & white set, and our parents were very careful of what we watched. They made sure we didn’t see the horrors of the Vietnam War, or mindlessly spend hours staring at whatever happened to be on. We lived in the country and played outside mostly, and read, so I grew up with very little exposure to violence, either real or fictional. I think that’s why I get more upset by it than John does, or than most people do (I almost wrote “normal” people, since restricting your kids’ access to TV today is probably child abuse in some states, and is almost certainly very unusual indeed).

John has gradually increased my ability to deal with horror movies and books, though there are still some things I cannot or will not watch. “Silence of the Lambs” gave me an anxiety attack, for example, and I’m always not looking during gross parts in movies and TV shows. John also introduced me to Stephen King and Christopher Fowler, both of whom can be categorized as horror writers, though I think of them as story-tellers first and foremost. No-one can tell a story, or remember what it’s really like to be a kid, than King, and no-one knows London better than Fowler, whose descriptions of gore and mayhem are, well, poetic.

But scary books and scary movies still have the power to give me nightmares. So I don’t allow them into my imagination near bedtime, and if I can avoid it, I don’t sleep alone.

Love is in the air….

Candi & Brian are newly-weds, Anathea just got engaged and is planning a romantic autumn wedding in Maine next year, and Scully popped the question in such a charming and original manner that of course the answer was yes.

Congratulations to all of you!

My one and only niece, the one and only Cat, turns 20 next week. My one and only nephew, the one and only Ben (he should thank me for talking his mother out of calling him Nicholas) turns 18 in August. Since I’m one of those annoying people who buys presents as they see them, whether the occasion is two weeks or ten months away, I already have their presents.

Ever since Cat was a baby, she has shared my love of jewelry. When she was little, she used to sit on my lap and play with my jewelry, saying “Sparkly”. Now I have the fun of buying it and giving it to her. When she turned 18, I gave her a white gold belly ring with a teeny diamond in it. This year, it’s a red coral bracelet, which my sister is going to bring home with her, so I don’t have to mail it.

I do have to mail Ben’s gift, though. It’s waiting patiently for me to take it to the post office. He is going on a trip to Belgium in August with his friend Alex, and I thought this gym bag would be the perfect thing for him to take with him. Now, Ben was 8 or so when his parents moved from Canada to England, and Canada is still, to him, The Promised Land. He keeps up with all Canadian news and sports, so he should be thrilled to tote around a bag from the Hockey Hall of Fame. Tony Bennett may have left his heart in San Francisco, but Ben left his in Waterloo, Ontario.

Although buying the perfect present and/or card for any occasion is one of my very few talents (the only actually useful talent I have is cooking), I am terrible at wrapping them. Plus, I hate it. Wouldn’t you think I’d be a really good, artistic present wrapper? But sadly, no. It must be a combination of general impatience and implied geometry that makes it impossible for me (also probably why I’m such a terrible pool player). You should see the brown paper horror that is going to arrive on Ben’s doorstep a month hence (I’m sending it surface mail, the snailiest of snail mail). It is the parcel version of Frankenstein’s monster. I got John to wrap the actual present, though, so it’s very neat and nice looking. I got the store to wrap Cat’s for me. That’s my usual solution to present-wrapping: get the store to wrap it up, whether it’s on-line or in person. It’s always worth it to me because I’m:

1. Terminally lazy;
B. Terrible at wrapping.

Also my solution to pretty much anything I don’t want to do is to pay someone else to do it (see #1).

So I figure, I’m happy, and the person getting the gift is happy, too. Last Christmas I didn’t have to wrap a thing, and I’m not planning to this year, either. Though I already have most of the presents, of course.

Imagine my surprise when I checked in at the San Diego airport on Sunday to be told that my reservation was for Saturday, the day before. I explained that I would never have made my return reservation for that day and time, since I was picking up my sister, arriving from England three hours later than the flight United thought I had reserved. Maybe to make up for this, they got me a seat on the next flight to San Francisco, in “economy plus”, which means you have a little more space. Airplanes are not classless societies.

I set off the metal detectors again, and also had to have my shoes x-rayed. By this time, I was panicking about both missing the flight and being on it. My Mom had given me some ativan to take, and I discovered that it doesn’t seem to work as well for me as valium, or maybe I just need to take more. To add to the horror, I had a window seat, which I hate, because you can see just how far it is to the earth. On the other hand, we flew right up the coast on a sunny day and it was beautiful: Santa Barbara, Carmel, Monterey.

Back at work yesterday morning first thing. I’m so beyond tired that I’m like an extra from Night of the Living Dead. And you will be amazed to hear that we still don’t know any more about Mom’s prognosis, despite her meeting with the doctor yesterday afternoon. We’re just getting the usual “more tests, waffle, waffle, bullshit”.

I bet you were surprised that there was a love/hate yesterday, but believe me, hospitals are much like jails in the infinity of time and the uncertainty of when you’ll get out, which is your dearest wish.

Mom is home again and feeling much better. I am amazed by how much just having me here seems to have given her a positive attitude. I now have some idea of how celebrities must feel when they sign an autograph for someone: no big deal for the celebrity, very little effort, but the fan is thrilled out of all proportion. And although our relationship has been stormy since Day One (I set the tone by arriving butt first), when something like this happens, none of that matters. It all just gets swept away as if by magic.

She felt so much better yesterday that we went to the County Fair for a couple of hours. It was a lot like the one in Charlotte’s Web, and we petted baby goats, lambs, rabbits, pigs, and ducks. Unlike the Charlotte’s Web fair, though, this one had an Elvis theme and included items from Graceland, which had never before been seen outside of Graceland. There was the green couch from the Jungle Room, his desk and gold-plated phone, his briefcase with a phone in it, original movie scripts, his driver’s license, birth certificate, and several of his jumpsuits from the Vegas Elvis years. Yes, they are tacky, but magnificent in their tackiness, and also exquisitely made.

We had a blast.

We entered a raffle for one of Elvis’ very own Cadillacs, this one a powder blue 1976 model with gold-plated hubcaps. If I win it, my sister Megan has a brand-new car, a big American tank to replace her totalled little plastic car.

So short term, we’re OK. Long term, don’t know. But we’ll deal with it as it happens. We should know more next week. Thanks to everyone for your support and caring – it has really meant a lot to me.