Suzy Says

Nothing says summer like baseball. I do love hockey*, which for those of us who still retain the attention span we had when we were three years old (the year I learned to read, and have never looked back) is the most exciting and least boring of sports, but the experience of being in a ball park is not the same as being in an enclosed arena.

Now we’re at the magical point of the year where hockey is in the post season, and baseball is just starting up, but enough time has passed to give you an idea of where the wind’s blowing. The Dodgers, artful as they may be, are chapped about Manny, and the Jays are off to the races, despite their pitching issues.

At this time of year, my eyes have to adjust from the free-for-all of hockey to the slow majesty of baseball. Nine innings? Nine? Can’t you figure it out in three? But if there’s one moment I savor, it’s the beautiful, zen-like stillness of a pitcher right before he throws the ball. And it never fails to amaze me that the human body, unaided, can throw something 90+ miles per hour. Then there’s the sweet swing of a home run, the batter’s eyes watching the arc even as he starts running for first base. I love the proud, yet casual dash of a home run hitter, joyfully tagging every base on his inevitable course.

Faithful readers may remember my endorsement of Josh Beckett back in 2003, which has been more than proven. I’m telling you: Travis Snider is a future star.

*Come on, Wings, bring it home again, the way you did on my birthday last year!

Today I dared to peep at my bank account, and the number was so tiny and pathetic I’m pretty sure it was Tiny Tim in a former life. So much for going to a baseball game this weekend (the Blue Jays are in town and they’re smokin’ hot this year) or seeing Auntie Mame* (one of my favorite movies) at the beautiful Paramount Theater. ‘Cause who has five dollars?

I think I can be forgiven for comparing the past and the present. And I think you can see which one is better:

*I just love Patrick Dennis’ books, which are mostly out of print due to the lack of taste of the general American public. Rosalind Russell (who shares my birthday) is fabulous in the movie, and the adult Patrick is played by none other than the swooningly handsome Roger Smith. Roger was one of the debonair stars of one of my fave TV shows, 77 Sunset Strip. And lest you question my taste, I’ll just let you know that Roger is still the gorgeous Ann-Margret’s one and only husband, after more than 50 years.

June enjoys the porch

The unseasonable rain has finally gone away, taking the frizzies with it. For those of you who don’t live in California, it pretty much only rains here in the winter, so rain in May is as unusual here as a hail storm. Sure, it happens, but so rarely that when it does, it’s breaking news and the weathermen are all excited to actually have something to report about, instead of the usual “sunny skies, with highs in the 60s and 70s”.

Now that the rain seems to have really gone until one of the brrr “ber” months, the girls have the run (or the lounge) of the porch again. Here you see June enjoying the sun at her sprawliest best. June loves to stretch out; Audrey loves to curl up. June jumps on you like a superhero (Here I come to save the day!) and gazes in your eyes like the answer to the universe is there (Trust me, it isn’t). Audrey curls up on you and goes to sleep, refusing to move even if you want to. June claws madly at the window glass when she sees something outside she wants to chase; Audrey claws madly at the side of the washer when she uses the litter box. But they both love the porch.

Gas Guy gave himself up about 9:00 last night. No word as to whether he was allowed to have a shower before being taken into custody. I’m not sure what you get charged with for doing something like that, unless it’s a weapons charge. Is there a law against wasting the time of police and emergency services?

The crime scene tape is gone, along with the news trucks and endlessly circling choppers. Helicopters are only fun if they’re you’re own, waiting to whisk you off somewhere fun, like the Hamptons.

Today was (fortunately) uneventful, and I hope tomorrow is, too. I also hope this out of season and out of control rain and clouds go away. It’s getting depressing and making my hair frizzy.

All this for me?

Whenever I know I have to get up early, it pretty much guarantees me a bad night’s sleep. I lie there thinking non-sleep inducing thoughts like “If I go to sleep right now, I can get five hours” and unhelpful things of that nature. Inside my head probably looks a lot like the outside, a jumbled chaos of boxes, things, and stuff, if you throw in a hamster wheel for them to keep bouncing around in.

Of course, the one time a girl can sleep is, you guessed it, right when the alarm goes off. It’s an enduring mystery. I had an early conference call, and it went on longer than I expected. I hardly had enough time to pretty myself up and get to BART, where I discovered there were delays, which in turn delayed Me. When I finally got to the office, there was unseasonable rain outside and a Cinco de Mayo festival in the lobby. Free Mexican food (though, sadly, no margaritas) in exchange for showing your photo ID, which I had fortunately and uncharacteristically remembered in my morning haste.

Clutching my vegetarian tamale, I dropped everything off in my office and proceeded to have a fairly productive day in spite of the rushed beginning. When I got on the bus on the way home, the driver said, “Girl, you done made my day with your beautiful self!” so my prettying must have been better than I thought. Or he was being nice (free compliment with every bus ride!).

So I was smiling my way down the street when I noticed the flashing lights that meant one of Oakland’s finest was paying me yet another visit. Possibly the bus driver had alerted them to my good hair day. I asked the cop who was standing on the remains of my lawn what was up, and he said that a guy two blocks away had apparently doused himself with gasoline and was threatening to set himself and the house on fire. His possession of a rifle was making reasoning with him a little on the challenging side.

Welcome home!

Old movies always make me wish I lived in the past. Come to think of it, the news does that, too. Anyway, last night’s entertainment was The Reckless Moment (1949), starring the beautiful Joan Bennett and the always suave and charming James Mason. Bad guy, good guy, or a mixture of the two, you gotta love him.

A Columbia picture – with the original Columbia lady, back when she was a total babe instead of the hideous “updated” one – the credits included my favorite of all time (“gowns by” – in this case, Jean Louis) and went on to inform me that the screenplay is based on “The Blank Wall”, by Elisabeth Holding.

I’m a huge Holding fan, and cannot understand why she’s so unknown. I have almost all of her books, most in the Dell double book edition, where you read one story, then turn it over and get a whole ‘nother one, usually with lurid covers. But don’t let that put you off. She is a mistress of suspense, in the grand tradition of Patricia Highsmith and Ruth Rendell (though antedating them by many years), where a person makes a fatal mistake and his/her life spirals out of control.

The movie is in glorious black and white, and I have to say, if I really could live in the past, it might be in the 1940s. The cars and clothes are great, everything’s stylish, and there are important things like electricity and hot running water. Sure, there’s the dreary war, but there’s always a dreary war. At least things looked good.

Since it looks like I’ll be staying here for a while, I’ve decided to try and do something with the backyard and porch. I’m thinking of getting matchstick blinds to put on the sides of the porch. It would make more shade (or I could roll the blinds up if I wanted sun) and it will have the total bonus of shielding the next door dogs and their cement hell from my sight. Also, if the Barkers don’t see the kitties on the porch, there might be less barking.

Theoretically.

I’d like to get something to climb up the trellis, which is also on the Barkers’ side. Extra prettiness, an extra layer between Me and the Barkers. I’m considering orange bougainvillea, because I love it and it doesn’t grow where my sister lives, so she can enjoy it when she’s here. And orange was Frank Sinatra’s favorite color, and it doesn’t get any cooler than Frank. My boss always says, “It’s Frank’s world – we just live in it.”

My next notion was hanging baskets of fuchsias for the front of the porch (facing the lawn), but my sister told me that fuchsias are the Suzy of flowers – showy, pretty, and shade-loving – so they won’t be happy there. But I do want something that attracts hummingbirds and butterflies, so any suggestions are welcome. It’s facing east but also has a southern exposure, so there’s sun most of the day.

I’m also considering excavating the flower bed that is bordered with bricks or something and is very overgrown. It’s on the right hand side, next to B’s fence, so there’s a little more shade there. I was thinking of maybe tomatoes and basil, but I’m not sure, so again, I’d love to hear your ideas, either in the comments or at speakallATearthlinkDOTnet.

Finally, I sent a note to my landlords with my rent check this month, asking if they’d consider supplying me with some kind of ground cover for the front lawn. The grass is totally dead and looks like a nervous breakdown. Even if they won’t buy me the plants, I’ll probably end up digging it up. At this point, just mulch would look better, and I can’t bring myself to put another lawn there. They don’t belong in this climate, and I begrudge the water in a potential drought year, even though my actual water usage is only 10% of the bill.

I never miss the Kentucky Derby, even though I don’t watch horse racing* otherwise. What could be Suzy-er than fabulous hats, the more over the top the better, daytime cocktails (mint julep, anyone?), beautiful animals and an event that’s so fast not even I have time to get bored?

No-one could have been bored by today’s race. I was astonished to see Mine That Bird** speed past horse after glossy horse until he crossed the finish line with his jubilant jockey, the charming character Calvin Borel.

Wish I’d had the horse sense to bet on him at 50-1 odds!

*Golden Gate Fields is just a few minutes drive away, but I’ve never been. Maybe if I could wear a fancy hat…

**Why do horses always have such ridiculous names? Why?

At least so far.

It’s 2:00 in the morning. I made the mistake of taking some Excedrin for my raging headache, with the result that I now have a headache and what I call “aspirin tummy”. Throbbing head; stomach a vat of seething acid. I tried to go to sleep and forget about the whole thing, but after an hour of tossing and turning and irritating the cats (who were setting a good example by sleeping curled up cutely together until I kept waking them up*), I had to admit defeat.

When I was in second grade, I had a truly vile teacher named Mrs. Conneman. She was so mean to me that I used to have extremely vivid fantasies about my parents sweeping into the classroom and carrying me off (with a quick stop at my locker for important personal belongings, like my red rain boots). I still remember looking back at the old hag with total triumph as I was borne away from her clutches, once and for all. I’ve always been a pretty talented day-dreamer.

Not surprisingly, I had bad stomach aches in those days. Apparently they were quite common among Conneman students (though this did not seem to lead to an official inquiry or get her fired, because she was still there when I was in 6th grade). Rather than getting rid of the cause of the belly aches, I got dosed with a hideous dark-green liquid to dull the pain. If it were in a fairy tale, it would at least have turned me into a toad, and probably something worse. It was the liquid version of Mrs. Conneman. My hopes were temporarily raised when I learned it also came in chocolate, but that turned out to be a brown, chalky nightmare that was, if possible, even worse than the original flavor.

When I was in 6th grade, I was horror-struck to learn that our class would be presenting a Christmas play to none other than the evil Mrs. Conneman’s latest batch of victims. Despite the protective camouflage of my full-body Christmas tree costume, I was convinced she’d know it was me and do something horrible. I don’t know what I thought she could do but believe me, I was ready for some medicine by the time I tremblingly approached her door like it was Death Row.

Needless to say, nothing happened. Undoubtedly she was fully occupied with destroying the psyches of those currently in her class to bother with the damaged goods of years gone by. Nearly 40 years and 4,000 miles later, though, a stomach and headache bring me right back to that day.

*And looking at me as if to say, “What the hell? Stop imitating a tossed salad and go to sleep already!”

I thought I’d feel relieved and happy once the whole storage debacle was over, but I don’t, really. Sure, I’m glad that we aren’t spending all that money every month when we have so little to begin with. Yes, I’m glad that I’ll never have to go there again and see the sad remnants of the past, and be faced with how different our lives are now.

Sometimes I wonder if I’m like the Magnificent Ambersons, finally getting my comeuppance. When I was a girl, we lived in a beautiful 150 year house on five acres of land, had two cars, went to Maine every summer and often visited Dad’s parents in England. My mother never had to work.

When I grew up and got married, we owned a gracious Jazz Age apartment in one of the best neighborhoods in one of the most beautiful cities in the world. I drove a 1966 Mustang convertible, wore diamonds and went to Europe at least once a year. The world was my oyster.

Now, I live in a tiny house in a city where murders are commonplace. My brother, sister and I are panicking about our ability to continue paying the mortgage on the property where we will eventually retire. Or not, if we’re forced to sell when there’s little or no market for undeveloped rural property. I’m selling the diamonds I used to wear so proudly just to make ends meet (and the ends appear to want nothing to do with each other).

Confronting that storage space and thinking of how far I’ve come in the past thirty years has been a deeply saddening experience. And instead of feeling like a weight has been lifted, I’ve had insomnia, nightmares, and headaches ever since. Is it the closing of a chapter of my life, facing up to the deaths of my parents, grandparents, and my marriage? My tiny house is jam-packed with boxes, which will eventually be put into the storage cube my brother bought, and furniture, which there isn’t room for. Maybe it’s not really over yet and I still have some things to work through. My head aches too much to think about it any more.

And I thought I had a rough day yesterday…

My brother, sister and I have a tradition* of calling each other when we get home from a visit. Emptying out the storage doesn’t exactly qualify as a “visit”, but we still agreed to call each other. I knew it would take my brother at least an hour longer to get home than it would me, since he had a longer way to go and had to drive the loaded-up truck slooowly on the two lane corkscrew known officially as Route 128. I was a little concerned about his driving the truck all Clampetted up like that, but he said that after driving a fire truck so long, it would be like driving a sports car.

I had put on my PJs, nuked dinner, and was well into a bottle of wine when I thought he’d be home. I called his cell and it went straight to voicemail. I wasn’t worried, because of the total lack of cell phone service for most of 128. When the phone rang half an hour later, I thought it would be him.

It wasn’t.

It was my sister, working the night shift, telling me that the truck broke down near the thriving metropolis of Navarro (population 130). He managed to stop it on the shoulder and hitch a ride to Navarro, where the driver provided him with a beer and a cigarette and went on his way, leaving my brother to call AAA from a pay phone.

Now, Navarro used to be a slightly scary place, appearing to be populated entirely by meth** users (and possibly manufacturers), bikers, and trailer trash. It’s been cleaned up quite a bit and has a decent-looking store. Last fall, I saw a sign saying that Edgar Winter was playing there, which mystified me for several miles.

But the store was firmly closed at 9:30 at night, and there was no-one to be seen. So my brother had to stand there until AAA appeared, shivering in the t-shirt that had been entirely appropriate for day time furniture wrestling, but was now wholly inadequate protection against the cold winds. My heart ached for the poor guy, marooned in the middle of nowhere, freezing his butt off after the day we’d had. I was so glad when my sister called to say he was home, safe and sound.

*The other farewell tradition is waving and blowing kisses until the departing car is out of sight. Our parents did it, too.

**I find the popularity of meth in rural communities a mystery. Why get all speeded up when there’s nothing to do and nowhere to go?

Well, if that wasn’t a manic Monday, I don’t know what is.

I was just settling down to work when the phone rang. It was my brother. Calls before 9 am on my landline tend to be either my boss or my brother (sometimes the same thing), whereas calls before 9 am on my cell are almost always someone on the east coast. My brother isn’t much for idle chit chat, so I figured something was up, and it was. He wanted me to meet him at Mom’s storage, 60 miles away, and help him pack up the rest of the stuff and move it on out.

Work was looking better and better, but I agreed to put it on the back burner (it’s used to being there anyway) and headed out the door, leaving June in charge.

At the storage, it soon became clear that all the remaining stuff would not fit in our brother-in-law’s truck. We accepted the inevitable and loaded it up with things destined for Chez Suzy: the grandfather clock, in its suspiciously coffin-like carrying case; the Atwater-Kent radio cabinet; the glass-fronted bookcase; and the rocking chair my great-grandfather made for my great-grandmother.

We caravanned to my house, wrestled the goods and chattels into my increasingly tiny house, and then went back to the storage for Round Two. We hillbillied the remaining stuff into the truck, destined for the storage container now residing on the property up north, and after a long hug, he went his way and I went mine, each of us plunging into the rush hour traffic armed with the knowledge that we’d never have to meet up there again.

I felt a pang of sadness as I looked at the empty space. Sure, I wish I’d told you all that it was my new year’s resolution to empty it out so I could check that one off and feel good about it. I’m thrilled that we aren’t spending $mumble* on one more month of storage. But I’m sad that we had to sell so many family things, and that things are so hard for all three of us now. I’m also glad that I’m not an only child, and that I’ll always have my brother and sister by my side, no matter what happens.

That’s the power of love.

*When I told the guy at the office that we were clearing out today, he said that we were paid up until May 27, since the charge had just gone through today. Of course. I asked if they could reverse the charge, and he said we were supposed to give 10 days’ written notice, but he’d ask his boss. I was resigned, but on the way out, he stopped me and said they’d reverse the charge. Maybe it’s a sign that things are getting better?

I’m feeling nostalgic on this sunny Sunday afternoon. Maybe it’s knowing that Mike and Jennifer’s little ones are going to be spending the next few days with their Grandpapa while their parents are (hopefully) in Paris. Maybe it’s the roses blooming so extravagantly in my back yard. Maybe it’s just getting older.

Whatever it is, I’ve been thinking of the long-ago days we spent with my mother’s parents. They lived in a grand white Victorian house, which was the town sheriff’s wedding gift to his only daughter. It was built by the same architect as the bride’s father’s house next door, and in both houses, his initials were carved on a beam in the attic.

The attic was a wonderful place, full of boxes and trunks and wardrobes full of ballgowns. In the afternoon, the light would stream through the stained glass windows and paint everything in rainbow colors. You never knew what you would find: great-grandfather’s sleigh bells; his Civil War sword; souvenirs from Nana’s brother’s grand tour of Europe…

Next door to my grandparents’ house was an even grander one, practically a mansion, set in vast, professionally-tended grounds. It was fascinating and mysterious, because its owner, the fabled Mrs. Newton, was never seen. Gardeners kept the outside in perfect order, and groceries were delivered, but they were not taken in until dark.

After dark, you would sometimes see a light moving from room to room, as if Mrs. Newton carried a lamp with her.

My grandmother was regrettably not a gossip, but her two spinster boarders (with the perfect spinster boarder names of Frieda and Maretta) fortunately were. They told me that Mrs. Newton’s son had been killed in WWII, and that she hadn’t left the house since. This seemed wonderfully tragic and Miss Havisham-ish to me at the time, though it never occurred to ask me what had become of Mr. Newton.

Although I don’t know what happened to the sad lady who lived in the mansion, I do know what happened to the mansion. It’s a bed and breakfast. I could go and stay there, right next to my grandparents’ house, and find out who’s living there now. But I think it’s better to let the past stay in the past.

My dear friend, the Lipstick Gardener, fierce defender of feral cats, guardian of my kittens’ mother, and all-around Renaissance woman, mentioned that she had some musicians staying at her charming Victorian house. Their names sounded familiar. I dug through my mental attic, finding years’ worth of rubbish, like old high school biology tests and ex- boyfriends and the words to the “One Day at a Time” theme song, finally finding – bing! – that I knew these musicians.

I had in fact met them and shopped at their wonderful record store in Dearborn. They are good friends of Kathleen, the Belle of Motown, who introduced me to them. She also happened to stay with me last fall. And both Kat and the Gardener happen to be knitters, vegetarians, and cat lovers. And of course, Suzy fans. I mean, who isn’t?

How’s that for a small world?

Remember how I mentioned that my recent Vogue purchase was research? I’ve been doing some fashion and beauty writing for the San Francisco edition of Examiner.com. It’s fun, but it’s more work than I anticipated. I have to come up with three story ideas a week, get any additional information I need by phone or in person, write the articles, and take photos and upload them. Whew.

The writing part turns out to be the easy part, but I’m not sure if I can keep up with the articles, my blog, and my email along with everything else that has to be written. I guess we’ll see. It can be an experiment!

All this for being paid by the click. But I’m used to being underpaid, and it’s fun. Check it out and tell me what you think. Any ideas, comments, insight, or spring shoes are much appreciated.

The view from my office window

I’m coming to you from my office, high above the streets of San Francisco. I can look down on almost everyone from here.

My boss/partner and I share an office, but we’re rarely here at the same time. Today is no exception: I’m here, and he’s somewhere else, possibly Chicago. I decided to stop in after doing the paperwork for selling my ring*, since (1) I had a conference call and (b) I wasn’t in a hurry to subject myself to the indignities of BART so soon after removing myself from them.

Since I have the office to myself, I have taken my shoes off and am luxuriating in the air conditioning while happily eating one of the bagels the handsome receptionist brings in. I’m also blogging instead of working, and the little flat screen TV in our office is tuned to HGTV instead of CNBC, now that the “Gilmore Girls” re-run is over. To be fair, I did check out how the markets were doing first.

I still like working with music or TV on in the background, the same way I did when I used to do homework. I don’t know why, but it’s just more fun that way. And I can use all the fun I can get.

*Though I sold it to a reputable jeweler near Union Square, I got to sign my very first pawn ticket! Apparently such sales have to be documented for the city and state. I got my thumbprint taken, too, giving me a little criminal frisson.

Fear not – it’s not a post about the dreaded Octo-Mom. Nor have I decided to see how far I can push the fertility envelope.

(Pause for collective sigh of relief)

No, today is my blog’s 8th birthday. Can you believe it? Never has so much been written about so little for so long!

I wonder if I’ll make it to a whole decade. Stay tuned, and thanks for reading. You know I love you.

I’ve been a busy little bee the past few days, flitting up and down Market Street wearing slightly more sensible shoes than usual, going from conferences to meetings at the office to fun errands like selling my jewelry* and sneaking into Walgreens to buy Vogue** and antacids.

There were two days of conferences, held at the posh Four Seasons. As I swanned past the two doormen (one for each door – I love having doors opened for me), I noticed elevators to the “private residences” and felt a pang of envy for those with the means to buy a condo in a five star hotel. And of course, you all know that I suffer from serious Eloise envy and fantasize about living in a fancy hotel the way other girls fantasize about meeting Johnny Depp.

Oddly, the lobby is on the fifth floor, where the conferences were held. I’m beginning to think that there’s never any escaping school. The speaker (teacher) stood at the front of the room (class) and talked about things (insert Charlie Brown grown-up voice here) while the attendees (class) pretended to listen and take notes, while actually wondering what’s for lunch and why time is standing still.

When breaks (recess) and lunch (lunch) arrive, everyone’s trying to talk to, sit with, or be seen with the popular kids. Unpopularity is disguised by going out on the terrace and appearing to make and receive important phone calls.

I left for meetings in our office and came back both days, giving me ample opportunity to observe how skanky that section of Market Street is. It’s not the worst part, but it does have a fair number of homeless folks and crazies, one of whom was calmly relieving himself on the side of the BART station access near the fancy hotel. If I were paying $400 a night for a room there, or lived in one of the sky-high condos, I wouldn’t be too thrilled with that. I wonder why they built it there (and it was built recently, so Market Street was already like this when they broke ground). I used to live half a block away from a slaughterhouse, and thought the same thing when luxury condos were built directly across the street from me. “Abbatoir adjacent” and “Homeless crazy central” aren’t usually considered luxe amenities.

Maybe they want to feel like they’re walking on the wild side, or seeing the real San Francisco, which they are. It’s not the whole truth, but it’s definitely part of it.

*Now that the ring’s been cleaned, it turns out to be yellower than it first appeared, so it’s worth a thousand dollars less. The jeweler chirped, “Usually when a piece is cleaned, it’s much brighter and worth more. This is really unusual!” Thanks, family curse! You will never stop surprising me in innovative ways!

**It’s for research. I’ll tell you more soon.

My kitchen, 7:30 a.m.

Few things make a girl feel more like a distressed gentlewoman than selling her jewelry. I almost felt as if I should be clutching a threadbare shawl about my shoulders and writing answers to advertisements for governesses in remote country houses.

The possible purchaser (not surprisingly, I haven’t made up my mind yet whether I can part with it or not) was a kind and experienced woman, who told me more about my ring than I had ever known. It was like Jewelry CSI as she peered at the ring through a giant magnifying glass and told me how it was made and why old diamonds (the ring dates from around 1900) are different from new diamonds.

The ring needs to be cleaned before the appraisal can be completed, and when I have all the information, I’ll decide what to do.

I don’t feel as sad about it as I thought I would. I rarely wear it anymore, and it’s part of the past. It’s actually less painful to let it go than to have it and not want to wear it. I like to think of a young man searching for the right ring for his beloved, and falling for the ring the way he fell for her. Or a couple looking together for the ring that symbolizes their love, their future, both knowing it’s the one.

I loved having it, but it’s time for someone else to enjoy it.

I seem to have decided, don’t I?