Suzy Says

Well, our local hero came home to a hero’s welcome today, though his speech was characteristically modest and short.

Remarkably, another local pilot also had to bring a crippled plane down on water. And if you thought the Hudson River was bad…try the middle of the Pacific Ocean, as night began to turn to day, more than 50 years ago. So much has changed in the way of computers and technology, but both these calm captains brought their craft down near a ship, which saved every single passenger and crew member, and both walked their sinking planes twice to make sure no-one in their charge had been left behind. You can (of course!) see the dramatic footage of Pan Am Flight 943’s rescue on YouTube.

Modest as both these men are, they deserve the applause. As my boss put it, “Sully will never be able to buy his own beer again.”

It’s a beautifully gloomy day today. I even had the lights on this morning. Normally, I hate the rain, and I really hate having lights on during the day – it seems so sordid and depressing. But with the record warm weather and what is supposed to be the rainiest month of the year nearly over, we need all the rain we can get.

Although it’s foggy and dark outside – I can hardly see the green freeway exit sign or the dramatic Mormon temple, high in the hills, which usually looks down on me with a certain severity – and the ground is wet enough to be mildly hazardous, it’s a slacker rain so far, just barely putting in an appearance.

If I ran things, I’d be wearing one of my many tiaras and the rain would occur after, say, 11:00 pm, when most of us are in bed or close to it, and it would rain in a soothing way, so you’d feel all cozy in bed with your feather pillows and your vintage whodunit. The rain would go away by 5:00 or 6:00 am, so your morning paper wouldn’t be wet and your commute as uncomplicated as possible. I’d be a benevolent ruler.

While waiting for the rain to get some work done out there, I looked through the refrigerator to see what needed to be used up (tomorrow is garbage day, so it’s a good day to consign inedible food to the benevolent embrace of the green bin). My father lived on the outskirts of London during WWII and endured rationing* through the war and for many long years afterwards, so he never wasted food if he could help it, and I’m the same way.

I made leftover rice into pudding (comfort food for a gloomy day), and leftover chicken breasts and green beans are being transformed into a delightful casserole, along with shallots, garlic, baby red potatoes, and tarragon I happened to have on hand. Dad would be proud.

*My father’s mother used to tell me the Story of the Eggs. She had endured months of powdered eggs during the war, and finally had the right number of stamps or whatever it was to go and get fresh eggs – one apiece for herself, her husband, and two children. She had great plans for those eggs. She took my father and aunt with her to get the precious eggs. On the way home, they were bombed, and as she lay beneath the bus with her two children at her side, she prayed, “Please, God, don’t break my eggs!” He didn’t.

This may be the funniest piece of junk mail I have ever received!

Well, well. We got ourselves a new President.

I set the alarm last night with anticipation – I could hardly sleep, as if it were Christmas Eve and I were five years old again. Crawled out of bed in the early morning darkness. The kittens stayed in bed, not even bothering to bother me for breakfast. As I waited for the coffee to brew, I opened the blinds, revealing the beautiful day, which would be sunny as soon as the sun had its own coffee and got back to work.

As I watched the ceremonies in my rose-patterned PJs from the comfort of my couch (other than standing as requested for the oaths and the national anthem), I noticed that the streets were surprisingly hushed. There are a lot of windows in my living room, so I could easily see how few people and cars were out and about. The freeway even seemed quieter than usual. And once the ceremonies ended, things slowly went back to normal. It’s as if we were all holding our collective breaths until the great moment was past.

President Obama is greyer than he was at the beginning of the battle, and as he walked slowly to the podium, he seemed almost literally weighed down with the responsibilities on his shoulders. His handsome face was grave as he walked into the cold sunlight to greet his people and the beginning of a new era. His speech, of course, was breathtaking. He may be one of the greatest public speakers in recent memory. It always seems to me that he doesn’t use notes or a prompter, though I could be wrong about this. It was a speech at once realistic, stirring, and inspiring. I was deeply moved and proud.

Update: You can read the text here, or watch video of the oath – flub and all – and speech here.

I was glad the sun smiled on our new President and beautiful First Family. It seems a good omen, the dawn of a new day.

I wouldn’t be the frivolous Self you know and love if I didn’t mention how much I loved Michelle’s* outfit, down to the touches of the olive gloves and shoes. Wonderful color (lemongrass!), very stylish, a bit of a nod to that earlier White House style icon, Jacqueline Kennedy. Regal, yet playful. And I loved Jill Biden’s sexy black high heeled boots!

I’ve never been so aware of living history as I have been the past few months, and especially today, even in the days following 9/11. Though these are some of our darkest days as a country, they are also some of our most hopeful, as our new President leads us confidently forward into the future.

*I’ve been following Michelle’s looks for months at the Mrs. O website. I can’t wait to see what she wears at the Inaugural Ball

Thanks to the Doc for this shot of Bush Street and Montgomery Street, about a block from my office. As you can see, Obama replaced Bush a little earlier here than he did on the East Coast!

How could I not heed our near-President’s plea to join him and his family in a Day of Service to commemorate Dr. King’s 80th birthday? And I’m so glad I did.

I chose to lend what little skills I have to Oakland’s Elizabeth House, the culmination of one woman’s – one woman! – dream to help women and children who are homeless, victims of domestic violence, and otherwise in need of help. I was warmly greeted by the volunteer coordinator and the other volunteers, who included a sorority, a City employee, a couple of lawyers, and some high school students.

I spent some time with the high school kids, priming and painting the ceilings of two rooms, along with the tedious prep always involved. While the primer dried, I joined the others in the bright sunshine, weeding and removing drifts of leaves. We couldn’t have asked for a more beautiful day, but we managed to make it a little more beautiful. We filled 10 big paper Home Depot yard bags and had to resort to plastic garbage bags for the rest. I discovered that gingko trees drop fruit that becomes very spiky and surprising, especially when lurking under leaves. By the time I went back inside to finish painting, I was scratched and dirty and smelling of rosemary from taking leaves out of a bush’s fragrant branches.

When the painting was done, I went back into the sunshine to help mulch the flower beds. It looked so great when it was finished! We were joined by neighborhood kids and two of the children who live at the shelter. They had great fun raking and sweeping.

When I left, we all hugged each other and the youngest child, a little girl who more than lives up to her name of Vitality, asked me to pick her up so she could give me a kiss.

It was a wonderful day. Though I’m tired now and will definitely feel it tomorrow, I am filled with joy to have shared such a wonderful experience, to feel part of my community, and to have honored Dr. King and his message on the eve of one of the most important days in American history.

Kathleen, the belle of Motown, has gifted me with, among other things, the letter T. I have to write about 10 things I like that start with the designated letter. If you want to keep this going, and/or were too late to celebrate Delurking Day on January 12 (like I was), let me know in the comments or via email at speakall at earthlink dot net and I will bestow a letter on you. Cheaper than a knighthood, and you don’t have to dress up.

Tiara: Good thing you’re sitting down, since you will be amazed to learn that I always wanted one. Still do! I wish my mother had emotionally scarred me by entering me into premature beauty contests instead of the way she did. Then I’d have a showcase of sparkly coronets instead of a collection of neuroses. I’d almost certainly wear one every day, even when I was working or doing the dishes. Maybe especially then. As Marilyn Monroe put it so memorably in Gentlemen Prefer Blondes: “I just love finding new places to wear diamonds!”

Toast: Who doesn’t love the smell (and taste) of hot, buttered toast? Not to mention cinnamon toast. Or French toast* with pure (not artificial) maple syrup? Or a toast to the occasion? What’s not to love?

Tiffany: What girl hasn’t longed for one of the distinctive blue boxes with the white bow? Can you think of Tiffany without thinking of Audrey Hepburn, so stylish and beautiful in the movie Breakfast at Tiffany’s (though I have always understood that it was incorrect to add the apostrophe “s”, since it is Tiffany & Company)? If you haven’t read the Capote original, do it. Do it now. I’ll wait. I’m waiting for a little blue box anyway.

Trips: The best were always with my father, who was pretty much the perfect travelling companion, planning all the details and unflappable, no matter what happened. Whereas I always hated getting there and back, but loved being somewhere new and different, or old and loved. I will never forget the many adventures we had together, in France, Italy, even Russia. I look back at buying wine from French growers; bats wheeling in the evening sky as we sat outside the château we were staying at; going three days in a row to visit the Hermitage, trying to take in its wonders; walking the quiet streets of San Gimignano after dinner in the soft autumn air; seeing Dad’s face light up when he met me at Heathrow, reaching across the barrier to enfold me in a hug.

Train: The only civilized way to travel. No metal detectors, no feel copping in the guise of security pat-downs, no need to do an awkward strip of clothes and shoes or drag one’s iBook out of its stylish case. No traffic jams, no terrifying take-offs or landings (some more terrifying than others), just scenery to admire and room to move around. Admittedly, not as gracious as it used to be, but you can still enjoy the grandeur of Grand Central Station (and its Oyster Bar). I love it that our next President took the train to Washington this weekend, following in the footsteps (or train tracks) of the great Mr. Lincoln.

Thanksgiving: The best day of the year. Gathered together with family, eating fabulous food and drinking wine (or my brother’s home-made cider) and remembering how lucky we are to have each other. There’s pie, too. And no shopping stress.

Toronto: I lived there for several years, and I have an enduring nostalgia and appreciation for it (not to mention the Leafs and the Jays). There is a neighborhood in Toronto to suit everyone. It has world-class shopping, restaurants (Dhaba and Pearl Harbourfront, I think I miss you most of all), and quality of life. While rivalling LA for urban sprawl and possibly air quality in the summer months, it is also a walking city with plenty of green spaces and good public transit (except, you know, when you’re waiting for it in the heat or cold). The people are wonderful: diverse, kind, creative. It’s like a flat San Francisco with extreme weather extremes.

Twain & Trollope: Can I put two (another T!) favorite, almost contemporaneous writers, into one? One comic, one serious, both witty. Both had ideas about social change and reflected them in their writings, which were prolific. Twain’s works need no introduction, but Trollope’s might. One of his works which is still very relevant today is The Way We Live Now. Fun fact: Trollope invented the pillar box!

Twins: Since you’re still sitting after the tiara entry, you will be in the perfect position to hear that I am, in fact, a Gemini. Gasp! My sister and I are 9 years and 9 days apart, which we think makes us some kind of twins. We are both such twins. She is the twin of my heart – the good twin. I think you know what that makes me!

Turner: Joseph Mallord William, to be precise. If you don’t know him, you should. He was an impressionist decades before Monet ever thought of it, working with light, shadow, and beauty. If you are ever in London and do not go to the Tate** to see some of his greatest paintings, or the National Gallery to see what is one of my favorites, Rain, Steam and Speed: The Great Western Railway, I’m sorry, but I just can’t be your friend anymore.

*Or “pain perdu” in actual French, which I think means “lost bread”.

**Bonus points for having lunch in the Tate’s excellent restaurant, with its exquisite mural by beautiful, doomed Rex Whistler. If I had gotten “W”, you would have gotten both Whistlers – Rex and James Abbott McNeil, of “Whistler’s Mother” fame (though I prefer his stunning Nocturnes). As it is, I almost put in “trompe l’oeil” for some of Rex’s most beautiful work, at Plas Newydd and Mottisfont Abbey. If you find yourself at Salisbury Cathedral, take the time to visit his crystal memorial crafted by his brother. You won’t be sorry – or forget it.

I’ve had a pretty inspired week as far as cooking goes. Though I live in a city of nearly half a million people, and my sister lives near a town of 400, we both have pretty much the same situation as far as take-out and delivery in our immediate vicinity: none. In her case, it’s literally none – the closest Domino’s, for example, is a 30 minute drive – and in my case, I could walk to the Domino’s, but I wouldn’t want to eat there. I have yet to discover any Chinese food or pizza anywhere nearby that is at all acceptable. So, like my sis, it’s pretty much make it yourself or resort to frozen, which is never as good.

It’s an endless battle between sloth and pickiness. I don’t eat beef and pork. My sister won’t eat fish or eggs. My brother is equally repulsed by mayonnaise and mustard. As a family, we may well be the pickiest in the entire US of A, though there are certain things we all agree on, such as the utter inedibility of tofu* and yogurt, and we’d have to be near death in a desert to even consider drinking milk.

So I have to be creative. The star of this week’s cooking show was definitely a recipe for grilled shrimp with charmoula sauce. I got the recipe from the LA Times while I was basking in the glories of Pasadena a couple of months ago, but only tried it this week (I’m sure the cooks among you, like me, have lots of untried recipes from newspapers and magazines – good for inspiration). I wish I hadn’t waited so long, because t was magically delicious. I’m already plotting what else I can have it with.

*Tofu advocates are always trying to convince me that it isn’t that bad. If you marinate it, barbecue it, fry it, etc., it’s fine! Which means “If you spend a lot of time removing every tofu-like quality, you may be able to choke it down after a week long fast.”

It was a beautiful day in the neighborhood yet again. It’s beginning to make me a little nervous, frankly, as if I’m somehow going to get punished for wearing short sleeves and sandals in what should be the coldest and rainiest month in the year. When we get unusually nice weather, sooner or later people start shaking their heads and saying, “It’s earthquake weather”, even though as far as I know there has never been a correlation between nice weather and temblors. If there were, we wouldn’t still be here.

I also feel guilty thinking of my friends in the deep freeze lately, especially those without power on some of the coldest days (and nights!) of the year. Here’s hoping you see light and heat soon, and for the rest of the winter.

Possibly I was too caught up in the lovely weather to pay attention to what I was doing.

I strolled to the ATM to deposit my paycheck and then do some shopping. The ATM is oddly located in a laundromat. A casino I can see, but a laundromat? I took my card and had walked a few feet when a guy came after me with money in one hand and a German Shepherd in the other. This hardly ever happens to me, or you, either. Turns out I had put my card away, but left my money in the slot of the ATM. This guy, who could so easily have kept it until it was too late, chased after me to give it back. Remarkable, especially in these times, and I thanked him profusely. He said he hoped someone would do the same for him. He let me pet his dog, too.

It was a beautiful day.

There isn’t usually live entertainment on the bus. When I’m not reading The New Yorker, looking out the window is usually amusing enough.

Going home from the gym, I wait near Lake Merritt, with many busy birds to watch. Canada: If you’re missing your geese, they’re right here.

The bus passes several amusingly named businesses: Fadz 2 Braidz, which is never open and has both its doors and windows barred, despite the “Open” sign in the windows and on the door; Immaculate Hair and Accessories, which has had two of its windows boarded up for months, just giving a glimpse of wigs in the remaining one; “This ‘Bud’s’ For You” (its actual punctuation), a now-vacated florist (owner in jail for badness of pun, perhaps?) and a tarot card emporium or shoe emporium – you decide. There are signs for both on the same window. Get your palm read while saving your soles? I may join Bud in pun jail for that one.

It also passes what I at first took to be a Mansion on the Hill, but on Googling (what did we ever do without it?) turned out to be an old folks’ home (what is the PC term for that?), and a slightly dilapidated one at that. The mansion is on a hill, and has suitably gothic wrought iron fence, some of which can barely contain enormous cacti, and it has its name spelled out in topiary: ALTENHEIM. I should have just let it be a mystery. Reality is never as good as fantasy.

What I find the most charming, though, is a certain garden. It’s across the road from what looks like a motel à la My Name Is Earl which has been converted to apartments. The garden itself is maybe a couple of feet wide and is right beside a freeway onramp, bathed all day in continual car exhaust. Yet it valiantly survives, complete with a scarecrow, a statue of a deer, and yes, a garden gnome. I am sure it belongs to someone in that apartment building, bringing some joy and beauty to his/her life. And anyone passing by.

Of the many things you could say about Oakland (so completely not San Francisco; 5th most dangerous city in the country), “boring” isn’t one of them.

As I greenly boarded the bus today after a session at the gym, which is located beside scenic Lake Merritt, but is also a parking nightmare, I seemed to have interrupted a lecture already in progress. A guy with a broken leg lounged on the front seat, his cast propped up with his crutches. Beside him was a bag with a photo of George Bush taped to it, with the legend, “IMPEACH AND IMPRISON”.

He’d better hurry up.

Today’s lesson was history:

• “Now, all you hear about is that Columbus. Columbus ain’t discovered America. Was Amerigo Vespucci! Ve-spucci!! That’s why we called “America”, fools. Amerigo Vespucci!”
• “We sending Israel $10 million a day. Think what we could do in Oakland with just one day.” Pause. “Israel a murder state. Every day.” Reflectively: “Ten million dollars.”
• “People don’t know this, but the second World Trade Center Tower fell first. Reason is, it got hit in the middle, and the first tower, it got hit on the shoulder. It’s like you get shot. You die faster, you get shot in the gut, than in the shoulder.”
• “We trained Osama Bin Laden. You remember back in the 1970s, Russia invaded Afghanistan? The CIA went over and trained Osama Bin Laden, and he threw 150,000 Russians out of Afghanistan. That what he did. And that how he knows how to !@%@! with us. ‘Cause we done taught him how.”

Both my body and my mind got a workout today!

It was a particularly beautiful day today, despite starting off with Audrey clawing my feet first thing in the morning. You’d think she’d be more grateful, considering the fact that I rescued her only the night before.

Kittens* have such short memories.

I virtuously tidied up the kitchen after dinner, even going so far as to take out the recycling and a bag of garbage. On my way back into the house, Audrey streaked past me and vanished into the night.

The kittens had lulled me into a false sense of security by not attempting to escape the confines of the house for months. Audrey must have realized she had me fooled, since she saw her chance and grabbed it. Her timing was impeccable: I had left my flashlight at my sister’s over Christmas, which made finding a dark, stripy cat at night even more challenging.

Fortunately, the moon was very bright, and its beams soon revealed Audrey’s eyes in the dark. She ran under my neighbor B’s car, and it was so hard to call her softly instead of yelling at her! She managed to get past me again and went toward the other neighbor’s house, where I caught her by the tail as she hid behind a clump of pale daffodils.

I picked her up and went back into the house, hugging her and kissing her soft fur as she struggled to get away. She hates being held, unlike June, who insists on being picked up at least once a day, and then purrs her subtle purr while placing a white paw against my face. June sniffed Audrey cautiously and thoroughly while Audrey bragged about her adventure.

As I poured a restorative glass of wine, I was so thankful for the presence of that bright, beautiful moon. And my naughty kittens.

*I really should stop calling them kittens, since they’re a year and a half old now. But they’ll always be kittens to me – especially since they still act like kittens!

I don’t usually write about serious topics. Wars, politics, and other grave issues are for wiser heads and greater pens than mine. Critics of the late Duchess of Windsor have pointed out that her letters written during wartime omitted this huge fact in favor of things like gowns and parties, and the same thing can truthfully be said of this dilettante featherhead. But this is so close to home and so upsetting that I just have to speak up.

I mentioned in passing that there was a shooting at my local BART station on New Year’s Day. Shootings are not a rarity in Oakland, but this one caught my attention because it was the station I always use, whether I’m going to the city or downtown Oakland, and it’s only a mile and a half from my house. I guess it’s human nature to give more attention to news items that happen in one’s own neighborhood.

Things went from bad to worse when it was discovered that the young man who was killed was unarmed, lying on his stomach on the platform, and surrounded by BART police and others. Cell phone video shows the officer taking out his gun and shooting the 22 year old father in the back.

The officer in question had his lawyer hand in his resignation at the exact time he was to face an internal affairs investigation. At the very same hour, his victim was laid to rest as family and friends shared their terrible grief at this senseless loss.

Protests followed, and escalated into violence, with police cars overturned and storefronts burned. There were 105 arrests, but there were more protests, more peaceful, the following night. A makeshift shrine is still in place outside the BART station. When I go to work, I walk past the candles, flowers, and messages to the man who died on the platform where I wait for my train, wondering that such a tragedy could occur in such banal surroundings of uninspired concrete, commuters walking over a grave.

Sadly, Santa did not see fit to bring me a Barbie (there’s always next year!), but he did bring me a shiny new microwave. OK, I ordered it and it arrived right after Christmas, but I can think of myself as Santa’s personal shopper if I want to. A girl can dream (or totally lose her grasp on reality; you decide).

When I went shopping for a microwave, I was surprised by how expensive they are. So this was the both the cutest and cheapest I could find, because if I have to look at something every day, it had better be cute (even men would agree with me on this point). You can see that it is indeed quite cute, and goes very nicely with the coffeemaker (pictured) and the vintage radio (not). I’ve had it for over a week now and have yet to kill it, which is quite encouraging. Maybe new appliances have a longer life expectancy than the old ones did. Even with the Suzy Factor.

This post brought to you by our friends the parentheses (and a little caffeine).

Given the New Austerity (and, frankly, tired of taking it), I’ve started looking for a part-time job. It’s harder than you’d think to find a job that really is part-time. I have learned that what most employers really want is essentially full time workers, but with enough hours that they don’t have to supply benefits. So “part-time” jobs are 30-38 hours a week, which is impossible for me, since I already have a job.

And don’t get me started on how employers also want applicants to have a string of degrees and qualifications and then work for $12-15 an hour with no benefits.

Another thing I learned about from perusing the want ads is a job I didn’t know existed before: family assistant. Apparently, this is someone in addition to one’s nanny to do the boring housework, pick up the kids, ferry them to soccer practice and ballet lessons, help them with homework, etc. I thought that was a parent’s job, but what do I know, being child-free and all. They probably get the family assistant to vet schools, plan the graduation party, and the weddings for the kids, too.

Since I’m not cut out to be a paid parent (or an unpaid one), here are some possible part-time jobs for Suzy:

• Cosmetic namer: I love it when make-up has names instead of numbers. It’s so much more fun to know your lipstick is called Cherries in the Snow than Number 342. I’m sure I could come up with some fabulous names for girls like I.
• Showgirl: Time might be against me on this one, but I’d love to wear one of those wonderful headdresses and be the toast of Las Vegas. And it wouldn’t interfere with my day job.
• Starlet: A vanishing career, but perfect for someone who’s frivolous and not particularly talented. I could write my own tabloid stories about myself. Two part-time jobs, no diapers! Sign me up!
• Ball Girl: How fun would this job be? And I’d have the winters off to recover from my arduous tasks on the beach in say, Bora Bora. I’ve heard good things.
• Beauty Queen: Time is probably against me on this one, too, but I’ve been studying the red carpet for years and nobody knows gowns like I do. Also having a best friend who was an international model in our mutual youth taught me a few things about make-up, named or numbered. And no-one would enjoy wearing a tiara more than I would, except possibly a friend’s relative, who wears her small town beauty queen tiara to Thanksgiving dinner.
• Personal shopper: Really, kids, can you think of a better use for my champagne tastes and love of shopping? Not to mention my flawless good taste and ability to spend other people’s money. This one would be a win-win.

All ideas, comments, and suggestions welcome!

No matter what I do (or don’t do), my sink is always full of dishes. Even if I’ve just been eating take-out, or zapping up a Lean Cuisine, there seems to be an endless supply of cutlery, china, and even pots and pans, the bane of dish washers everywhere.

The only dish washer I have is me, which may well be why there are so many to be washed. It must be nice to have a dishwasher to hide the evidence in, though it always seems to me that by the time you’ve scraped and rinsed the dish, you might as well just finish washing it.

I have a new theory: when I turn off the kitchen light, the dishes get together and start procreating. “Come here often?” “You’re so…shiny!” As soon as I turn the light on, they act like nothing’s happening, just like you did when your parents suddenly came home and found you and your boyfriend on the couch.

I drank not wisely, but too well, last night, and on entering the kitchen in search of coffee, wondering why the sun had to be so sunny and how it got to be quite so late, noticed that the dish population had seemingly exploded overnight. Clearly they had been enjoying my absence both wisely and well.

The thought of clearing up the overpopulated sink enough to start making more dishes was even less appealing than usual, so I decided to go and get some pizza, hoping that the Dish Fairy would magically appear and make the dishes disappear while I was out. She must be a little on the shy side, or wants to enjoy my surprise and delight, so she won’t show up while I’m actually in the house. Just to give her some extra time for the extra dishes, I got lost a couple of times finding the pizza place in Berkeley (there is no decent pizza in my neighborhood. Same goes for Chinese food).

When I got home with my hard-won carbs, I peeked in the kitchen. The Dish Fairy had not yet appeared. Maybe it’s because I haven’t been good, or because even the Fairy herself is daunted by the size of her task and decided to go somewhere easier, like the kitchen at Boulevard.

Maybe I’ll think about it tomorrow.

Belated happy new year, everyone! It’s no less sincere for being fashionably late. Many of you probably think the lateness is due to the traditional New Year’s hangover, but it’s actually just sloth. And no, I haven’t resolved to be less lazy this year, since there’s no chance I could actually keep that one.

In fact, my glamorous niece informs me that having resolutions could be hazardous to one’s health. What a fabulous reason not to have any! I’m going to be healthier by not having any resolutions!

It was a quiet New Year’s Eve. I sipped Piper Sonoma by the light of the sparkly white tree and glow of the white candles in the fireplace. I watched the 100th ball drop in New York (how could I resist the world’s biggest piece of Waterford crystal?), but dropped the ball on west coast midnight. I realized I had missed the witching hour when I heard people out in the street tooting little horns and calling out new year’s greetings with the muffled sound of fog-bound fireworks in the background.

The new year certainly started off with a bang at my local BART station. I’m starting to think about moving, especially after being in downtown Oakland on New Year’s Day (where I actually got some good Chinese food! Yay!) and enjoying the beautiful old buildings and the bustling atmosphere. I’m a city girl at heart, and though I can’t afford San Francisco, I may be able to find a place in downtown Oakland where I’ll be happier.

As I strolled through Chinatown and admired the Victorians by the lake, it occurred to me that I’ve lived here a year and still know next to nothing about this city. So I’ve decided to live dangerously in 2009 and resolve to get to know Oakland better.

My other resolution is to write more. I’d like to ask for your help with this one. I seem to be lacking inspiration at times after nearly eight years of blogging, so let me know if you have some ideas. Is there anything you’d like me to write about? Questions? Suggestions? Leave them in the comments, or email me at speakall at earthlink dot net. Thanks for reading all these years, and may this new one be a fabulous one for us all!

My sister’s Christmas tree

Seems the weather was terrible nearly everywhere in the country on Christmas Eve, and here was no exception. It was rainy and cold as I set off for my brother’s and sister’s. The traffic rivaled the weather for unrivaled awfulness. It took more than half an hour just to get to Berkeley, which should have been a ten-minute drive. If the cars weren’t sitting nearly still and gossiping about each other’s paint choices, they were merrily speeding by me, sending jets of temporarily blinding water over the windshield.

It took five and a half hours to go 150 miles. When I passed those normally irritating signs that tell you how much faster you’re going than the speed limit, they just reached out and patted my head as I went slowly by. Good girl!

I have never been so glad to see my sister’s little house in the pygmy woods.

My car crabbiness rapidly evaporated under the spell of the twinkling tree* and an open bottle of wine. By the time my sister got home from work, I was positively cheerful.

We had drawn names at Thanksgiving for stockings, and I had gotten my sister. You can imagine how much fun I had filling it. Because the tree is outside, we leaned all the stockings against the antique (yet working!) spinning wheel to await the big day.

While we arranged the stockings, my brother-in-law kept vanishing and reappearing. My sister finally asked him what he was up to, and he said something about a project he and my brother were working on. I smiled to myself, knowing full well what the “project” was.

Brother-in-Law had asked me to buy a replacement bathrobe for him to give my sister. Not because of the usual male inability to shop and shop on time, but because there’s nowhere to shop there and if he bought it online, my sister would see the package when she collected the mail. So I headed into the city on Tuesday with my mission firmly in mind.

All I can say is, if people are cutting back these days, they’re not cutting back on trips to San Francisco, or cable car rides when they get here ($5 one way). The line for the cable cars stretched around the block, tourists presumably blissfully unaware of all the cable car accidents this year.

So I fought my way through the maddening crowds and into the shop, where I discovered that the robes only came in white (impractical when your house is surrounded by dirt and doesn’t know enough to stay outside where it belongs), pale pink (ditto; also, she hates pink), baby blue (ick) and red. I figured red was the best choice, but it was sold out in her size. So I got the baby blue.

I told BIL, and he decided to get high quality dye and dye it a beautiful, rich blue. But he had to wait until I got there, much later than expected, on Christmas Eve, then wash it to remove the sizing, etc., then dye it, then wash it, then dry it. And the washer and dryer are at our brother’s place at the other end of the property, so it was quite a performance.

It was all worth it in the end, and she was delighted – even more when she knew the story. It made it more special, she said, to know it was a family project.

*The tree is a living one, and is now too big and heavy to drag into the house. Fortunately, it can be seen from most of the house through the sliding glass doors in the living room. I think it will be planted and a new tree chosen for next year.

Looks like Henry’s enjoying his new digs.

Up next: Christmas adventures!

My tree through the window

Usually, I close the blinds once the afternoon darkness sets in, but now the tree is up, I’ve been leaving them open enough that passers-by can enjoy my minimalist tree. And now you can, too, without ever setting your well-shod foot in Oakland. You’re welcome again!

I wonder if the tree will be standing when I get back. I’m pretty much betting that it will be sagging sadly against the wall or on the floor, and that June will have chewed it. If I hear scratching somewhere, I know it’s Audrey; if it’s chewing, it’s June. If I hear my water glass being knocked over and/or broken, its contents spilling all over valuable paperwork, it’s June again. Given how many times I say “no” during the day, I’m not giving the tree much of a chance.

Henry has no visible bad habits other than occasionally clawing the hand that feeds him, but I think he works his naughtiness out by running around outside, and the girls are trapped in a small house with less outlet for their energy. Sometimes I think you’re born with all the energy you’re ever going to have and just use it up as you go.

Speaking of going, I should. Wishing all of you the happiest of holiday seasons! May all your Christmas dreams come true!