Suzy Says

It’s definitely the best time of year for mail, what with cards, letters, and presents stuffing my mailbox. Every day, there’s something new and fun, instead of just bills. Today’s mail was best of all, with a brand new shiny gold check card!

Before you think that’s nothing to get excited about, especially considering that today’s mail did include presents and a totally gorgeous handmade card, complete with red ribbon, I’ll tell you a story.

Last week, I ventured to downtown Oakland to return a couple of things a friend had left behind. She works at the venerable Ratto’s International Market, which has been in the same family and same location since 1897, so I figured I’d drop her things off, pick up one of their famous sandwiches, and get some stocking stuffers while I was at it.

I turned the wrong way off Broadway and saw a branch of my bank. I decided to deposit my paycheck and get some money before going to the deli. I tried twice to deposit my check, and the card was rejected. I went into the bank, and was told that my card had – gasp! – been cancelled.

Now, I had called a couple of weeks ago to ask when I’d get my new card, since the old one expires in January. I was told it was on its way. When it didn’t show up, I called again and they said I should have received it, so they’d cancel the replacement card and issue a new one, which I may or may not get by Christmas Eve. Apparently, they also cancelled my current card.

The teller actually cut my card into little shiny pieces. I can’t tell you how horrifying this is. Not only do you feel totally embarrassed (and convinced that everyone is staring at you and wondering what you’ve done to lose all card privileges), but you realize the convenience vanishes along with the card. I’ll have to actually go into the bank and fill out one of those slips of paper and show them ID before I can get money – and I can’t get money on Sundays! I’ll have to give the gas station guy money and then go out and put the gas in the car! What about Christmas shopping?

The horror, the horror!

Good thing I went the wrong way. It would have been mortifying to be unable to pay for my sandwich. Almost as bad as having my card cut up in front of me.

So I took out a bunch of cash and hoped for the best, which actually happened for once. And just in time to head out of town tomorrow.

Maybe I’m going to get that Barbie after all!

Hello, my name is Suzy, and I’m an Etsy addict.

Not a day goes by that I’m not checking them out, adding items to my favorites, and sometimes even buying one or two. It’s online window shopping – all the fun and none of the crowds. With the new austerity, it’s nice to know that a girl can buy herself something cheap and cheerful for under $10. And it’s even better knowing that the item is handmade and/or unique. By the time it arrives in the mail (along with the usual batch-o-bills), it’s like a present!

My morning fix is the daily Etsy email newsletter. I try and guess which item might be sold out, and I’m ridiculously pleased with myself if I guess correctly. It’s a variation on the game I play with the estate jewelry ads in the “New Yorker”. I pick the item I would buy if money was no object (an even more unlikely scenario than usual under the new austerity regime), and it is almost invariably the most expensive* one.

A variation on these games is the one my sister and I play when there is a particularly ugly window display. “If you had to pick one, what would you pick?” Never mind the fact that no-one has ever forced me to shop, and the possibility of this happening is remote. It’s still fun. Then we compare and decide whose choice is the least hideous.

It’s the little things in life. And the ones that make you laugh. Or imagine an alternative existence. Or just make you happy.

*A friend once observed that of all the people she knows, I’m the one that should be rich. I have to agree.

Hello, my name is Suzy, and I’m an addict.

Like many of my fellow afflicted, I didn’t realize I was one until my drug of choice was taken away from me with no warning.

The microwave died a sudden and inexplicable death. One moment, it’s merrily reheating coffee, and the next, it’s a giant useless metal box, taking up valuable real estate on my kitchen counter. My brother-in-law happened to be visiting, and he took a look at it. He’s one of those guys who not only understands how things work, he understands why they don’t and how to fix it.

He diagnosed the problem as being a blown fuse (too much coffee will do that to you). The next day, I took the dead fuse to the hardware store* and threw myself on their mercy. They found the correct replacement among the countless shelves of mystery wares, and when I got home, I tried to resuscitate the microwave.

Nope.

I dumped the body in the tiny garbage can (the green bin, for lawn clippings and compost, is huge and expansive, far too palatial for a girl who mows her lawn twice a year; whereas the garbage bin is a size zero), and noticed that it was now completely full, just one day after the trash had been collected. I’ll have to ask B if I can use hers for the rest of the week.

Faithful readers will not be surprised that yet another appliance has died in my care. I’m getting to be a serial killer.

The funny thing is, I didn’t even have a microwave until a couple of years ago, and now I can hardly function without it. I had no idea how much I depended on it for reheating coffee and rice and things like that. It’s a little embarrassing.

If Santa Claus is bringing me a Barbie for Christmas, I’d better buy my own microwave.

*I also made the mistake of going to the (un)Lucky afterwards. In my slightly hung over state, it was even more surreal than usual. All those buzzing fluorescent lights! All that bologna, or things that look like bologna! The smell of discount seafood! Note to Self: Safeway or no way.

Now, that’s free-range!

It also has nothing to do with this post. But I was so fascinated by seeing a chicken wandering around this urban wasteland (less than a block from my house) that I just had to share it with you.

You are so welcome.

Now that you’re all taken care of, here’s what I want for Christmas.

I haven’t been particularly good this year (or ever), but I’ve also never had a Barbie, and after nearly half a century of deprivation, I think I’m entitled to just one. And if so, this is the one for me!

Coming up next: why I need a 12 step program. Or two.

The calm before the storm

It turns out that getting tree and Self out of the creepy crawlspace relatively undamaged was the easy part of the process.

In addition to forgetting how challenging it is for the challenged to put the branches in the slots, I had also forgotten that I don’t have a tree stand. The tree is about half a century old (it was originally priced at $2.88, according to the sticker on the box), and is too thin (if not too rich) for modern tree stands. So every year, I prop it up with bricks, and promptly forget about it until the next year.

Not only was I trying to hold it up and together (the trunk has two pieces, top and bottom, which screw together), I was trying to hold out against the kittens, who were trying to help.

They were only five months old last Christmas, and I was too traumatized by the move to bother decorating, so this is the first Christmas tree they have ever seen. Naturally, they assumed that I had put it up for their amusement, which is the only reason I do anything. Imagine their delight when the fabulous peacock ornaments, bought way back in August*, made their stunning début. Now, there’s a toy they could really enjoy!

My original plan was to add some clear and frosted white balls to the tree, but after the constant assaults on the peacocks, I gave up, even while regretting resisting buying that iridescent garland at the peacock ornament shop and thinking about those really small candy canes I saw at Safeway. Hey, a girl can dream!

After an evening spent squirting the cats with water, yelling, and swearing instead of sitting glamorously by my beautifully decorated tree, I shut the cats in the laundry room and removed the peacocks from the tree. Unfortunately, I had had some kind of efficiency psychotic episode after decorating the tree and had already returned both the tree box and the peacock box to the depths under the house. There was no way I was going to drag up the dusty boards on the porch and crawl under the house again. So I put the ornaments in a different box and put it in the closet.

I reckoned without the kittens’ ingeniousness when it comes to naughtiness and the fact that few doors in this house close properly, since I found them merrily batting around the elegant toy birds in the morning. The box of birds has now been moved to the top of a closet with a door that actually closes (and stays closed), and the tree has a certain minimalist chic with just white LED lights on its white branches. Which June thinks are chew toys.

Of course.

*Though I only just started writing Christmas cards!

I could use an elf or two. Any volunteers?

I thought today would be a good day to put up the Christmas tree. I ventured into the creepy crawl space* under the house, found the battered old Gimbels box, and hastened up the stairs, convinced that mice and spiders were pursuing me. Since the crawl space was apparently made for midgets, I managed to bump my head on the way out, probably losing valuable brain cells in the process.

I could have used them, because setting the tree up was more challenging than I remembered. It’s an artificial one, painted white with branches that are inserted/screwed into the trunk. It’s harder than you’d think to hold it up and put the branches in, especially with the kittens “helping”. You can hardly blame them, since it’s the first Christmas tree they’ve ever seen (and maybe their last). I had envisioned the tree twinkling and the candles in the fireplace shining while I sipped wine and listened to the soundtrack from “A Charlie Brown Christmas”, but so far, it looks like only the wine part is going to come true tonight.

On the other hand, I do have my coordinating wreath up.

*California houses rarely, if ever, have basements.

…the girls did get jealous of Henry having his picture published, here’s one of June and Audrey, sitting in the sunny window.

Last night, in the dark hours between moonset and sunrise, I was awakened by the unmistakable sound of cats fighting. Fearing for Henry, I peered into the darkness. I couldn’t see a thing. Unsettled, I went back to bed and read the new Michael Connelly until I felt ready to sleep again.

I woke up a couple of hours later with the wind howling. Palm leaves rattled, the windows shook in their 85 year old wooden frames. Going out to pick up the newspaper, I expected to be greeted by a full-blown winter storm. I was amazed to see the clear blue sky, the horizon an opalescent pink. It was as balmy as a summer day. The newspaper had blown across the street.

Paper in hand, I went to check on Henry. He came running out to meet me, saying good morning and leading me to his bowls. The water dish was full of dirt, and the little tent I got him to shelter in when it rains was collapsed against the fence instead of under the porch. Its faux sheepskin lining was nowhere to be seen.

On closer examination, the tent had deep bite and claw marks in the fabric, and was either blood- or dirt-stained. Henry, however, appears to be unscathed, and happily ate his breakfast as if nothing had happened. You should see the other guy, he seemed to be saying.

If I must have a cell phone, why can’t it be this one, with more than three carats of diamonds? And a handy little mini version that clips to one’s handbag, to avoid the annoyance of digging through all that money, lipsticks, boys’ phone numbers, etc., to find the ringing phone. Especially good post-manicure!

Priced around $25,000, this is definitely a Covet.

Who needs an iPhone when you can have a Dior phone?

Speaking of phones, my older, humbler one finally turned up somewhere in LAX. I got a call from TSA telling me they’d found it a couple of days ago. Wonder what it was up to during the past month? Since I already had a new (and cuter) phone, I decided to donate it.

The local librarians have begun to comment on how fast I read and how much. I picked up the most recent bounty, and the librarian asked me if I wanted all five books at once, and pointed out that I had just taken three out (which, to be fair, I had just returned).

When I was a kid in Maine, one of the privileges of being a lab kid was being able to take out as many books from the beautiful library as we wanted (other than the new ones, which were as limited to us as anyone else). That place was heaven on earth to me. I loved stepping through the double doors to the marble flooored foyer, and from there, into the library itself, with its glorious gallery above, and…all…those…books.

In that twilight place, no matter how the sun blazed outside, I met Mr. Shaw. Mr. Fitzgerald. Mr. Hemingway. Mssrs Chandler and Hammett. Miss Plath. Mssrs Zola, Baudelaire, de Montaigne. Misses Bronte. The Divine Jane. Mr. King. There was no end to the discoveries, the worlds that opened to me.

But the new ones were of less interest to me than the past.

In those days, I was discovering the incomparable E. Nesbit, Edward Eager, C.S. Lewis, E.L. Konigsberg, Zilpha Keatley Snyder. Of course, the worlds of A.A. Milne, Lewis Carroll, Kenneth Grahame, and John Masefield were already well known to and loved by me, and on my bookshelves (built by Dad* at home), but on occasion, then as now, a desire to read certain books and passages would overcome me, and I’d have the freedom to check them out and revel again, or restore my spirit, in the beautiful, familiar prose.

*Dad was streamed into Classics as a boy, but being tone deaf, was a terrible singer. His music master sent him to learn carpentry to spare his own aesthetic sense, and undoubtedly, those of Dad’s classmates. By the time the school figured it out, it was too late. And Dad built bookshelves in every house we ever lived in, including his last home with our beloved stepmother.

Our New First Family!

Yes, we can – and we did!

I meant to go to Reno this weekend. Not for the traditional divorce* (fun fact: the first Reno divorce was granted in 1906) or the traditional gambling (I may be the only person who’s been to Las Vegas and not gambled there), but for a little getaway. And to see the legendary Neil Young.

However…Saturday was dark, stormy and scary. As I write, it’s simply tipping it down, as my beloved stepmother used to say, and what tips down as rain here gets tipped down as snow there. With the reports of accidents, threats of road closures, and the memory of my things and stuff being stuck in the Reno snow for days last year, I decided to stay home, pet the kitties, and finish reading The Suspicions of Mr Whicher instead.

However…I still had that Neil Young ticket, and if I couldn’t bask in his glory, someone else should. I posted it on Craigslist without much hope, since it was the day of the event. About three that afternoon, the phone rang.

It was a young man from Santa Cruz, who was canvassing for Obama in Carson City, Nevada. This dedicated guy has done this every weekend for the past six weeks, driving all the way from Santa Cruz to Nevada, after working all week at his regular job.

Last night, he heard about the Neil Young show and had been desperately seeking tickets ever since. He was overcome with happiness at getting mine. I emailed it to him, he paid me via PayPal, and everyone was happy. I don’t know which of us was happier, to tell you the truth. I was so glad to be able to thank him for the great work he was doing, and knowing he would enjoy the show after a long, hard day of canvassing.

*John sent me the paperwork last week. It had been rejected by the courthouse clerk, but she wouldn’t say why. My boss, who has a law degree, and I looked through it all and found a couple of places we hadn’t signed and a couple of missing dates. So we fixed that, and John’s going to try again to file. Maybe a Reno divorce would have been easier!

The kittens wanted a pumpkin this year (last year, they were too young), so I duly got them a nice organic one, kitten-sized. Once I got it home, I couldn’t decide what to carve into it. At first, I thought I’d carve a couple of cats into it. I even did a drawing:

Which is cute, but I couldn’t figure out how to transfer the drawing to the pumpkin, which was beginning to seem smaller by the minute. If there’s a way to be technologically challenged, I’ll find it (right, Doc?).

When I was walking home from ambling some errands, it occurred to me that maybe, just maybe I could carve OBAMA into the pumpkin. In a stylized way, of course.

I’d give it an A for effort but maybe a C overall, since you can’t read the whole word at once due to the pumpkin’s small size. It was much harder to get all the glop out of the middle than I remembered. Not to mention stickier. Maybe my parents did it? My hands are still kind of pumpkin smelling, which is kind of gross. I keep meaning to ask B next door if there will be trick or treaters. I don’t want to be Mean Old Lady Suzy before it’s absolutely necessary.

Seen today: a chicken, or possibly a rooster, sitting in a palm tree.

Heard last night: a couple arguing as they walked down the sidewalk. Then an audible slap and a woman’s tears. I hesitated, then went out to see if she was all right. I found her sitting on my neighbor’s front lawn, weeping. I asked her if there was anything I could do to help, and she got up and ran off, sobbing and waving her hands in the air. I don’t know what else I could have done, but I’m haunted anyway.

There are few things the kittens enjoy more than a good box. Every time there’s an empty one, or one with things in it but the flaps open, they’re there.

Nearly a year after moving, the house is pretty much box-free. The kittens loved sitting up high on the box towers, which may explain why they never lifted a paw to help me unpack. (I think I’d make a very good cat.) The box pictured above is the only one left, and it’s smallish and perched on top of one of the CD shelves. It’s Audrey’s favorite spot, and if I haven’t seen her for a while, that’s usually where she is.

I have a theory that the devotion to boxes is because I was in the throes of packing almost as soon as I got the kittens, so boxes are one of their early childhood memories.

That, or they just like boxes.

I had jury duty on Wednesday. It was so much easier than it was in San Francisco. Here I just called on Tuesday night, was informed that they wouldn’t require my presence at 8:30 am (who doesn’t love to hear that?), but I should call between 11 and noon.

So I did, and they still didn’t want me for the 1:30 session, and thank you, that concluded my service for a year. Though relieved, I perversely immediately felt slightly insulted. They should have wanted me and given me a chance to attempt to reject them or appear to be undesirable.

Oddly, San Francisco requires five days of jury service, whereas Alameda County only asks one day or one trial. Given the crime rate in Oakland alone, I find that surprising.

Here I am in traffic on the 405 on Wednesday afternoon. There’s no driving like SoCal driving: everyone’s either cutting across five lanes without signaling at 85 mph or you’re sitting there like it’s a parking lot. Imagine my relief when I finally dropped the silver Impala off at Hertz.

After going through security and noticing that they had neglected to remove or question my half-finished bottle of Evian (the valets pressed a bottle on me every time I arrived or departed – all part of the service, like having the air conditioning on when they presented the car and the radio tuned to the baseball playoffs), I collapsed in the Red Carpet Room to await boarding. Digging through my silver handbag, I couldn’t find my cell phone. I know I had it in the car. Called Hertz, and they disclaimed all knowledge.

For someone who dislikes having a cell phone as much as I do, it was surprising how suddenly naked and helpless I felt without it, even more than I did going shoeless through the metal detectors. As soon as I got home, I called our IT person, and she got me a new one the next day. The new one is definitely improved, being both pretty and purple:

Question to all WordPress users: do you know how to do pop-up windows with pictures? Or do you have to embed them? The tech tard wants to know.

The kittens were glad to see me, milling around my feet and explaining how much they had missed me. Henry, on the other hand, was annoyed. He refused to even get off the bed in his cozy bachelor pad under the porch, and had hardly eaten any of the food I left. He wouldn’t even look at me, and refused to say a word.

The next day, he got his revenge by leaving a dead mouse beside his bowl, which sent me screaming into the house while he smiled smugly. That’ll learn ya.

My cheapness won out over my laziness last night. This may be as unprecedented as the turmoil in the global markets.

After perusing the room service menu and discovering that the cheapest bottle of wine was $46 a bottle (or $12 a glass), I ventured out of the fancy hotel (I may have forgotten how to open and close my own car door by now) in search of food and wine.

I picked up a pizza at the always-reliable Il Fornaio, and stopped at a liquor store on my way back to the hotel. I saw a bottle of Cloudy Bay, which I had often enjoyed with my father. On bringing it up to the cash, I learned that it was $32.

My father liked me even more than I thought.

I hastily returned the bottle to the cooler, and faced a situation unique in my traveling experience. I couldn’t find anything, uh, reasonable enough to buy. Usually I’m desperately looking for an acceptable bottle at corner stores when I’m on the road, but this is, after all, Pasadena, land of the tasteful mansion and manicured lawn. I finally settled on a bottle of Husch for a mere $13.

I have a feeling I’m not in Oakland anymore.

Well, here I am, enjoying Frette linens and Bulgari bath goodies. It’s called working.

I’m attending a conference at a historic hotel, the Langham, in Pasadena. Built in 1907 and formerly the Ritz-Carlton, it sits grandly beneath the San Gabriel Mountains.

It also has the best room service coffee I’ve ever had. It almost made up for whatever East Coast Idiot called me at 6:30 this morning, disturbing my much-needed beauty rest.

Getting here was, of course, an adventure. I got up early, even without the aid of an unwanted and unsolicited phone call. Called for a cab an hour before I needed it. It didn’t show up. Called again 10 minutes after it was due to arrive. I was told it was on its way. Several increasingly irate phone calls later, the cab finally showed up.

It was 9:10 and the plane left at 9:47.

I chucked bags and Self unceremoniously into the back seat of the cab, while the driver hung out in the street with the door open, blaming the cab company for his being late. I suggested that we GO, since I was almost certainly going to miss my flight. Visions of $150 change fees on a $200 ticket danced in my head as he finally turned on his GPS and started entering in the address.

Yes, I had drawn possibly the only cab driver who didn’t know how to get to the airport. Having only recently been there myself, I started directing him. And corrected him when he turned the wrong way (twice). And ran into the terminal, panted through Security (my obvious panic apparently not making me look one bit suspicious) and to the gate. A kindly lady asked, “Are you Susan?” as I wordlessly thrust my boarding pass at her. She smiled and told me not to worry, she was just going to page me and they wouldn’t leave without me.

I hustled onto the plane, which was approximately the size of my car, and as I sat down, the door slammed behind me. I was the cynosure of all eyes as I attempted to hide behind the latest issue of “Us” magazine.

Forty-five minutes later, I was at LAX, which was disappointingly free of celebrities. There went my hopes of being on TMZ. As I took the shuttle to the rental car place, it occurred to me that I spent longer waiting for the cab than flying to LA and picking up a brand new silver Impala (which is currently napping in valet parking. I love valet parking, even though they just took the car 50 feet away and there is endless tipping involved. It’s worth it just to have cute, smiling boys open the car door for you and close it after you as if it’s the most delightful thing in the world).

From what little I’ve seen of Pasadena, it is beautiful and full of houses that vary from enormous to mansion sized, in a tropical setting. It’s supposed to be 95 degrees today. Just right for lunch beside the turquoise pool.

Then back to work.

When I stepped off the bus yesterday afternoon after a hard day of meetings, I was surprised by the long line of cars on my street. Had the media been alerted of my imminent arrival? Was it those damned paparazzi again (at least I was wearing make-up and nice clothes this time)?

No, it was…a puppy.

A beautiful little red pit bull puppy, to be precise. He was sitting happily in the middle of the road, stopping traffic.

His owners turned out to be two guys who were working on their truck in a driveway, and failed to notice their puppy’s absence. When they finally noticed and headed toward the little guy, he stretched out on his back and wiggled joyfully until they scooped him up and took him out of harm’s way.