Suzy Says

I ran out of milk today, and instead of getting in the car and going to Safeway (or the extremely depressing and dramatically mis-named Lucky), I decided to walk to the liquor store and cracketeria around the corner. I figured they must have milk and juice, along with the Thunderbird, Night Train, and Colt 45.

I looked through case after case of beer and mixers. No milk. Finally, I asked the guy at the cash if they had milk. He just looked at me, and then started laughing. I retreated, milkless, with the sound of his laughter trailing behind me as I headed to the closest of the three gas stations. It turns out you can buy milk at the gas station and no-one will mock you for your choice of beverage.

Gas station milk does seem a little weird, though.

I always wanted to go to the Mendocino County Fair, but somehow never got around to it. Every year, I’d see the signs as I drove through beautiful downtown Boonville, and think, “Maybe this time”. Finally, this year was the year!

With my freshly fixed car, I followed my sister and brother-in-law (at a distance; they’re used to driving the corkscrew of Highway 128, whereas I still find it horrifying after all these years) to Boonville. Parking was at a premium, but I finally found some. Bonus: under a tree, since it was a good 80 degrees.

We rushed to get seats at the Sheep Dog Trials, already in progress (we missed two of the eight dogs due to the Great Parking Space Search). It’s edge of your seat entertainment, all right, with shouts of “Down in front” if anyone dares to stand up too long and block the view. The chute was definitely the hardest part. I think only two of the dogs got their sheep through the chute, undoubtedly because nothing good ever happened to sheep when they’re in one of those things.

One of the farmers showing his dog had lost 75% of his livestock in the summer wildfires. His spirit in not giving up on his farm and still participating in the show was enthusiastically applauded.

After the trials, we went to get something to eat. You could have funnel cakes (shudder), and slushies (I had blue raspberry, of course), and barbecue, and all the usual fair suspects, along with gourmet sausages and other delicacies, since this is, after all, northern California. I loved seeing tie-dyed hippies eating corn dogs (though they may have been organic tofu corndogs for all I know). And I loved seeing how there was no staff and no takers at the Republican register to vote booth:

There were award-winning cakes, pies, apples, and pumpkins. A parade with the high school band and home-made floats, with uproarious applause and kisses thrown at the firemen who fought the wildfires in June and July (a local fireman lost his life). 4-H kids showed their livestock. It was a wonderful, old fashioned day. With body piercing.

My sister’s house

Well, this time last Friday, I was waiting for the traffic to (hopefully) subside before setting out to visit my brother and sister. I left the house at 7 pm, and while the traffic was fine – no noticeable Santa Rosa slowdown, possibly for the first time ever – it was, you know, dark.

Really dark. Country dark.

Now, people will tell you that it’s better or even easier driving in the dark, because you can see the lights of the other cars. What they neglect to point out is that you will suddenly be faced with those halogen headlights in the pitch darkness, temporarily blinded while going around one of the many, many blind curves of Highway 128 – downhill.

That was fun.

And then there was the tule fog on the road leading to my brother’s and sister’s tumultuous dirt driveway, which looked like giant billowy ghosts throwing themselves at the windshield. It would be suicidal if they weren’t already dead.

Also fun.

By the time I finally arrived (sometime after 11 pm), I needed a bottle of wine administered almost immediately. For medicinal purposes, you understand.

When I finally woke up and got caffeinated the next day, my brother had been at work on my car for a couple of hours. I’m not sure if I mentioned this earlier, but the car had been peeing on the driveway from time to time, even though the dealer had assured me it was potty trained. So my brother had asked me to buy some parts and bring them up, which I did. However, it turned out that he needed more parts. He took the old ones out and put them in a bag for visual aids.

My sister and I went to the car parts store with the bag’o’stuff. The car parts guy immediately started asking us questions about the car in general and the parts in particular. My sister and I both had big question marks over our heads, so we called our brother and handed the phone to the guy, so they could talk boy to boy. The right parts were identified and paid for, and we went off to buy things for dinner at the delightful Harvest Market.

While we were perusing the aisles, I noticed they had Jelly Bellies, which my brother loves. We got him a bag of his favorites, and presented it to him along with the car parts. He was more delighted with them than I thought he would be. I mean, a bag of jelly beans for a day’s work on a car that isn’t even yours seems like a pretty sad deal for the mechanic. But he was happy to fix my car so it was safe (among other things, my thermostat was exploderated, so I had been driving around with little bits floating around in there. Ignorance really can be bliss) and took it for a test drive with my wonderful brother-in-law, who was his co-mechanic.

So far, so good. As it happens, my brother will be in town tomorrow and will do an inspection. And have dinner with a very grateful sister.

I just got a jury summons for next month. At least Alameda County only makes you do one day, or one trial, depending on how desirable you are jury-wise. San Francisco makes you go for five days or one trial. Finally, Oakland is better than San Francisco!

Coming up: my weekend in the country, the county fair, and how to get your car fixed for a bag of jelly bellies.

In the meantime, here’s a picture of my sister’s orchid cactus in sci fi bloom on her front porch.

Am I the only one who hates coming up with titles for posts? Preferably clever ones?

Speaking of clever: I ended up at the gym today wearing sandals. Slightly platform (yet surprisingly comfortable) ones. I felt like that scene in Romy & Michele’s High School Reunion, where they’re on the treadmill wearing platform shoes. I soon discovered that you aren’t allowed in the weight room with unsuitable shoes on. However, the treadmill, lunges and squats aren’t out of the question. Unfortunately.

It could have been worse. I could have been wearing high heeled, marabou trimmed mules, as pictured above. I probably would have gotten sent home for those.

I almost missed the bus home, absorbed in Diablo Cody’s (author of the delightful movie Juno) memoir, Candy Girl, about a year she spent being a stripper in Minnesota, a place you would have thought far too cold for stripping. The bus stopped suddenly at the sight of an unexpected police car blocking the road, and I toppled into the lap of a high school kid, who said, “I just got me a lap dance, baby!” and high fived me.

I’m blaming the shoes.

…that I got no mind to lose, to quote the immortal Ramones. Yet another “unusual” heat wave of five, count ’em, five days of 90+ heat have melted my mind more effectively than any space alien. There have been so many of these allegedly rare heat waves lately that it’s pretty much like living in a heat ocean: one wave dies away, another one takes its place.

Does anyone know if Dante ever visited Oakland?

I’m currently eating a popsicle for breakfast. I already swooned through several errands this morning, when it was an icy 80 degrees:

• Safeway, to visit Ray and buy the all-important popsicles. Also revel in air conditioning. Maybe I could be a great Safeway employee. Then I’d have air conditioning all day. On the other hand, I’d have to deal with other people, and I hate them.
• The library, whose air conditioning is almost as good as Safeway, though instead of Ray they have librarians who appear to be brain-damaged at all times, not just temporarily in the heat, like Me. I bet I’d be a great librarian. I definitely have the glasses for it.
• Trader Joe’s, for delicacies unobtainable at Safeway. Bliss of air conditioning notably tempered by their keeping the front doors wide open (!) and by an unnerving numbering of shrieking children, not to mention the Communist Russia style line lengths. All true fashionistas know that lines are supposed to be short this season. Mini, in fact.
• Kragen, where I exercised my considerable dumb blonde skills. There appears to be something wrong with my car, since it pees antifreeze* or similar onto the driveway. Apparently they don’t make Depends for cars (or driveways, for that matter), so I asked my brother what to do. He gave me a list of things and stuff to buy and advised filling the coolant container with water until he can check it out and find out what havoc his dumb blonde sister has wrought on the car. I’m planning to go up next weekend to finally attend the Mendocino County Fair, so I can combine the cake judging and sheep dog trials with free car repair.
• One of the thousands of 76 stations around here (there are almost as many 76 stations as there are liquor stores and storefront churches) to check tire pressure and put in air if necessary. Again the helpless blonde routine worked to get the guy to do it for me. I know, but my years (months?) of getting away with this are running out, so let me enjoy it while I can.
• The vet, for flea spray to spray on everything. Besides being plagued with ants, the East Bay is also infested with fleas. So even though I dosed the kittens twice with advantage, I have seen the occasional flea and am covered with itchy and unattractive bites (which is worse?). So I’m going to have to spray all the floors, carpets, bed, etc. I can hardly wait.

However, all this will have to wait until it’s less than 80 degrees.

It may be a long wait.

*Don’t worry, I’ve been washing the spots out so Henry (or any other passing cat or dog) doesn’t think they’re a nice, light snack.

Usually, people are happy to meet with me in our quite nice San Francisco office. It’s in the heart of the financial district (if finance can be considered to have a heart), and less than a block to the nearest BART station. Add in the flat screen TV in the lobby and our handsome receptionist with the candy jar on his desk, and what’s not to love?

However, some people have much fancier offices than ours and want me to observe the fanciness while they observe how impressed I am. Others are allegedly local (up to 30 miles away) and want me to haul Self to whatever far flung burg their office is in to “kick the tires”. This tire-kicking motif* inevitably comes up when I have tried in vain to convince them to make the commute instead of Me.

So off I went to kick some tires at some distant locale. I ended up kicking myself instead.

When I arrived at the BART station, there was a suspiciously large number of people on the platform, looking even more disgruntled than usual. The train showed up, and we packed on in the manner popularized by Japanese bullet trains. The train just sat there stubbornly in the late morning heat. Finally, a disembodied voice ordered us off the train. We all trooped back onto the platform, and the train lumbered away.

A new, though apparently not improved, train arrived a few minutes later. It sat there coyly, refusing to open its doors. Eventually it, too, vanished. The disembodied voice informed us that there was a problem (you don’t say!) and there would be unspecified delays.

I called the guy I was supposed to meet with to tell him that I would be at least an hour late. I tried to reschedule, but he wouldn’t hear of it (being safely ensconced in his distant office), so I resigned myself to the mercy of BART.

Eventually a train came. It wasn’t going where I was supposed to go, but I figured I could transfer at the downtown Oakland stop. The train pulled out of my station, well over an hour after I first arrived there, with all the passengers doing an extremely accurate impersonation of a can of sardines and making it impossible for me to read the Vanity Fair with the Best Dressed List. After a couple of minutes, it stopped between my stop and the next stop, and had a little siesta.

Feeling refreshed from its 20 minute power nap, it did get to me to the transfer station, where I stepped out into a little piece of midtown Manhattan, being buffeted on all sides, attacked by errant briefcases, up close and way too personal with total strangers. I was relieved to arrive on the crowded platform to wait for Train Number Two.

Although Train Number Two was supposed to go to the end of the line, where I was supposed to go, it unaccountably felt the need for a Train One type nap when it was two stops away, and went out of service, yawning its way out of the station. It was approximately 20 degrees cooler at this station, which was wreathed in fog. Train Three appeared after only fifteen minutes, and I finally arrived at my destination a mere three hours after arriving at my BART station.

Once in the conference room, I could see that I was a few miles south of SFO , and almost directly across the Bay from Oakland.

*They can never resist sports metaphors, either, particularly baseball. “We really hit it out of the park this year”; “We always try to get on base”. etc. I don’t think I’ve ever been in a meeting where this didn’t come up, and I always smile to myself when it makes its appearance.

The creepy turtle paperweight

My weekend has been extremely glamorous so far. Yesterday, I poured boiling water on the weeds in the driveway, in an attempt to put them out of their misery before I yanked them out of the driveway. It’s harder than you’d think.

While waiting for the water to boil, I tackled the huge box of my grandmother’s junk, kindly hauled to my house personally by my sister Megan (who finally commented on my blog! Yay!). As I dug through the musty paper, I couldn’t help but wonder: how many Jell-O molds* and relish dishes does a girl really need? While pondering the inadvisability of naming a child Otis Clapp (as featured on a medicine bottle – possible slogan: Get the Clapp!), I unwrapped something that seemed to be moving. Eeek! Could something have survived in storage all those years?

But no, it turned out to be the creepy turtle paperweight, as pictured above. Not pictured: the moving head and legs. Apparently other people are not creeped out by the turtle, since research revealed that people have paid $400 to $600 for these at auction. One girl’s creep-out is another girl’s treasure.

Naturally, I had to call my sister to tell her of my run-in with the un-alive, yet overly active turtle. And as usual, she trumped my creepy story with one of her own.

Getting ready to do the dishes, Megan found the sponge hiding coyly in the depths of the sink. On wringing it out, it appeared that the sponge had a quite sizable poop on it. Naturally, she dropped it in horror, and was even more horrified to see the turd moving. On closer examination, it turned out to be a small bat, which flopped its traumatized way under the stove. Later, it emerged and my brother-in-law Rob caught it under a glass and set it outside, to the relief of all concerned.

How’s your weekend going?

*So far, I haven’t come across the Liberty Bell or the lobster, which I love. I have found the star one, which often contained the orange Jell-O with shredded carrots in it, and sometimes the red Jell-O with canned fruit cocktail. The green Jell-O with halved green grapes and ginger ale was generally reserved for the Liberty Bell.

I know I’ve been frustrating the hell out of you, first with the inability to leave comments, criticism, and words of wisdom, and now the apparent ability to do so but not actually being able to. It’s been frustrating the hell out of Me, too, so that’s when some action had to be taken. And as usual, my thought was to get someone else to do it. In this case, it’s a total necessity, since I am a techtard extraordinaire, and if I even attempted to update Movable Type and export all the old entries, I know I’d manage to make them disappear, and I probably would, too.

Also as usual, I turned to Craigslist for help. I got my house, my car, CD shelves, someone to assemble the CD shelves and screen in the porch all on Craigslist. And it was also extremely efficient in helping dispose of the many items that used to fit in a big loft but didn’t in a small house. I have an entire Craigslist life.

So I’m hoping that soon I’ll have the comments thing fixed, and while I’m at it, a pretty new look. If you have any ideas or opinions about that or anything else, you can tell me at speakall at earthlink.net. Don’t hold back, ’cause you know I never do!

I wonder what it is about me that makes my neighbors take culinary pity on me? In my old place, the fabulous P was always dropping by with wonderful things like muffins, tiny brownies, and gingerbread that she had made. These little bites of heaven were generally small enough to be pretty much guilt-free (and after all, every girl deserves some indulgence) but hot out of the oven, draped prettily in a fresh tea towel. They were edible hugs.

Yesterday, I was talking to my boss on the phone when B approached me with a piece of chocolate cake. (I should probably mention here that I have a habit of pacing while on the phone, so I usually go outside and walk up and down the sidewalk while chatting.) Needless to say, cake took precedence over work, so I put Boss on hold to take the cake. It was on a paper plate with pink and red hearts on it, and covered with plastic wrap, thoughtfully held up in a tent-like manner by toothpicks to keep it off the icing. I haven’t tasted it yet, but it looks good. Both B and C(ake) are so sweet!

Sometimes neighbors can be great. And/or amusing. My old friend came back for another withdrawal from the First Bank of Suzy the other night, knocking on the door at 1 am with a request for $20 to get him to the City and back for his janitorial job, for which he was already late. A much more plausible tale, but he only got $15, since that’s all I had at the time. After the usual declarations of affection, he took off into the night. I wonder how long it will take for him to pay me back. I feel more confident that he will this time, since he may well want to get another loan. And my rates are so reasonable.

Well, you’d never know I’d swept up in the laundry room (which doubles as the kittens’ salle de bain) this morning, thanks to the dashing litterbox stylings of the Beautiful June Bug. While June was doing that, the (now slightly less) Adorable Audrey Grey was knocking over one of the pair of conga drums in the livingroom, happily watching it loudly bounce while I struggled vainly to keep up my end of a phone conversation about venture capital with a guy in New York.

Guess who was having a better morning?

When I emerged from the bowels of the Montgomery BART station, I was greeted by the flawless blue sky and a guy carrying a sign that said, “PRISON IS SLAVERY/EMPLOYEES ARE KKK” on it. As I passed him, he said “I’m an American Muslim! We should all be fighting against terror!” I’m no expert, but given that around 40% of the prison population is African-American*, and that the budget for improving San Quentin’s Death Row(!) is projected to be more than $40 million over the original cost, there’s something seriously wrong. Oh, and after they spend all that money on Death Row, it may well be overpopulated within 3 years. And this in the only state without a budget as of July 1, and one with a $15 billion shortfall.

On my way home, there was a woman with a spectacularly loud and undisciplined pair of kids who cheerfully shared their ear-piercing displeasure with life in general and the train in particular. Although it was all in Spanish, we all got the general idea. They were so loud that the guy who had passed out on (or possibly in) his collection of overstuffed garbage bags actually woke up from his stupor and stared at them balefully. A guy who was lucky enough to exit the train at West Oakland, the first stop on the wrong side of the Bay, leaned in and said “They outta throw you off this train, you kids so loud” to wild applause.

Two stops later, I practically ran off the train. It was only three stops from the office, but if it was any further, I would have just gotten off and waited for the next one. On the bright side, it did make the bus ride with the Malt Liquor Guys (one on each side of me, accessorized with an open can discreetly robed in brown paper) and the Crazy Old Lady (rocking back and forth and repeating “I gotta go to the doctor – get my BRAIN checked out” over and over again) a positive joy.

*According to CNN, more than three times as many black people live in prison cells as in college dorms.

Note to Self: even if you think you know where you’re going, even if you’re sure it’s perfectly simple and there’s no chance at all of your getting lost, bring the GPS. Just bring it. You’ll thank yourself later.

I went to see Steely Dan* at the Greek Theatre at UC Berkeley (the closest I’ll ever get to that august temple of higher learning) on a balmy evening. I was thrilled about seeing the century-old outdoor theater, built by William Randolph Hearst**, which has hosted both the divine Sarah Bernhardt and the divine Bob Dylan, among many others. How many venues can make that claim?

I was also looking forward to seeing Steely Dan, who first charmed me with their wit and irony floating on incandescent melodies when I was in high school. I thought it would be easy to just pop over to Berkeley: no bridges, no traffic, perfectly straightforward directions. I figured I didn’t need the GPS just this once.

I was, of course, wrong.

I took a wrong turn somewhere and ended up hopelessly lost. Everyone I asked for directions told me something different, and none of them were right. I finally found Telegraph and just drove to the end of it, where I found hordes of concert-goers who could actually tell me where the theater was.

Parking was even harder to find than the theater. I eventually found a place, and it turned out be about 15 minutes’ walk away, up and down hills (though with a stunning view of the Bay and the famous Campanile). Needless to say, I got lost again (I don’t even need a car to do that!) and I must have looked so bewildered that a drunk, slightly crazed homeless guy took pity on me and told me which way to go. You know it’s bad when the drunk, slightly crazed homeless guy has way more of a clue than you do.

I was nearly an hour late (or Suzy standard time) by the time I got there, but so was Steely Dan, who took the stage right when I took my seat. I’m guessing that Mr. Hearst didn’t have the audience experience at the theater, because you’re jammed together closer than on a discount airline, and the seats are non-comfy cement. The girl sitting behind me thought it was a good idea to cross her legs, firmly wedging one of her wedges into my ass, while the stoned old pony-tailed guy beside me played air drums for the whole show.

I had no idea that Steely Dan was so big with aging hippie and/or dope smoking population, but I can tell you from personal experience that it was pretty hard to get a breath of air in the outdoor (and theoretically non-smoking) arena that wasn’t liberally laced with weed.

The show was great, and worth all the trouble of getting there. And I learned a valuable lesson: always bring your GPS with you. You never know if you’ll find a drunk, slightly crazed homeless guy when you need one.

*When I learned the origin of their name, I immediately wished I didn’t know. ~shudder~ It was like finding out that James Spader and William Shatner don’t get along that well in real life, despite portraying one of the most touching and complex male friendships in the history of TV on the wonderful Boston Legal. Ignorance is pretty much always bliss as far as I’m concerned.

**Is it just me, or did Mr. Hearst have a fancy for the ancient Greek and Roman? I mean, look at Hearst Castle. Also, I wonder what he’d make of his great-granddaughter’s modeling career.

I’m in the middle of reading Plan B by Jonathan Tropper* (I promise to write another book report soon; I have been reading, though not writing), and came across this:

“Alison’s neighbors were Mia Farrow, Diane Keaton, Tony Randall, Carly Simon, Madonna, and a host of other celebrities who could often be spotted between their canopied lobbies and their taxis, hailed for them by uniformed doormen with silver whistles. There was even a button in Alison’s elevator with a little car etched onto it that signaled the doorman that you wanted a cab, so that by the time you stepped out of the elevator depending on how high up you lived, he was already out there hailing you one. If you lived in the penthouse, there might already be a taxi waiting for you by the time you got down, which was only fair.”

How cool is that? It would definitely do if you didn’t have your own driver, which you probably would if you lived in the penthouse. I could settle for that.

*I’ve been reading his books backwards without realizing it, starting with the newest (The Book of Joe) and ending with the oldest.

The remains of the planter. Wonder if I’ll still get my security deposit back?

I was making dinner when I heard a popping noise. At first I thought it was the cats, but it kept going, so I went to look. Following it out to the porch, I saw that the (empty) wooden planter next to the porch was on fire! I ran to get the hose, dragged it over, and started spraying water on the blaze. As the water gushed over the smoldering planter, I wondered how on earth the fire could have started. The planter doesn?t have a plant in it, I haven?t been using the barbecue, there was no lightning or stolen car to dispose of. Do I have a secret enemy or an neighbor whose hobby is arson? It?s a mystery.

All evening, I kept checking the planter remains for sparks and smoke, even though I had thoroughly soaked it. I looked at the dry lawn and the weeds in the driveway in a new light, imagining the fire spreading, the house going up in flames. I was glad that I had been making dinner and had the back door open. What if I hadn?t heard the noise, hadn?t gone to investigate? Later, I watched A Letter to Three Wives, one of whose stars, the beautiful Linda Darnell, perished in a house fire at the age of 41.

I did not sleep well.

My boss (and friend) is a huge Stevie Wonder fan. Every time the subject of Stevie comes up, and you’d be surprised how often it does, he tells me earnestly “Stevie can play every instrument, you know.” I always act like I’ve never heard this before, and Boss goes on to outline a certain album where Stevie really did play every instrument, etc.

So you can imagine how excited he was to learn that Stevie Wonder himself would be playing the unfortunately named Sleep Train Pavilion* this week. However, Fate – actually, work – had other plans, so he ended up in Chicago and I ended up in traffic.

As I crawled slowly down Highway 24, I had the A’s game on the radio and thought sarcastically, “At this rate, I’ll get to hear the end of the game.” Little did I know how right I’d be, since the game finished in under two hours (the A’s won** 2-0) and the traffic didn’t. I was beginning to wish Stevie had just called to say he loved me.

As I sat in an endless stream of cars on the seemingly endless Ygnacio Valley Road, amid Porsches and Mercedesesezzz, it occurred to me that traffic is pretty much the only thing that being rich can’t get you out of. The people in their richmobiles were just as stuck as I was, and they couldn’t escape or go any faster, either.

I found this a remarkably comforting thought.

When I finally got to the show, I was, of course, late, late being my natural state. It was a great show, and I was surprised by how many younger fans were there. The two girls in front of me were probably 18 and sang along to every song, swaying and dancing blissfully despite the 96 degree heat. Stevie was charming and gave it everything he had, which is saying something for a legend who’s been in show business for more than 50 years.

A couple of days later, I had my hair re-blonded and shaped so it’s bouncy and pretty again. My stylist mentioned that she went to the show, too, so I said how heinous the traffic was. She then told me that she could have told me a much faster and all-around better way to go, being a native of Concord, if only she’d known.

If only I’d known, too.

*Why can’t corporations keep their names OFF arenas and stadiums? Wouldn’t it be much classier to buy a place and keep calling it, say, Concord Pavilion than slapping your company name on it? Or to start off that way, instead of being Pac Bell Park, AT & T Park, etc., just be DiMaggio Field or McCovey Park? And while I’m at it, I’ll just say how despicable I find it that the Yankees are abandoning their historic, 85 year old stadium for a new, bigger one, all in the name of, you guessed it, more money.

**The A’s seem to be pleased that I moved to their town. They’re currently second in the American League West, and won both games I’ve been to this year.

I took my first cab today since moving to Oakland.

It’s still approximately the same temperature here as it is on the sun, and I dragged the remains of the fabulosity formerly known as Suzy from the BART station, only to see the bus I needed – wanted at that point, so lowly have my desires become – pull away from the curb and go merrily on its way. The thought of waiting for 15 to 20 minutes in the wrinkle- and sweat- inducing blazing heat could not have been a less appealing prospect, even when thoughtfully provided with a bottle of water and a library book.

Looking up from the deeply disappointing schedule, I noticed a line of happy yellow cabs, sitting across the street, calling my name.

Who was I to resist?

So I hopped in, and on the way home pondered the following:

• Do I still get credit for taking the bus to BART, even though I took a cab home? It’s a “Spare the Air” day, due to heat and smog and smoke, so we are supposed to take public transit (which used to be free on Spare the Air days, but now isn’t, like many airline amenities). So is a cab bad, or, since it’s used by other people, sort of serial car pooling, sort of OK?
• Why is it always so much better to be driven than to drive oneself? Even the skankiness of popular murder location International Boulevard seems merely colorful from the back seat of a hired vehicle.
• Why is it that cabs and hotels, where you know other people have sat and slept (among other things), seem luxurious and delightful, whereas the reason I have never gone bowling is the shoes? I can’t stand the thought of wearing shoes previously worn by a parade of total strangers of unknown hygiene. Who are bowlers.

By then I was home. Oh, and I finally used up my BART ticket! Well, one of them, anyway. Due to carelessness and general personality disorders, I tend to not have exact change and just add $5 onto a ticket I already have. Or go crazy and get a $10 one (the actual fare, which I know you are dying to know, is $6.60. Is it any wonder that I never have that exact amount?). I usually have no fewer than five BART tickets with 10 or 20 cents on them floating around in my purse at any given time.

But today I have one less, because I not only had the exact change, but I dared to use it. It was surprisingly satisfying to have the ticket vanish into the turnstile, never to be seen (at least by Me) again.

Now if I can just use up the rest of them…

The Summer Solstice took itself a little too seriously this year, and just a couple of weeks later, it’s at it again. I have a little air conditioner in the living room window, wheezing out pitiful gusts of coolish air, but this David can’t beat the heat Goliath.

The problem may be the whole BTU thing. Maybe British Thermal Units are just too polite. “I say, heat, could you please turn it down a wee bit? It’s a trifle uncomfortable at the moment.” Whereas American Thermal Units might say something like, “Heat, I’m only gonna tell you once. Outta here or your ass is nuked.”

I’ve been wondering if these conditions are the norm for the East Bay, yet another of the many inconveniences I had no idea about in my glory days of living in San Francisco. An informal survey says otherwise, but I’m beginning to doubt the anecdotal evidence after three of these babies. If something keeps happening, how unusual can it be? Just sayin’.

Dolly the Church Lady came by as I was in mid-melt, mid-morning to tell me that I’d be watering plants for Jesus a little while longer. That’s what I call watering my neighbor B’s flowers while she’s at a revival meeting in Florida. She is expecting that her husband, who has Parkinson’s and has been wheelchair-bound for many years, will miraculously rise from that chair and walk again. So while we await the miracle on opposite sides of the country, I’m taking care of the tomatoes and zinnias and those little blue things that grow in the patio cracks.

Apparently the miracle is taking longer than expected, since B called Dolly to tell her to tell me they’re staying another week. I hope I don’t kill the plants with my heathen lack of gardening skills.

The heat isn’t helping the wildfires, which continue to burn. More than 20,000 people are fighting the 330 active fires statewide as of yesterday. Here’s hoping that the firefighters get a miracle of their own, and soon.

I had fun making this over at Wordle. Just type in the words and create a work of word art. Go ahead, try it!

This postcard is by the delightfully named Ellen Clapsaddle, one of the world’s most prolific (and forgotten) postcard artists. She was primarily active during WWI, but her message here is still relevant today.

So while we celebrate our freedom, let’s remember the cost of that gift, both in the past and in the present, and thank the givers and defenders of our precious liberty.

Now

&

Then

Today marks the birthday of three of my favorite Cats: my niece, who is [mumble]* years old, and the Terror Twins, Audrey and June, who turn one year old today!

Those of you who know my glamorous film-making niece will not be surprised to learn that she was late to her own party, being fully occupied with putting on those crucial finishing touches before making her world-wide d?but. Her mother may not have appreciated the delay, but the results were fabulous. Still are.

The kittens made their trouble ever since. Fortunately for them, they are attractively packaged.

They are pretty much grown up now. It’s hard to believe they ever fit in the palm of a hand.

Happy birthday, all you gorgeous Cats!

*Note to Niece and Nephew: You are just going to have to start lying about your ages. Being the nice (and extremely young) aunt that I am, you’re allowed to be legal drinking age, but that’s about it. Amazingly, your birthdays are even closer together than you thought, since under the Suzy System, you are just over a year apart. That makes one of you 18 and the other one 19. Don’t forget, now. Your ages will remain this way for about five years, so that makes it easier! I am so thoughtful.