Suzy Says

Conference day dawned cloudy, but not rainy, as predicted. I disguised myself as a responsible adult and hailed a cab. Other than the driver, the whole thing was computerized, with a disembodied voice informing me how to exit safely, and a printed out receipt which said “Happy Cabbing” on it.

Is there any other kind?

This particular shindig is always held in the swellegant Four Seasons in San Francisco. Every year, I wonder why it was built on such an iffy block of Market Street, especially when I pass the private lobby of the “Residences”. If you’re wealthy enough to stay or live there, I would think you’d prefer a more delightful neighborhood. Also, the doorman probably spends a lot more time shooing away desirables than greeting desirables. Still, it is just a few blocks from Sephora.

The doorman at the Four Seasons always makes me feel cherished, sweeping open the door and bowing with a smile as he ushers me into the marble hush of the foyer.

Once labeled and equipped with a very nice padfolio, I went into the conference room, where the view was not quite as lovely as the one from the deck:

The dress code in the invitation said “business casual”, which is the dress code no-one really understands, even the people who set it. When I worked at Nameless Corporation years ago, the Powers that Be instituted Business Casual on Fridays, but no-one, even the Human Resources people, could explain exactly what it was. Like pornography, they’d know it when they saw it.

My interpretation was velvet pants, a velvet-trimmed top (I guess I think velvet goes well with chandeliers), and heels high enough to be cute, but not too high to preclude walking to Sephora. I also brought my diamonds out for an airing. Other conference attendees wore: suits with and without ties; khakis and shirts; a couple of Hawaiian shirts; and sky-high heels with bare legs, which I think is an “only in California” look.

As conferences go, it was pretty good. I met some interesting and potentially useful people, as well as some I already knew. And I learned a lot.

Feeling virtuous, I headed out of the elegant enclave and strolled to Sephora among the businessmen, tourists, and crazy people, marveling once again at the length of the line waiting to board the Powell Street cablecar. Note to tourists: get on a block or two later, and there won’t be a line.

Being in Sephora is almost as good as being in the Four Seasons. They have cute girl greeters instead of a doorman, and some truly fabulous faux eyelashes:

Life in Hooterville doesn’t require false eyelashes, but it does require lipliner and eyebrow pencil, which were duly bought and put into a little black and white striped bag. I happily made my way to the St. Francis, where the last doorman of my day ushered me into a taxi.

Days that begin and end with taxis are always good.

Well, it’s been a long day.

It started at 5:30 am, when my Moonbeam alarm clock kindly flashed its rays over my sleeping face. I almost sobbed as I turned it off in the rainy darkness. Roscoe didn’t bother moving.

I was sufficiently caffeinated to hold up my end of a 6:00 am conference call. Following its conclusion, I got ready for the jobette, packed up the car, said goodbye to the completely unmoved kitties, and headed off.

After working at the jobette all day, I set off for San Francisco in the rain and fog. I lost track of how many times it poured and subsided, poured and subsided. All I know is, I’m sick of other cars’ splashy wakes and I cannot understand why rear window windshield wipers aren’t standard on all cars.

As I drove across the Golden Gate Bridge, the City looked like a pale mirage, washed by the rain and bathed in fog. The towers of the Bridge were swathed modestly in cloud, and the rain-swept gloom had robbed them of their brightness.

Still, my heart lifted as always at the sight of my loved one, no matter how inclement and inconvenient the weather.

I texted Megan to tell her I was here, and then ordered Indian food on the interwebs. I could even pay for the tip and save the receipt for my expense report. Now all I have to do is relax with an adult beverage or two and wait for it to arrive. Sometimes I love technology.

I always love food I don’t have cook. Or shop for. Or plan. Or clean up.

Sadly, my room does not have a bathtub, which kiboshed my Lush dreams of soaking luxuriously, but so far the bathroom seems to be bug and spider free, which is an improvement.

Other than the magic delivery of Indian food, there won’t be a whole lot of fun going on during this trip. Tomorrow I’m spending all day in a conference, then part of Thursday, followed by meetings. On Friday, I have yet another 6 am conference call, followed by the long drive home to Hooterville. I’m still hoping to squeeze in some fun, though, in the shape of this exhibit. And maybe a stop in at Sephora…

Maybe I need a reminding sculpture. Or a whole pad of neon Post Its. Or a personal assistant. Or a brain transplant! If Dick Cheyney can get a heart transplant, it just goes to show that you don’t have to have the original organ to get it replaced…

Lately, my brain has not been functioning at peak capacity. Or maybe this is peak capacity, and I’ll have to get used to it. The new normal: not fun.

This week has been less than fabulous. It’s been pouring, for one thing – I fully expect the Ridge to be flooded tonight or tomorrow – which is always depressing. And for another, I seem to be making one mistake after another.

I locked the keys in the car when I was at the jobette, far from home. This was mitigated by the fact that I knew I’d do something like that, so I already had an extra key sitting in my desk drawer, but still.

I bought the kitties a fifteen pound bag of cat food instead of a five pound bag, to minimize time and gas spent on going to the feed store. I bought a different flavor since I thought they’d be bored of the old one. Well, they seem to hate it. Even Clyde the Food Monster sniffed at it (in all three bowls) and walked away this morning, an unprecedented feat of disdain on his part. I’ll see if they have eaten any when I get home from work tonight. If they still hate it, I’ll buy the original flavor and sell the rejected bag to Megan, whose kitties are less picky than mine.

I was supposed to join a conference call today, and discovered that my cell phone battery was dead, so I couldn’t. My boss was not happy, and neither was I.

Worst of all, I worked all weekend on a proposal to provide services on behalf of my real job, only to discover that I had mistaken the due date. By the time my boss alerted me to the fact that the due date was Monday, not Tuesday, it was Monday night and officially too late.

I realize that he should have noticed the due date as well, but still…I feel pretty stupid right about now.

The trip ended as it began – with work.

Right before I left, I got an emergency call from my boss/partner to set up a conference call for 6 am on Monday morning (there goes aquafit). As I stood by the car in the motel parking lot, the wild parrots flew overhead, calling out farewell and waving their wings goodbye.

After the traditional Extreme Takeout stops (Bob’s Doughnuts; Victor’s PIzza), I headed for Best Buy to buy a new printer. Mine is on its last legs and I figured I might as well replace it while I was in civilization.

I arrived at the Best Buy mall, but couldn’t find the Best Buy itself. I ended up at Office Depot, where I found the printer I wanted and a couple of other work-related things, like paper and labels. It’s going to be quite the expense report.

After I loaded up the car, I tried to go to the Legion of Honor. I did. But even with the GPS, I got lost. On the other hand, I noticed a Trader Joe’s, which I had no idea was even there. I managed to get in the crowded parking lot – they actually had a guy whose entire job was to wave in cars when other cars left – and fought my way through the maddening crowds. By the time I finally got out of there, I was sure of two things:

1. I am no longer used to crowds and traffic; and

2. I was not going anywhere else except home that day.

So I headed for the Bridge, got stalled in traffic in Petaluma and Santa Rosa, and thanked my lucky getting lost skills for not having to stop again in Santa Rosa.

All was well when I finally arrived at my little house. Rob had watered the garden and the ficus, tied up the passion flower vine and the trellis with the potato vine, taken the recycling to the dump, and, amazingly, re-hung (again!) the painting which Clyde knocked down about six weeks ago for probably the sixth time.

It was lovely to be greeted with the sight of the City after leaving it earlier that day.

He also cleverly attached the shelf (which he had removed to try and keep Clyde out of the painting) to the lower part of the frame to block Clyde from getting in:

So far, so good.

The kitties had managed to break one of their bowls, and after I swept that up, I fed them and petted them. They were far more interested in the food than they were in me, but I was glad to be home anyway.

Yesterday’s meetingfest started downtown on Market Street, which is San Francisco’s Main Street. My firm rents office space from a firm called Regus, which has offices all over the world. You just let them know you’re coming, and you have access to conference rooms and all the other office-y things you need whenever you need them.

At the security desk, I told Guard One “I have an appointment with Regus.” Guard Two got really excited and exclaimed, “Regis? REGIS?! Regis got an office here?” Clearly he felt that someone had been holding out on him. Guard One was laughing too hard to speak and wordlessly waved me through to the elevator bank. As the car arrived, I heard him explaining the much duller truth to his co-worker.

I was a few minutes early, so I had time to take a picture of the view for you:

I could see ferries and sailboats on the Bay under the Bay Bridge (which actually celebrates its 75th birthday today), and, even on the 22nd floor, I could hear buoy bells, the rumble of the historic F Market streetcars, car horns, construction…the hum of the city, its pulse always beating.

The last meeting of the day was at the gracious oasis of the Four Seasons, which is oddly located near discount clothing outlets and drugstores. I enjoyed the graciousness of the doorman and the concierge, who helped me to locate the event I was attending. A girl could get used to this.

I couldn’t help noticing the view from the deck outside the Four Seasons conference room:

The orange building on the left is the Museum of Modern Art, and in the background to the right, you can just see the home of the formerly world champion, currently heart-breaking Giants.

It was probably already on Page Six, but after the meetingpalooza was finally over, I was actually too tired to shop at Sephora, which may well be a first. I even walked right by it on my way to get a taxi at the St. Francis – back where I started the night before.

Union Square palm tree in its holiday finery

I’m coming to you from my usual modest motel in my old neighborhood in San Francisco. It’s a sunny day, and I’ve already gone out to get bagels and coffee from the handy Notes from Underground. In a few minutes, I have to get dressed up to look like a responsible adult and head downtown for meetings.

At least I get to say one of my favorite words: Taxi!

Last night, I had a meeting at the Clock Bar in the historic Westin St. Francis Hotel, the grande dame of Union Square which survived the both the ’06 earthquake and the Fatty Arbuckle scandal. To this day, it employs a coin washer, a tradition dating back to the 1930s when most things – lunch, a drink, taxis, tips – cost a coin or two. The St. Francis’ concierge noticed that these coins soiled ladies’ gloves, and a delightful, civilized tradition was born.

Nothing takes the sting out of a business meeting like a cocktail or two in elegant surroundings. If only work was always like this.

After the meeting, I stopped in at the conveniently nearby Lush store, where I meant to just run in and get one thing – the Whoosh shower jelly that actually does wake me up in the dark, early morning hours – but of course I ended up with a couple of extra things, including a limited edition eucalyptus sugar scrub and a bath bomb in the shape of a golden gift which rattles alluringly, as all good gifts should.

As usual, the staff was wonderful and helpful. I love being surrounded by fabulous gay men with cool hair and fab manicures and joie de vivre, who make me feel as fabulous as one of the Sex and the City girls. There’s a serious shortage of them in Hooterville.

Also of delivery food, so as soon as I got back to the motel, it was time to call my friends at Lemongrass and enjoy the central heating and lack of sweaters, not to mention the blazing fast interwebs. Ah, civilization – how I have missed you!

At the jobette last Monday, we had a brainstorming session at the Aquatic Center. So basically, we were working poolside (kids kept peering at us through the windows as if we were on display. Look at the grownups in their natural habitat!). The tables were covered with paper, and we had crayons and glitter to use on it. The idea was to get our creativity flowing. To that end, we also had Legos. And there were cookies. This may have given the kids an inaccurate idea of what being a grownup is really like.

On Tuesday, I spent the afternoon with our county’s official canine ambassador. His Dads’ car had broken down and turned out to be jump start proof, so they were waiting for the (one) tow truck to come. My diplomatic friend was faultlessly behaved, and even posed beautifully:

I was sorry when one of his Dads picked him up, and made a mental note to keep some dog biscuits at work. After all, our ambassador also joins our weekly staff meetings.

It’s only fair to give cats equal time. This handsome boy lives next door, and poses as nicely as Hairy (but don’t tell him):

I noticed this pergola on Main Street, while on my way to Paws to pick up food for the kitties. Now that the boys are almost ten months old, I’ve been feeding all three of them the same food. I alternate between Wellness Core and Wellness Complete Health. More and more, I think it’s really important to feed our companion animals the best food we can afford.

Incredibly, it was raining by the time I got back to work. Hard to believe from looking at the picture, isn’t it?

I took this one at the Hooterville post office on Monday morning. I thought its beauty was a great way to start the week:

And I hope it’s a great start to your week, too.

Yesterday, Rob and I car pooled to town together. It was so fun!

Unlike most Americans, I hate to drive, so I was happy to hand over the wheel. I’ve always wanted a chauffeur*. And Rob makes interesting company. We also brought Star along for the ride. Sometimes she stayed in the back seat, and sometimes she didn’t.

We stopped off briefly so Rob could express plant some daffodils he found in the wilds of my garden at the front of my brother’s property. Rob has landscaped it nicely there, with the pointy bush from their garden, crocuses, and now the daffodils. I’m pleased to say that my tulips are coming along nicely.

Rob had a ceramics class in the morning and an appointment in the afternoon at 4:00. So just in case he couldn’t get home in time to return the car to Megan at 5:00, when she leaves for work, we decided to share my car. Those of you who are wondering why he didn’t take his trusty truck don’t live where gas is $3.79 a gallon and have a truck which gets about 5 miles to the gallon.

We arranged to meet up at Monica’s store (conveniently located a block away) at 4:30. I ended up leaving work at about 4:15, having successfully labeled, stamped, stuffed, and sealed 500 envelopes. There was no way I was leaving work until I had wrestled them into submission. You haven’t lived until you’ve processed 500 envelopes. Or maybe you’ve died and gone to hell.

As I approached the corner, Rob pulled up beside me. Perfect timing and curbside service. What’s not to love?

*All those Hollywood starlets who keep getting arrested for DUI? I can never understand why they don’t have chauffeurs. Talk about a sensible luxury!

I know you’ve all been dying to hear about the jobette. It’s been going well so far. Everyone is super nice – very possibly the nicest people I have ever worked with – and they’re always saying how great it is to have me there and thanking me for doing the slightest thing. And I love having a dog join our weekly staff meetings.

You may be surprised to hear that I have already gotten the place way more organized. I tend to be very organized at work, not so organized otherwise. For example, there’s a pile of Christmas letters I’ve been meaning to answer on my desk at home. And it’s MARCH.

All in all, it’s pretty much the perfect jobette for me.

Here’s my office from the outside:

You can tell it was a house (well, cottage) not too long ago. The kitchen doubles as the conference room and features bright orange counters and yellow and orange floral floor tiles. That 70s kitchen!

View from my desk:

The fence is where the tailless Siamese cat next door takes his daily constitutional, stopping to be admired.

I was delighted by this tableau across the street:

And this little sticker near some calla lilies*, who seem to be taking it seriously:

The ocean is at the foot of the street:

There you have it!

*They grow like weeds by the side of the road here. I am always taken aback by what people will pay for them in the city. Also they look more funereal than bridal to me.

Monday was one of those semi holidays that only the US of A seems to specialize in. The banks are closed, the post office is closed, but you still have to work. People who live in other countries equipped with better vacation policies will be shocked to their relaxed cores to learn that most of us don’t get a single public holiday between New Year’s Day on January 1 and Memorial Day at the end of May.

When I worked at Big Company years ago, it offended me to no end that if you wanted the day off after Thanksgiving, you had to take it as a vacation day. It seemed really petty to me, you know? Especially since Thanksgiving is the biggest travel occasion of the year.

In stark contrast, I was the only one at work on Monday’s fake holiday. As I opened the gate and unlocked the front door, it occurred to me what a surprising (and flattering) level of trust my employers seemed to have developed in me after a mere two weeks (actually, six days) of work. I have to wonder if this kind of thing ever happens in the city. Maybe it’s the kind of thing that comes out of living where you don’t lock your doors.

The cat next door was the only one to check in on me, gazing at me through the window with his big blue eyes.

When I left work today, I was transported back to Oakland with the appearance of four or five police cars in the mall-ette across the street (liquor store; cafe; laundromat; Mexican restaurant – all the necessities of life). Needless to say, this stopped passers-by in their tracks, as people started asking each other what happened (sorry, but I have no idea). I imagine that law enforcement was happy to have something to do for a change.

Volunteer daffodil in my garden

I did move the orchids and tulips before I went to work yesterday morning. I pulled on my cute rain boots, a hat Lu made me (for some reason, it’s the hat I usually wear when it rains), and my coat over my kitty PJs and ventured out into the rainy darkness to move the plants. Mission accomplished!

After that, I worked on Job 1 for a while before heading out to Job 2, making sure the kitties were all safe inside on a blustery day.

By working on Job 1 last night and earlier this morning, I have met the deadline early, and all I have to is finish up Job 2 for the week (i.e., today and tomorrow).

I’d feel like Super Girl if I hadn’t left my umbrella at the office yesterday. It’s still rainy, windy, and deleterious to hair and make-up.

Yesterday, a famous canine joined our weekly staff meeting. You have to love a job where dogs sit up at the table during meetings. And a county which has an official dog ambassador.

Later, I called to confirm a meeting and was told that the person I wanted to talk to couldn’t come to the phone because she was tying balloons to the mailbox.

On my way home, I saw a Fed Ex truck pull into a completely deserted beach parking lot. This particular beach is almost never deserted, being a favorite of divers, kayakers, and abalone hunters, so it was particularly noticeable. I couldn’t help but wonder if some seals had ordered more kelp than they could handle, or one of the returning migratory whales a case of champagne, perhaps.

Sunday afternoon spider

The halcyon days of sunny days and starry nights are over. I think it’s been three weeks since it rained, and I believe we have another foot of rain due to us. After all, it is winter.

The rain woke me up this morning, clattering on the roof. I have been up before the alarm clock every day I’ve been working, and the only day I had off was Tuesday. I spent the sunny weekend working on my regular job, and now it’s time to start the other one. This week, it’s Monday-Wednesday, so that will get it out of the way, as it were. The only problem is that I have two projects from my regular job which are due on Wednesday. Can she do it?

Before I head to the shower for the lengthy grooming routine, I should probably venture into the rainy darkness to retrieve the orchids and tulips so they don’t get flooded by the rain’s generosity. It’s not an appealing prospect, though, especially since I just did my nails last night (Color: the appropriate Naked Ambition). Is anyone enthusiastic on Mondays?

Audrey on Alert

Well, the first week of the jobette is over. It’s been a pretty big adjustment for being a jobette, though. Add all that driving and dressing up, and trying to fit in my original job (6 am conference calls, anyone?) to the million and one house and cat related duties, and you have a tired little Suzy at the end of the day. I don’t know how you parents do it, especially the single ones and the ones with more than one job who are also remodeling their kitchen. I am in awe of you all.

It’s been weirdly sunny all week, though the rain is supposed to come back next week, making the drive even more adventurous. People point out to me that it’s a beautiful drive, and it is, but you can’t really look at it when you’re looking at the road and the curves and the many bad drivers out there. I think Miller in “Repo Man” really had something when he observed, “The more you drive, the less intelligent you are,” though it’s a scary thought for my two remaining brain cells.

We had the office door open on Thursday, since it was so warm, and a dog came racing in. She made right for me, even though my desk is in the back of the room, and kissed my nose. Then she rolled over on her back so I could pet her tummy. I saw she had a collar. She then ran out onto the sidewalk, and I made sure she was reunited with her person before I went back inside. Later in the day, a tailless Siamese cat sat outside my window, gazing at me grandly with his magnificent blue eyes before he got bored with me and left. He lives next door, so I should get another visit one of these days.

The ocean is at the foot of the street, so from my office I can hear fog horns and seagulls, as well as the comforting sound of passing cars. It’s right in the heart of town, so it’s easy to get to the library and Safeway as well as drop in on Monica.

The people I work with are really nice, and I already have an office key to add to my rare and precious key collection*. All I have are: car key, post office key, and now office key. I never have to worry about forgetting my house keys, since I have six doors to my house and not one of them locks. In fact, I leave the sliding glass doors open for the cats when I go to work.

It looks like my work schedule will be Monday through Wednesday, which is exactly when Megan works, though I’m getting up when she’s getting home. It will be good to get it all done early in the week, and then I’ll have time for my other job, dog walking, and other important things. I think it will all work out well once I finally adjust.

*The Monogram Groom keychain now features the big, fake diamond from last Christmas’ cracker. I love mixing real and fake accessories.

I seem to have finally shaken off the cold from hell. Maybe I left it in the historic city of Sacramento, where I attended a conference earlier this week. Just another problem for the Governator to deal with. Mutant Cold Invades California’s Capital! Run for your life!

The conference was much better than these things usually are, being focused on women in the financial world (of which I am one). The keynote speaker was Madeleine Albright, and she was incredibly impressive, which I expected, and funny and charming, which I didn’t.

I took the train there, and was struck by how civilized it is compared to the horrors and indignities of air travel. I got to keep my clothes and shoes* on, for one thing. No-one groped me or peered into my fabulous mod luggage (I was unable to resist carrying a train case on the train) or repossessed my toothpaste or questioned who I was or why I was going to Sacramento. True, I or any of the other passengers could have had a bag full of bombs, but no-one did.

On board, it wasn’t quite as delightful as the trains in “Leave Her To Heaven” or “Strangers on a Train”, but look how those stories turned out. Mine was uneventful and comfortable. I spent the two hours working, reading the New Yorker, and admiring the sunlit scenery. Much of the trip was spent passing the deltas, and it was slightly surreal to see huge container ships seeming to float on fields whose grasses hid the water behind them. Ducks and swans floated serenely on marshes beside the railroad tracks, presumably unaware of the nearby gun club.

Sacramento was the end of the line, and as I walked toward the grand old station, I heard the conductor announcing “This train is going nowhere.”

*Isn’t it amazing that just one guy had a hare-brained scheme that didn’t even work, and now it’s affecting all of us for the rest of our travelling lives?

I tried to open the comments again, but not surprisingly (given my complete and total lack of any kind of techperstise whatsoever), it didn’t work. I’ll have to call Movable Type and/or find some tech savvy kindergartener to fix it for me.

I can’t stand the thought of calling MT, because I’ve spent most of the day on the phone with faceless corporations, unmaking and remaking reservations to go to Florida against my will. Against my will, because it’s for a conference, and it’s on the other side of the country. Before you get all excited about the Florida thing, remember that I already have sun and ocean, and I’d have to travel 3,500 miles for more of the same. Plus uncomfortable work clothes and, you know, work.

The whole thing started when I foolishly booked my tickets on Expedia. The confirmation I received from them showed me leaving Oakland at 2 pm on May 4, and arriving in Tampa at 12:30 AM on May 4. Not humanly possible, I think most of us would agree, unless I have secret (even to me) powers over the space-time continuum. The reservation should have been leaving May 3, arriving 4. Given that the conference starts on May 4, there’s no way I would have booked the tickets to arrive the day after it starts. Clearly, the problem here is not my lack of techpertise, but a problem with Expedia’s system, which allows hapless travellers to reserve tickets that have him/her arriving 14 hours before s/he leaves.

Quite a trick.

Another good one is the choices you get.

1. Change ticket to the originally requested dates. This costs $150, plus a $30 Expedia-induced processing fee, plus the difference in fare, if there is any after all those fees. The value of the ticket is $295.
   
2. Get a “credit” for the ticket, which must be used within one year. Oh, and when you use it, there’s a $100 fee, or approximately one third the value of the ticket.

I selected option 2 as the marginally less painful of the two screwings offered. In both scenarios, Expedia/United have been paid for a service they failed to provide, because of their error. They each blame each other, by the way. And I get to pay $100 not to go to Florida.

Or so I thought.

I cancelled everything, and the guy actually giving the conference, a Fromage Grand in this tiny business world, called me personally and begged me to come. He even said he was a close personal friend of my boss, etc., etc. and agreed to pay all expenses. Even he could do nothing about the greedheads at Expedia and United, but presumably he also suffers from being only human. In return, I have to bring him a box of See’s chocolates, specifically, “the good ones”, Nuts & Chews. I have the nuts part covered.

Snow flurries on the east coast seem to cause work flurries on the west coast, as businessmen flee the snows of New York for the sun of California.

I’ve had something of a blizzard this week, with early morning conference calls to the snowbound (and I do mean early; 5:30 yesterday and 5:00 tomorrow*); a visit to a money manager in a nearby city (where I was surprised to meet and chat with the CEO); and a day of meetings at our San Francisco office. I still find it weird to be clacking around the Financial District in heels, even though I did it for so many years in my former life.

I’m still getting used to the commute time from Oakland. It always takes longer than the schedules state, and I hate being late. On the other hand, I don’t have to feel guilty about driving, or find a parking space, so I guess it’s a trade-off. On my way home today, I took the bus from the BART station and felt like an overdressed freak. Two girls were conducting a loud, profanity-laced conversation about a mutual acquaintance who is a “gift ho”, a new one on me. The driver turned around and said very sternly, “Ladies, no cursing on my bus,” and a hush fell over the bus.

So, what with all the homicides this weekend, and the woman getting arrested across the street with three cop cars in attendance (and having her car towed), it seemed like a good idea to take a break from urban life.

I meant to leave today, but the meetings dragged on, so after my conference call 11 hours from now, I’ll head up to visit my brother and sister in beautiful Mendocino County for a few days. I’m expecting fewer murders and more wine.

*I used to start work at 6:00 am for years, along with the New York Stock Exchange. I haven’t done that for a few years, and now it seems inconceivable to me that I ever did. And that word does mean what I think it means.

Since my beloved Giants were so horrifyingly and ignominiously defeated in the very first round of the World Series playoffs*, I no longer need to sit around the house watching baseball all day (when I’m not shopping, that is).

So what the hell. Might as well start working again tomorrow.

In order to be fit for public viewing, though, I’ve spent most of the day getting pretty again. Watching the playoffs doesn’t require much in the way of grooming, and after I realized that the cats didn’t pay any more attention to me if I wore make-up or accessorized, I just stopped bothering. Really, if there’s any creature alive who is more self-absorbed than I am, it’s any given cat.

So as I write this, I am dyeing my hair (multi-tasking: new employer, take note), and have already:

1. Had a massage to deal with pre-job stress;

2. Had my eyebrows waxed so when I raise them in disdain, as so often happens, they will look perfect;

3. Had my nails done. My toenails are now metallic violet (though this will be a secret from new employer, like my pretty lingerie, and will make me feel good in the same secret luxurious way), but my fingernails are sheer and natural and elegant in (I hope) a professional manner. I’m a Gemini – what can I tell you?

So now all I gotta do is figure out how to deal with the 8 to 5 grind again, and how to fit the gym into it. Stay tuned.

*Can I just say how much I hate Juan Encarnacion? And Josh Beckett is right behind him in Suzy world.

Well, I’m back. More or less, and for what it’s worth.

Really, there’s been nothing to report in the past two weeks, since my life was pretty much reduced to a treadmill which was even – if you can imagine this – less fun than the one at the gym or the one gathering dust in your basement. This particular one consisted of the following, repeated seemingly ad infinitum and definitely ad nauseam:

1. Work for 9-11 hours with ever-changing deadlines and ever-new crises caused solely by those who never look at anything you give them until the very last minute, which in turn gives you that minute and that minute only to fix it. You can give these things to them two weeks ahead and it won’t make a whit of difference. Digression: when’s the last time you used “whit” in a sentence? And really meant it?

2. Walk to the gym uphill and try to work off the tension accumulated during the day. Can’t be done, at least by me.

3. Run errands on the way home such as shopping, picking up or dropping off cleaning. Get cleaned up from gym exertions, feed cats, make dinner*.

4. Watch less than an hour of TV after dinner. Fall asleep. Be prodded to bed. Sleep exhausted for about four hours, then wake up for another three. Variation: have anxiety attack wake you up. Fall asleep just as the alarm goes off and curse the evil necessity of hauling your ass to work every day.

5. Repeat Step One.
   

And then spend Saturdays with your histrionic and thankless mother, who still gives you a hard time no matter what. There you have it.

*Now, for those of you about to scream sexism, let me just say that I am a very good cook and John isn’t one. Also he does the dishes. And cooking is the only creative thing I do.

You know you had a bad day at work when:

– You don’t even have time to complain about it until the following day, your every waking minute and atom of energy on the day in question being completely sucked up by work.

– By 8 a.m., you have had the following sartorial embarrassment: you move the water glass which you are holding and which you have recently used from your hand and hold it against your chest to answer the phone*, resulting in a smear of lipstick on your left breast, close to your heart, which, like the Grinch’s, is three sizes too small. You repair to the ladies’ room and scrub it off your pale apple green linen top, but are left with a damp spot for the next half hour, looking suspiciously like the aftermath of a physically impossible lactaction accident. *shudder*

– You work almost 12 hours, yet your to do list is as long, if not longer, than it was at the beginning of the day. The truth about being a grown-up, or a convincing facsimile thereof, appears with blinding and sudden clarity: it’s an endless procession of obligations, personal and professional, and you’ll never get caught up. You do not realize this when you are, say, 18, and all you want is to grow up, thinking it to be a paradise of doing whatever you want instead of what your parents and teachers want you to, but in fact teachers are merely replaced by bosses, and you and your parents switch roles with you as you get older, and it’s a lot less fun than you would think.

– You have dozens of unanswered e-mails, not having time for such things. When my niece takes a few days to get back to me, it’s because she’s having so much fun. For me, it’s the opposite.

– You don’t get paid overtime, since you supposedly already make enough money, even though you can’t afford to rent a parking space for your car, and the monthly mortgage payment on your one bedroom apartment with neighbors above and below you and without benefit of parking space would shock and horrify anyone other than a fellow San Franciscan or a New Yorker.

Added to which it was a record-breaking 90 degrees when I finally escaped from the treadmill. I hate the heat, and if I wanted real weather, I wouldn’t live here.

I can’t believe that I’ll have to do it all over again on Monday. Why can’t we win the lottery, which is almost $50 million? Then I could finally achieve my life-long ambition of being idle rich. At last, something I’d actually be good at!

* How I long to be like the heroine in Salinger’s “A Good Day for Bananafish”, of whom the great J.D. writes, “She was girl, who for a ringing phone, dropped exactly nothing.”