Suzy Says

Now the problem is no longer the mattress, but the state of the mattress. I don?t think even Dubya could come up with a fakely positive State of the Mattress address. June keeps peeing on it, and/or the two blankets I have, one to sleep on and one to sleep with. So far, this has happened the past two nights and again this morning. I spend more time washing blankets, cleaning up cat pee, and swearing than any other activity. Possibly June was more attached to the old, dead mattress than I realized. Maybe I should have buried it in a shoebox in the back yard and let her put flowers on the grave. Cat closure. Or maybe it?s a protest about moving. A pee-in.

Let’s review: I have one kitten who poos whenever she leaves the house, and another who pees in the house, but in unauthorized areas.

Are there boarding schools for cats?

PS The British Invasion continues apace. What the….

Last night, the air mattress lay dejectedly on the hard, hardwood floor. Attempts to revive it with its allegedly rechargeable pump were futile, since the recharger itself was in need of resuscitation. When switched on, it made a low, mournful noise like a cow who has received particularly bad news. It was clear that the mattress and accessory were beyond earthly powers. It was 9:34 p.m., and the nearest Target, which closes at 10 p.m., was 11 miles away. I floored the car all the way, parked in front of the doors, and ran inside the nearly silent store.

“Mattresses?” I gasped at the first red-clad employee I saw (coincidentally, her name was Destiny, which gave me a Hotel Hell flashback. Even Hotel Hell would be better than sleeping on the floor. Well, maybe not.).

“Upstairs and at the other end of the store, in the back. Camping supplies.”

Of course.

I raced up the escalator with the speed of Letterman (would they close the store now I was actually in it? If so, I’d have the pick of the air mattresses) and found the camping supplies for girls who are camping in their houses. There were no fewer than three variations of the mattress which had literally and figuratively let me down, but I scorned them in favor of a BeautyRest Perfect Balance Pillow Top ExtraordinAIRE (get it?), which turned out to be quite comfortable, though Prolly Wolly* purple.

I foolishly allowed myself a moment (OK, the entire drive back) of smugness at having solved the mattress problem. Little did I know…

*Silly family in-joke. You don’t want to know.

While mad dogs and Englishmen are romping around my blog, I’ve been wondering if I’ve been hiding under a rock lately, or am possibly from another, less advanced planet.

First, there was the magically scanning ATM, right there in the grocery store where I’ve been spending so much time and money.

Then, the cable guys came – on a Sunday! – and installed the cable, along with something called On Demand. Apparently, you can turn it on anytime and watch network TV shows or movies, even fast forwarding through the boring parts. Who knew? Needless to say, I was unable to figure out how to stop fast forwarding the movie once I started it, so I turned it off and went to bed (well, air mattress – but that’s another story), but it’s nice to know it’s there. I might even read the instruction booklet once I’m finished with this week’s People.

The new home phone has talking caller ID, with a disembodied computer voice announcing who’s calling. I can’t make it stop, despite turning off the option on both handsets.

Last night, I attempted to cook in my new kitchen for the first time. The kitchen is very cute, with its breakfast nook and morning sunshine, but there are approximately three square inches of counter space that are not hiding coyly under the oversized cupboards. Let’s just say it was a challenge and led to at least one bottle of wine. Actually, the whole move has led to quite a few bottles of wine, so if you’ve noticed an increase in wine stock prices, you’ll know why. I’ve always been a believer in improving the local economy.

Once preparations were complete and the swearing had faded from the evening air, I went to turn on the quite splendid gas stove. I’m used to just turning a knob, but this one has a touch screen. I looked over the options for a while, and finally decided on “bake”, then the arrow key to get the temperature I wanted. When it was hot, it beeped loudly. It took me a little while to figure out how to turn it off, too.

Fortunately, there’s no dishwasher.

I don’t check my blog stats very often. I don’t care if one person or one hundred people read it every day. I know that friends and family read it to find out what I’m up to, since I’m terrible at email and phoning, and that’s good enough for me.

But today, I had a look and of the 100 last visits, 99 were from various locations in the UK. Weirder than that, they were either “unknown”, meaning it’s someone’s bookmark, or a search on various search engines for “Suzy Says”.

What is up with that?

I quickly reviewed my last entries and they’re all about moving or Thanksgiving, no UK content that I’m aware of. I’m finding it all a little creepy, to tell you the truth. No warnings from Paul Revere or anyone else that the British were coming, or what they could possibly want from me.

Weird.

Anderson Valley on a misty November morning

It turns out that traffic was the least of my T-Day travel worries.

Note to self: taking kittens on a road trip is not a good idea. Audrey pooed with horror on the way up, so I pulled over and tossed the towel from her carrier at a gas station in Oakland, where a guy asked me for money for brown sugar, on account of his mother was coming all the way from Louisiana for Thanksgiving and he was making a ham. I gave him a dollar to leave me alone while I wrestled with the gas pump, and surprisingly, noticed him asking someone else for brown sugar money while I was filling up the car. Either hams need a lot of brown sugar, or “brown sugar” means something else, like crack or Ripple.

Same deal on the way back, except she also barfed, making my roadside clean-up somewhere on 128 oh so fun. June, on the other hand, was perfect. Did I mention Audrey’s non stop meowing “Are we there yet?” for four hours?

On the bright side, traffic was minimal, and I didn’t even experience the traditional Santa Rosa Slowdown. My little sister’s little house in the big woods was full of friends, family and food. One of our friends had brought along her father, known as Tubby to one and all, despite not being particularly tubby. Things I learned about Tubby over Thanksgiving dinner:

• Time in padded cell: 9 days – just “woke up there” one day;
• Time in jail cell: 288 days – instead of paying a $9,000 fine;
• Best weekend: seeing Willie Nelson in 1974, with the best coke, white lightning and hookers he’d ever had, and he is quite experienced in all;
• Favorite job: safety worker at NASCAR, putting out fires and pulling drivers from wrecks (9 years); and
• Lifetime ambition: to go to the Northwest Territories and kill one of everything they got.

After the huge dinner and 9 thousand glasses of wine, repaired with Tubby and other guests to a neighbor’s house, which is vacant due to her current sojourn in prison. Possibly she is Tubby’s soulmate. Slept, if you can call it that, on the floor since there was no room at my sister’s house. Tubby’s snoring preferable to Tubby’s talking.

The next day, I called the movers and was told that my stuff wouldn’t get here until December 3 at the earliest. Why, you ask, when it was picked up Nov. 15? Because the geographically challenged idiots at the moving company sent the driver to Cincinnati, then Kentucky, and now he’s on his way to…Boston. I burst into tears. Decided to borrow an air mattress and blankets and just camp out in the house I’ve been paying rent on since Nov. 10. I guess all moves have their problems. I just wish they weren’t mine.

Or the modern version: “Into the car and into the traffic”. I caught this while stuck on 580 yesterday and wondered if the guy was getting a jump on Thanksgiving, or was just thankful in general.

I’d better go and brave the T-Day traffic myself if I want to get any turkey.

Happy Thanksgiving, everyone! May you be enjoying the day with those you love most.

Glenn’s Hot Dogs: Since 1947

Today I went over to the new house to imagine where the furniture will go if/when it gets here. The moving company cheerfully informed me that it will now be between the 28th and the 30th, so that means I’ll have been paying rent for almost three weeks for an empty house by the time it gets here. Oh so Suzy. Let’s hope it shows up before December, and that it all shows up, preferably unbroken, even though I’ll have to have a giant yard sale or trashathon to get rid of the many things that won’t fit the new house.

I did take photos and have posted them on Facebook, because it’s oh so easy and I’m oh so lazy. I promise I will post them here too, after suitable sizing, etc., but not until after Thanksgiving, because I’m going up to my brother and sister’s tomorrow, traffic permitting. I spent last Thanksgiving in a hotel, and I figured if I did it again this year it was getting to be a bad habit, and God knows I already have enough of those.

After admiring the house, I went to the grocery store to deposit my paycheck and get some wine for Thanksgiving (rule number one of being a good guest is to arrive with wine, especially when it’s the holidays and the house is packed with friends and relations). There were no envelopes at the ATM, but a sign assured me I could just put the check in naked, and I decided to believe it.

The check slid into the bowels of the machine, and after a short wait, even to Me, the screen informed me of the number and amount of the check and added that it had been approved. Wow. It then asked me whether I wanted a receipt with the check scanned on it, or just the regular receipt. I was very impressed by this. Of course, I barely know how to use an iPod, so others may not find this as amazing as I did, but I still think it’s cool.

With the proceeds of my check, I invested in six bottles of six dollar wine (Clos Du Bois and Ravenswood, on sale) and lunch at Glenn’s Hot Dogs. Being Northern California, there were many non-traditional options, such as turkey burgers, veggie burgers, and, in my case, smoked chicken apple sausage with fancy mustard. I sat at the counter in the bright sun and was thankful to be home again.

Fog coming in over the mountains

It’s a sunny Sunday in San Ramon. You may wonder where it is, and although I’m here, writing outside the Guest Laundry at the hotel, I don’t really know, either. It’s technically in the Bay Area, yet many highways (6?) from SFO. It’s sort of like when I went to see the Islanders somewhere on the Island and still don’t know where it is.

It doesn’t really matter, though, since I’m in Limbo and this may well be where Limbo is located. It wouldn’t surprise me.

I’m awaiting my laundry and my furniture, pretty much in that order. Faithful readers will not be surprised to read that I have had a certain amount of trouble with the Guest Laundry facilities, including stubbing my sandal-clad foot, hitting head on overhead washing machine, and being on the third set of quarters for the dryer, which is apparently even lazier than I am on a sunny Sunday afternoon.

At least I can sit outside while I’m waiting. It’s probably safer here.

The laundry should win the race, despite having a much later start. The many thousand pounds of my personal possessions were packed onto a truck on Wednesday. The Illustrated Man who headed up the operation assured me that they would be decanted at the warehouse, then escorted onto a giant moving truck for the main journey the following day. Supposedly, the driver could tell me that day how long it would take for my things and stuff to arrive at my bijou Oakland residence.

The driver, however, had other plans. Not only did he not appear the next morning, he didn’t appear at all the next day. When I finally tracked down the guy at the moving office and he finally tracked down the driver, he informed me that my things wouldn’t even be put on the big truck until Tuesday. Tuesday! Almost a week after the promised date! He told me this while I was on one of the many highways between San Ramon and Oakland, and I was too surprised to say much of anything, not that there’s anything I can really say or do under the circumstances. Except wait. And hope this isn’t a bad omen.

Now, that looks dangerous.

Your average, drugstore-bought round brush doesn’t, does it? But in the hands of Calamity Suzy, I assure you it is.

In a foolish attempt to recreate the hairstyle my stylist* gave me a few days before (much like that sported lately by the lovely Reese), I managed to get the brush hopelessly entangled in my hair. Within seconds. Faster than the gunfight at the OK Corral. It was like, turn on hair dryer, wrap hair around brush – SNAG!

Uh oh.

I tried to untangle it, looking in the mirror from every conceivable angle, pulling hopelessly at various tufts until the inevitable became apparent.

I had to cut the brush out.

This is not what a girl wants to hear after dropping some serious change on a fabulous haircut and highlights. All I can say is thank God I’m moving or my stylist would kill me. Or run me out of town on a rail** for destroying his artwork.

So, yeah: SNIP! And SOB!

Fortunately, like Meg in LIttle Women, I am only bald underneath. Unfortunately for the brush, my hair was so wildly entangled in it that I threw it out in horror and embarrassment. Enough for about a million DNA tests on any given CSI, so I better keep my nose clean.

And my hair unbrushed.

*Oh, Sandy and Didi…I think I’ll miss you most of all!

**Probably still more enjoyable than your average airport experience. Or mine.

I’m 34 today. 34 in the queue for technical assistance chat, which may well end up being a technical assistance rant, at least on my part. I’ve spent all day battling the evil PC, which we all know stands for Piece of Crap, and as anyone who has ever had one, looked at one, or thought of one will not be surprised to hear, I have accomplished nothing. Except the fraying of my already frazzled nerves and the losing of what remains of my tiny mind.

You may think the loss of my once resplendent mind is the reason for the chat thing and the queue thing, but it’s actually cheapness and indignation: if I were to actually speak to one of the tech support monarchs, those regal creatures bedecked with pocket protectors and with no need of sexual protection ever, it would cost me $10. And the wait would be 30 minutes.

Of course, the wait may still be 30 minutes, but I can bitch to you while I wait, like letting the gas escape slowly from a Champagne cork instead of wrenching it out, causing an explosion (and a sad waste of Champagne).

You may also be wondering why I’m even touching or thinking about the Egyptian curse of machinery when I have a perfectly good iBook. It’s because the folks who run the website which I use for work decided not to risk their manicures by putting in the Mac language (or whatever you geeks call it). So I have to use a PC for some of my work, thankfully not all of it.

Hoping to get the piece of work done before the moving madness crunch hits on Monday, I fired up the Evilosity and have been suffering ever since. Freeze-ups, error messages, you name it. Everything but productivity. Driven to desperation, I downloaded a software upgrade that was supposed to fix everything. All it fixed was my little wagon, since I got an error message on attempting to install it after paying $60 for the upgrade and am now in chat queue hell with no-one to chat to about my misfortune except you, my adoring audience.

I’m now 23. Is that too old to cry in public?

Update: All the tech support in India couldn’t fix it. I feel it is a personal triumph not to have hurled Self or PC in front of speeding train. I am referring the matter to our part-time tech person after the move. I hope she’s more patient than I am!

Hi, how are you? You look great! Have you been working out, ’cause you look great. Really great. You know what’s the best exercise ever? No, not shopping – it’s packing! That’s right! So cardio, with the box filling and hauling, and so stretchy, with all the bending and lifting! It’s an all-in-one workout, I’m telling you. Why don’t you come on over and pack with me? You’ll love it! More fun than a Thighmaster and Stairmaster combined. Wait, come back! Come back…

I don’t blame you for running away. I’d run away myself I could extricate myself from the sea of boxes and chaos. It looks like the inside of my head around here. For some reason, no matter how many boxes you fill with things and stuff, there is an endless supply of non-packed things and stuff lying around mocking you. You’d think that boxing things up would create order, but not around here.

Maybe I’m doing it wrong.

There’s a strong possibility of this, because another discovery I have made about packing is that it’s perilously close to housework. You can tell because it’s boring, endless, and ruinous to a girl’s manicure, all things any right-thinking person avoids like the evening news or nude photos of George Bush (either one). My sentence is up in less than a week: the movers arrive next Wednesday, whether I’m ready or not. Can she do it? Stay tuned!

Where I am…

…Where I’m going.

Next week!

Yesterday morning, I had the kitchen door open, and the baby gate in place to keep the dog and kittens in place. My “office” is also in the kitchen, and my desk faces the door. I was sipping coffee and checking my email when a guy walked up to the gate and asked if he could have a look around. Turns out he was interested in my eccentric apartment (the former wood working shop of a Victorian coffin factory) for a TV show pilot. This would be, and is, the heroine’s cool loft.

As he walked around taking pictures, I pulled a sweater on over my pajamas and tried not to be too embarrassed about the fact that I wasn’t dressed, the bed wasn’t made, and the place was in a more chaotic state than usual. He assured me that they could see beyond the untidiness.

June tried to help him set up his tripod. He thought she was adorable rather than annoying, and said that in the show, the star has a cat. But considering what happens to most child stars, she should probably remain a beautiful unknown who keeps getting asked why she isn’t in show business.

In the evening, my neighbor dropped by with a bag full of hot gingerbread she’d just made. You have to love a neighbor like that. She also wanted to see the kittens, who were sleeping cutely and pretending that they weren’t complete maniacs. After the usual petting and fussing, I walked her to the door and said good night, and resumed watching the final season of Gilmore Girls with Audrey on my lap. Audrey loves the Girls, but June finds it all too Girl-y for her, so she never watches it with me.

As I passed through the kitchen an episode later, I heard a cat meowing and scratching at the door. I assumed it was Quince and that she couldn’t get into her house, so she came here. I opened the door, and a small cat shot in the door at an illegal rate of speed. On closer inspection, it turned out to be June!

She must have slipped out unnoticed during the neighborly goodbyes, and I had taken her absence for her usual scorn of anything girly. Horrified that I hadn’t noticed and thinking of all the terrible things that could have happened, I swept her into my arms and warmed up her cold paws. She purred happily, as if nothing had happened. I gave Rita and the kittens some salmon treats to celebrate June’s safe return, and had a vodka treat myself.

Who, me?

Possibly the best tip I’ve ever gotten from a vet was from the kittens’, Dr. Jill. For those of you considering entering the dangerous and enchanting kingdom of kittens, I’ll pass it along. You’ll thank me later.

Dr. Jill says:

Whatever you do, don’t feed the kittens as soon as you get up. Wait at least half an hour.

It sounds simple, and it is, but it will have a huge impact on your life. The kittens won’t think that as soon as you get up, they’ll get fed, so they’ll let you sleep in. For example, it’s nearly 10:30 and I’m on my second cup of coffee, but haven’t fed the kittens yet. (Yes, I’m an excellent mother.) Instead, they’re romping around like crazy and totally ignoring me, which is the way I like it first thing in the morning.

Yes, when they see you getting the food ready and attempting to give it to them, they’ll be milling around your feet, making noises like little French police cars, but they won’t have been doing it all morning.

You’re welcome!

The Priceless Puppy

Summer’s lingering longer than usual this year, though not outstaying its welcome. Is that even possible?

To welcome the sun and spicy fall air into my otherwise dark and windowless kitchen, I have the front door open and the baby gate up. This keeps Rita and the kittens from escaping into the Wide World, but they can still watch the pigeons and people passing by. It’s kind of like television with Smellovision.

Today’s surprise guest was none other than Quince, the kittens’ mother. She came swaying over to the baby gate, her bell ringing jauntily, and sniffed the kittens, who sniffed back. Then she left. I don’t think they recognized each other, but it was fun for me to watch. A close encounter of the kitty kind?

Rita and I had a couple of odd encounters last night.

We were on our way to the big park (the little park is the other way) and passed a guy sitting outside the slaughterhouse. He didn’t look like the regular slaughterhouse workers, with their rubber boots and gloves, who often sit outside when they’re on a break so they can pet Rita and/or share their lunches with her. He looked like just a regular guy smoking a cigarette.

“Nice dog,” he said.

“Thanks,” I said.

“Give you a hundred bucks for it.”

We got as far away from him as fast as possible.

When we came back, he was gone, but Rita started jumping up on a guy I had never seen before, acting all thrilled to see him. “How are you? Where have you been?” her tail asked. I asked her to cease and desist (though without much hope), but the guy said he was Former Owner’s brother and knew Miss Rita. He added that she had never looked better or healthier, which I’m sorry to say made me all smug, since I’m secretly convinced that I take better care of her than FO and that she’s happier with me, too. If anything, FO’s brother should think the opposite, so it was a nice vote of confidence.

Yay.

I really wish I could see this exhibit at Sotheby’s, honoring the style and elegance of the legendary Grace Kelly.

Almost as much as I wish I could have attended Ellen Barkin’s jewelry auction around this time last year – and buy a couple of things. Like the diamond briolette necklace. Or the strand of emerald beads. Or the long diamond tassel earrings. Or the JAR diamond thread ring…

Apparently Ms. Barkin decided to unload the sparkle after her billionaire husband, Revlon chief Ron Perelman, summarily ditched her (with security guards in attendance, no less). If I were her, I would have kept every last carat. After all, diamonds are a girl’s best friend.

But she did make $20 million on the auction. So maybe she’s laughing all the way to the bank – or the jewelry store.

Quince

This past week, I had the pleasure of Quince’s company while her owner was in Spain, the poor thing. Quince is the beautiful mother of my beautiful kittens. My neighbor took her in as a pregnant stray who was a kitten herself – barely 9 months old. She was essentially a pregnant homeless teenager, so she was lucky to find Patrisha. It seems to me that cats and dogs choose us, not the other way around.

Every morning, Rita and I would go to Patrisha’s little Victorian rowhouse (an endangered species on our street, as the soulless, expensive condo boxes encroach). I’d leave Rita in the little front yard and go inside, where Quince was always waiting for me. Patrisha left a window open, so Quince could go in and out at will, but I think she spent a lot of time inside, waiting for her girl to come home. Surely a formerly homeless cat appreciates a warm and happy home even more than cats who have never had to kill their own dinner.

So I’d feed Quince, walk Rita, and in the evening I’d go back, feed Quince her dinner, and curl up on the soft velvet couch with my book (Away, by Amy Bloom). Pretty soon, I’d hear Quince’s little paws and bell as she trotted into the room. She’d hop up and make herself comfortable on my lap, purring away merrily. Eventually, she’d leave for her evening stroll, and I’d leave, too.

I realized how lucky I am to know my kittens’ mother and to be able to spend time with her. I can see where June and Audrey get their supermodel long legs from, their funny, swaying walk. I can see how Audrey has the same sharpness to her delicate face, how June has similar coloring.

Patrisha brought me a present from Spain to thank me for taking care of Quince, but I should have thanked her instead.

Nothing but the sparkliest for my kittens.

Discovering that Dennis was, in fact, Audrey in disguise gave me the perfect excuse to buy pink sparkly mice. Having already traumatized her by treating her like a boy for the first three months of her life, thus possibly sowing the seeds for a future serial killer* (though being a girl and cute definitely lower the odds), I didn’t want to push the gender confusion thing further with sparkly pink mice.

In general, the toys you buy kittens are less attractive to them than the things they find around the house. I believe human kittens are the same way: give them a dream toy and they’ll toss it aside and play with the wrapping paper for hours with ostentatious glee. My neighbor gave them a fancy sort of kitten “learn & play” thing, and they scorned it in favor of a toilet paper roll.

The fancy toy is gathering dust in the corner, feeling justifiably neglected and unloved. I’ll probably end up paying for its therapist.

They do love the sparkle mouse, though, and it has the advantage of not looking enough like a real one to make me scream if I come across it unawares.

Audrey loves the little diamond hoops I wear every day. They are her favorite toy on earth. Her method is to ooze sweetly onto my lap, as if she’s just there to cuddle, and when she’s lulled me into a false sense of security, start batting at the earrings. Variation: she merrily chews on them while purring in my ear. There is nothing ticklier! Or a pricier teething ring, for that matter.

June, on the other hand, doesn’t waste her valuable time on the small stuff. This morning, she came trotting into the kitchen with something in her mouth. There was something swinging around, but it was too shiny to be either a regulation mouse or a sparkle mouse.

It was my 85 year old diamond watch.

Note to Self: keep all diamonds out of paws’ reach. Who knew jewelry needed to be kitten proofed?

*Though a serial killer of real, not sparkly, mice would be welcome and appreciated.

PostSecret just gave me something new to worry about.

Maybe Amsterdam’s handbag museum could accommodate the Fabulous Suzy Collection?

It’s hard to work with the kittens around. They love playing on my desk so much that I have removed anything with toy potential (especially that pen shaped like a palm tree), but they still keep popping up to see what I?m doing. Not content to merely observe, they walk on the keys. I keep moving them away, but they keep coming back like fuzzy little boomerangs.

All this office time has netted them some pretty impressive skills for 3 month olds. So far, they have:

• Annnotated an email: \———–
• Turned on my iPod and selected Wilco
• Done a spotlight search (for the letter “e”)
• Typed the Spanish upside down question mark ?. I have no idea how to do that.
• Turned on CAPS LOCK
• Turned the volume all the way up (I usually keep it muted)
• Downloaded a Google map to my desktop.

Someone should invent kitten repellent. A temporary mist you could spray around your desk, so the kittens don?t annotate your work unexpectedly with their kitten comments. On the door, so they can?t sneak out when you take out the garbage. On yourself, so your kittens don?t bite and claw your bare feet, arms and hands in their oh so playful and painful manner. Not to mention climbing up your legs, their needle claws digging merrily through the fabric and right into your delicate flesh. Of course, the effects would have to wear off when it?s time to cuddle.