Suzy Says

Now what?

For some reason, I’ve been cooking up a storm lately. I know they say “if you can’t stand the heat, get out of the kitchen”, and I can’t stand the heat, but I can’t seem to stay out of the kitchen, either. Maybe it’s because I’ve had writer’s block lately – my creativity, such as it is, must be seeking another outlet.

Yesterday’s menu of delicacies was prawn & artichoke salad, followed by crab cakes with cilantro-lime aioli. I made peach cobbler for dessert. I’m out of control!

You can find the crab cake recipe here, and the aioli here, but the salad is one of my Dad’s recipes. As he notes in it, “The recipe is one that Margaret [his wife] thought superb, even by my high standards.” Immodest, but true. Check it out:

Prawn & Artichoke Salad
2 cloves garlic
2 teaspoons Dijon mustard (I used the seedy type)
4 tablespoons red wine vinegar
1/2 cup olive oil
3 tablespoons shredded fresh basil
1/2 red onion, thinly sliced (I used a little less)
12 oz. peeled, cooked prawns (I used salad shrimp)
14 oz can of artichoke hearts (packed in water is best)
Iceberg lettuce

Chop the garlic and crush it to a pulp, mix the garlic and mustard together to form a paste, then beat in the vinegar and finally the oilve oil. Season with freshly ground pepper. Stir in the basil and onion. Let stand at room temperature for 30 minutes, then stir in the prawns and chill in the refrigerator for an hour or more. Drain the artichoke hearts and halve each one. Make a bed of lettuce, spread the artichoke hearts over it, then spoon the prawn mixture over the top.

Dad food is the best food.

Things are a little more traditional tonight (sage roasted turkey breast, garlic mashed potatoes, steamed broccoli), but tomorrow’s menu is more exotic: chicken satay with peanut sauce, coconut ginger rice, cucumber salad. A friend brought me a giant bouquet of basil, so I think there’s some pesto in my future.

Come on over – I’ve got leftovers!

Rita takes a break from all that admiration. One’s public can be so exhausting.

I came home from sharing lovely Rita’s loveliness with her adoring public* to find that both my sisters had called in my absence. Again! It’s pretty cool to know that two people in two different countries are thinking of you at the same time. This may be quite common for celebrities like Rita, but unusual for Me.

I suspect they called because I haven’t blogged in so long and they were wondering what, if anything, was up. You might be wondering, too. But since it’s the Silly Season, a month historically devoid of any real news, you won’t be surprised to learn that there has really been nothing to report.

Things went down and things came up so I didn’t go to late, so maybe they’re just a sensitive bunch of guys.

Since I couldn’t be there in person, I decided to send Kathleen the tickets I would not be using (sob!), along with a quite cute birthday card and a token gift. Since I was, of course, late in getting to the post office, I figured I’d better overnight it. The post office worker fondled the package and asked me what was in it. I told her it was a magnet, and that, my friends, is a big mistake.

Even though the magnet consisted of a sunny daisy blossom captured in plastic with a magnet the size of a baby’s thumbnail on the back, it is apparently a dangerous object. You’d think I was trying to send my friend a handgun or illegal drugs instead of a refrigerator decoration. That might, in fact, be easier. When they mentioned that it would be $43 to overnight the offending package – yes, forty-three fun-filled dollars – the decision was made.

The next tier of service, though more magnet-tolerant and half the price, would take four days, meaning that the tickets would arrive by 5:00 on the day of the game, or approximately 2 hours before the first pitch. I had to hope for the best.

The “going postal” expression began to make more sense to me, though I wondered idly why they call it that when it’s mail, though I guess going mail-al or mail-o doesn’t have the same ring to it.

The notice for the package was there by the appointed hour, but the actual package failed to appear. There may be a bench warrant out for it by now. Fortunately, Kathleen’s friends had standing room only seats, so they could still use my errant and invisible tickets. Oh, and as of yesterday, the hazardous package had yet to be redelivered.

And I thought I was late.

*Literally, in the case of a distinguished older Golden Retriever, who came running when he spotted her and sniffed her with the thoroughness and alacrity usually reserved for vintage garbage or extremely dead small animals. Rita tolerated it, as she does the attentions of puppies, small children, and others who are unable to resist her considerable allure. If she were human, she’d smile and sign autographs. The Golden’s owner exclaimed, “He just loves your dog!” Apparently he had been thrilled by Rita before.

Well, my little muse-lette seems to have flown the coop. Knowing my muse-lette, she is currently ensconced in a luxury hotel, ordering room service, booking a mani-pedi, and not even thinking about working.

Oh, to be my muse-lette! Next to my lifetime (so far unachieved – possibly due to overwhelming sloth and lassitude, as well as the total lack of the right, millionaire-type connections) ambition of idle rich, that may be my perfect job. Or maybe dilettante. Personal shopper to the stars? I can think of few things more fun than spending other people’s money on the most fabulous things in the most fabulous stores.

A girl can dream.

While being on hiatus here, I’ve been on the road. The greatest hits of the trip were: Niagara Falls, Cleveland, and Albion.

First stop…

Niagara Falls

It was 96 degrees when I arrived at the Falls, which made it the perfect day to go on the legendary Maid of the Mist. This something I have always wanted to do. It is a tribute to the slothfulness and lassitude listed above that I didn’t do any of these things until I was 40 or better. However, I think I appreciate the glamor and splendor of these national treasures more at this stage of my life than I would have in my careless youth.

Wearing my souvenir blue rain slicker (which was completely unequal to the mist) along with my fellow passengers, we approached the magnificent Falls. Either we actually entered the Falls or were so close it made no difference, since we were all delightfully and deliciously soaked. It was a breathtaking experience to feel part of such a powerful and magnificent force of nature. I was so moved and so delighted. If you go to Niagara Falls, you have to do this. Suzy says.

And onward to…

The Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, Cleveland

In case you were wondering why I was going to Cleveland (the usual reaction when I told people I was going there), now you know. The Rock & Roll Hall of Fame is sited spectacularly on Lake Erie, and full of more fascinating exhibits than any one person could see in any one day, or possibly week. It is the Louvre of rock. My advice to potential visitors is to choose the exhibits which interest you most and visit them first. If your feet and mind can handle more, then check out the optionals.

My first stop was the special Beach Boys exhibit, which was small but full of gems. I’m always fascinated by hand-written notes and lyrics, since they give a little glimpse into how the artists thought and wrote, and by their clothes and instruments, as if these objects can somehow bring us closer to these remarkable people and make us understand them better.

I was horribly disappointed to learn that I had missed a lecture by David Marks, one of the original Beach Boys, by only one day. However, I was consoled by the rest of the museum, particularly the fab fashions of the great Motown era, Joey Ramone’s and Sid Vicious’ leather jackets (Sid was approximately the size of a 12 year old. His pants and t-shirts are oh so teeny!) and the exhibit on the beautiful and doomed Rick Nelson. Once again, Suzy says go there. You’ll have fun.

The Indians meet the A’s at Jacobs Field

Of course, I couldn’t pass up the chance to check out the smokin’ hot Cleveland Indians on a smokin’ hot day. It was an afternoon game, but very well-attended, and the ballpark is lovely. There were a lot of families there, and it was charming to see two or three generations sharing the experience. Beside me, a grandfather with shaking hands carefully showed his engrossed young grandson the art of the boxscore. Grandpa’s hands weren’t too shaky to catch a foul ball and present it to his thrilled grandson. I was pretty thrilled myself.

And the Indians beat the A’s.

Last but not least…

My sister’s garden

How’s this for an office? I had an early moning conference call while visiting my sister and brother, so I took my coffee and phone and sat in the garden while being really quite business-like. Other than my business blather, all that could be heard was the wind in the trees, the slowly awakening bees, and the busy hummingbirds dive bombing the fuchsias. Ideal working conditions, especially since it was over in an hour and I could go and do fun things with my family.

Among the fun things was the 46th annual BBQ to raise funds for the volunteer fire department, of which my brother is a dedicated member. I can think of at least one girl who would gladly pay the $14 admission fee to be surrounded by firemen. We had a good time and I’m glad to help such a worthy local cause.

I finally signed the divorce paperwork (which informed me in a big box in big letters on the second page that I was BEING SUED) and had it notarized. When I brought it to the Fed Ex office in my sister’s town to have it notarized and shipped to John, the woman behind the counter asked cheerfully, “And what are we notarizing today?” When I said, “Divorce papers”, her face dropped and she said she was sorry while scurrying for the notary stamp. It kind of cast a pall over the whole proceedings, if you want to know the truth. I kept telling her it was OK, but she couldn’t wait for me to get my gay divorc?e butt outta there.

John can file the papers in mid-August (there’s a 31 day waiting period, I guess in case one of us changes our minds), and then 6 months until it’s final. So in February of next year the bureaucracy will be behind us. It’s about time. And really, it’s OK.

Next on the list, next week, is Detroit, where I will enjoy the company of the delightful Kathleen, her Tigers, and the new exhibit at the Henry Ford Museum. I’m hoping for dinner at TJ’s to make the Detroit Experience complete. I might stop by our brand-new office, conveniently located near Tigers Stadium, but I’m not planning to work. How Suzy is that? Go to the office, and not work.

I may already have the perfect job.

The Great Dog Rescue Adventure led to the Great Cat Conundrum.

I was cautiously backing the giant dog-rescuing car through the slightly creepy (and very narrow) passageway, on my way to return said car to the rental agency, when my neighbor Patricia approached with a little cat in her arms. “Whose cat is that?” I asked. “No-one’s,” she replied. It turns out that the kitty was a stray whom Patricia had finally managed to lure into the house after several weeks. Not only was the cat abandoned (Patricia cut off a very tight flea collar which had clearly been put on the cat when she was much younger), but she was pregnant, too.

Patricia, who is in marketing and knows what she’s doing, placed the adorable feline in my arms. The cat cuddled up to me and licked my nose. Then she looked straight into my eyes with her clear, gold-green eyes.

I melted.

I gave the cat back to Patricia and gave the car back. I kept thinking about that darn cat.

The next day, Patricia asked me to come over for coffee in her back yard. It was wonderful to sit in the sun and sip coffee among her flowers. The little cat jumped up on my lap and made herself at home. She’s about 90% tummy at this point, the rest of her being petite and willowy. Did I mention she’s beautiful?

My concern about adopting this little girl is Rita. Rita’s an old lady and likes her routine. She’s the Queen of Everything and used to lots of attention from her many adoring admirers. She is also an inveterate cat chaser. So I don’t want to take the cat in from the streets, only to have her terrorized in her new home by something that looks to her to be approximately the size of a Tyrannosaurus Rex. I also don’t want to put Rita’s shapely nose out of joint.

To cat or not to cat? That is the question.

First things first: happy 65th birthday to the great Brian Wilson!

Now for the less festive part of our program:

I got up really, really early, had a cold bath and hot coffee*, and went to have a mammogram. Ask any girl, and she’ll tell you that these are not for the faint of heart or full of boobage. Sorry, guys, but every time I have one, I think that if men had to endure this annual squeezefest of an extremely vulnerable body part, they’d have come up with something better a long time ago. Same goes for both the PMS and the P itself: there would be something better than Advil and heating pads, which appears to be the sum total of medical knowledge in that area.

While waiting in the hospital’s crowded lobby for an elevator, a man in an orange jumpsuit shuffled in, accompanied by two intimidatingly-sized policemen, complete with bulletproof vests and guns. The prisoner’s hands and feet were manacled, joined by a waist chain; hence the shuffling. I thought, “Now, there’s someone whose day is definitely worse than mine.” I was surprised that the cops allowed the general public to be in the elevator with their little entourage, but maybe I’ve seen too many movies. I did note, however, that they pressed the button for the 15th floor, which was the only floor without a description (X-Ray; Patient, etc.) listed.

The smushorama took longer than I had anticipated, what with the disrobing and squashing and waiting and re-robing. I had to rush home to pick up the lovely Rita for her medical appointment, which I’m sure she enjoyed as much as I enjoyed mine.

The day before, my friend Charlie noticed what he thought was a cut on Rita’s lip. Horrified that I hadn’t noticed it, I called the vet, berating myself for being a bad mother while on hold. I made an appointment for the next day. When the vet examined her, she said that it wasn’t a cut at all, but Rita’s natural coloring. Felt like the idiot I am, but was relieved Rita is fine. The doctor did whole check-up and said Rita was in excellent shape. Feeling relieved, I was relieved of the usual cash and we were free to go.

It wasn’t even noon yet.

*In my adorable new daisy mug. Definitely the best part of the morning.

If you count Rita. And I always do, even though she was just an innocent bystander in this latest adventure.

A friend of a friend had rescued two dogs from a bad situation (I didn’t ask for the details; it’s against my happy bunny policy of remaining as ignorant of ickiness as possible) and needed help transporting them to their new home. All I’d have to do is rent a car, drive three hours out of the city, meet FoF and buddy in a McDonald’s parking lot, load dogs into car and drive back to the city to deliver them to their new and improved home.

In retrospect, it doesn’t seem like the brightest idea to meet two stranger-ish guys with two big dogs* at night in a parking lot, especially a McDonald’s one, but two weeks after losing Jed, it seemed like good karma and a good deed. Rita decided to stay home and hang out with Charlie instead – a wise choice. But then, she is smart and beautiful.

FoF provided me with a painstaking list of suggestions and advice along with directions to the Designated McDonald’s, such as “Make sure your cell phone is fully charged” and “Do NOT SPEED, especially on the way back. You don’t want two big dogs freaking out the police”. You’d think I was transporting plutonium across international borders.

Come to think of it, though, rental car places often seem to regard dog hair with the horror usually reserved for hazardous waste. I once rented one which ended up with a liberal coating of Rita fur on the back seat. On returning the car, the agent gazed at the be-furred seats with bemusement and said their vacuum cleaner couldn’t handle the job, but if I’d pay him $100, he’d give it a try. I took it to a carwash instead, where they cleaned it inside and out for about $20. So I paid to do the rental car agency’s job. After that, I made sure to cover up all exposed rental car seating. And now you know, too.

In the end, Operation Dog Transport went without a hitch, despite the discovery that the dogs were in fact quite huge and quite stinky. But they were also quite sweet-natured, and it was a good dog deed indeed.

*Dogs originally advertised as 85 pounds, but turned out to be more like 120+. Don’t we all lie about our weight? Just a little?

Happy birthday to me

My brother and his Jed, Christmas Eve, 1993

Fourteen years ago, my brother fell in love.

Like many great loves, his was both unexpected and head over heels. He took one look and never looked back.

It was Christmas Eve. Our father and stepmother were visiting from England (their custom was to celebrate Christmas in England one year and in California the next) and had rented a house in Mendocino big enough for the whole passel of us. Dad and I were making dinner, and Jonathan went to town to pick up a few last-minute items. When he came back, he came into the kitchen and said, “Guess what I did?’

Dad and I said, “You wrecked the rental car.” This made no sense, since Jonathan is a speedy, yet excellent driver. In answer to our unjustified accusation, he reached under his sweater and brought out the cutest puppy I had ever seen. For once, I was actually deprived of speech, as I gasped and grabbed for the little bundle of black-spotted, white fur. Dad got there first, though. Dinner was forgotten as we welcomed Jed to the family.

She was the best Christmas gift ever.

It turned out that while Jonathan was running errands, he stopped by what he calls “the pity pit”, which is the local Humane Society displaying pets up for adoption near the main street of the town. He took one look at Jed, and their lives changed forever.

My brother trained Jed carefully and thoroughly. His belief is that a well-behaved dog, like a well-behaved child, can be taken anywhere, but it takes consistent discipline to achieve that goal. People used to tell him he was too hard on Jed, but he wasn’t. He made it possible to take her with him anywhere he went. When he was still a carpenter, she’d go with him to the construction site, and never got in the way. (Once he left his lunch in the truck with her and she didn’t eat it.) My brother is a volunteer fireman, and Jed went with him on every call. He also teaches science, and Jed goes with him to school. It’s hard to know who the kids love more: Jed or Jonathan.

The training was part of it, but there was also her Jedness that made her so special. She grew up to be beautiful, a queenly, fun-loving tomboy. She always jumped on me with joy when I came to visit – the one “bad” habit my brother couldn’t break her of – and one of the great pleasures of visiting was sleeping with Jed the first night I got there. She’d cuddle up to me and I’d have the best sleep with her, loving and reassuring, beside me.

Awake, she’d chase the ball until your arm was about ready to fall off. When my brother moved from his former house to his current one, Jed went into the woods and retrieved her tennis balls, piling them up by his truck as if to say, “If you’re bringing your stuff, I’m bringing mine.” He took her camping, winter and summer, Jed proudly carrying her little backpack full of her own food – that dog pulled her own weight. She loved to swim, and we’d take her to the river, throw the ball, and she’d bring it back. Even in old age, she could out-swim much younger dogs, and she had fun every day of her life.

That happy life ended yesterday. Jed was surrounded by her loved ones and left us peacefully. We were lucky to have known her, from her puppyhood to her adulthood. She is always loved, always remembered, a once in a lifetime friend and companion.

My Dad has his very own Wikipedia page!

Is it just me, or does Charles II look a lot like Walter Matthau? My friend Charlie just came back from a trip to England and was showing me some pictures he took at the National Gallery (one of my favorite places in the world), including Charles II doing his Walter Matthau impersonation (or maybe it was the other way around). He also brought me a giant box of Maltesers, which doubles as an adorable piece of art.

The main purpose of the visit wasn’t the National Gallery or buying me presents (though that, of course, should be the main purpose of any trip, especially since it’s my birthday in a couple of weeks). He went to attend his cousin’s wedding and got some family dish: his great-grandfather was knighted! There were four generations of accountants (he bucked the trend finally by not being one)! At the reception, Charlie’s 94 year old grandfather, who had just lost his wife last year, took Charlie’s hands in his and said very seriously, “I hope you find your bride.”

I do, too.

Yes, Virginia, there really is a hell. And it’s right upstairs!

The thing about my upstairs neighbors is that they are just so generous. Even if it’s 9:00 on a Sunday morning – and a Sunday dedicated to God and Moms (does it get any more sacred than that?) – they are delighted to share their egregious taste in music with anyone within earshot (and your ears will be shot, believe me). Given their propensity for equal volume and bass overdrive, those of you in Indonesia and Outer Mongolia are probably having your ears assaulted right now. If there’s a huge avalanche on Mt Everest or somewhere on either Pole, you’ll know who to blame.

Rita & I eventually tired of being univited guests at Hell’s Disco, and decided to get out for a breath of quiet air. While ambling away from Racketville, we discovered the above item in the Upstairs Disco’s recycling.

Suddenly, it was all so clear.

Changing the subject from those mothers, today I hosted a couple of motherless friends for brunch. Makes the day easier for those of us who are Mom-less, and instead of braving the restaurants with their happy, Mom-celebrating parties, I made Eggs Florentine. I used a mixture of baby arugula and baby spinach, and successfully made my own hollandaise sauce. The addition of the arugula really helped to cut the richness of the hollandaise and brought it all into balance. I am pleased to report that it was enjoyed by all, though conversation was difficult since we were temporarily located inside a giant speaker, but I took the pleased expressions and empty plates as a compliment.

To those of you who have mothers or are mothers, hope you had a fabulous Mother’s Day! And wishing everyone peace and quiet. Send some my way if you got it.

A recent article in the San Francisco Chronicle listed some of their columnists’ favorite YouTube videos.

Chosen by Neva Chonin, who writes Live! Rude! Girl!, was the following:

“Spiders on Drugs,” 1:49: Some of you might remember that, back in the ’60s, when authorities blamed drugs for everything ailing modern youths (this was before video games), a certain Dr. Peter Witt conducted an enlightening experiment. After dosing hapless spiders with a variety of hallucinogens, he documented the impact of arachnid freak-outs on web building. The original results were entertaining enough in their own right, but now an entity calling itself the First Church of Christ, Filmmaker has updated Witt’s efforts. A seamless replication, this video looks and sounds like vintage reel-to-reel propaganda … and then … things begin getting strange. Is that a handgun by your eighth leg, Mr. Crack Spider, or are you just happy to see us? www.youtube.com/watch?v=sHzdsFiBbFc

Both Dr. Witt and the spider experiments are well known to me, because my father conducted them with Dr. Witt, who was a colleague and dear friend. The experiments were later gathered into a book co-written with a third scientist, Dr. Reed, called A Spider’s Web. The book is on my shelf, along with the rest of the Dad Collection, but I hadn’t thought about it in years. It was nice to be reminded, and nice to know that his work lives on. I know he would have loved that article!

I’m not usually a big fan of call waiting. Either it means you have yet one more person to deal with, in addition to the one you’re already talking to, or it means a contest: who’s more important, you or the other guy. In my experience, the other guy almost always wins out, so if I’m talking to someone and I hear the fatal beep or click, I know my time is running out, and fast.

Really, what’s wrong with getting a busy signal and calling back? First come, first served. So much more democratic, and less bruising for the ego.

However, yesterday I was glad I had it, because it allowed a wonderful coincidence: I was talking to one sister, when the other one called! Two sisters, two countries, what’s a girl to do? The decision was taken out of my hands by my older sis, who said she’d call me back in half an hour or so, when I would have finished talking with my younger sis.

Sometimes it’s good to be in the middle. And it’s always good to have sisters.

My father and stepmother

My beautiful stepmother turns 80 today. I wish I could be there to celebrate the great day with her. Eight decades of beauty, style, grace, courage, and generosity. That’s a lot to celebrate. She is an inspiration.

Wishing you many happy and healthy returns of this special day, dear friend. I love you.

My blog turns six today! Hope Mike doesn’t think I have to start doing chores now!

Rita has been celebrating the upcoming blogiversary, or possibly the fashionably late arrival of Spring, with extreme naughtiness. If she had a dog house, she’d be in it.

On Thursday, I arrived home to discover the contents of the garbage can scattered all over the house. Rita the miscreant was lying calmly in the middle of the mess. I think she knew it was pointless to try and blame it on the mice. She didn’t wag her tail or jump for joy when I came in the door, probably because my entry and my yelling were pretty much simultaneous.

I’m sure it was the aftereffects of this domestic misdemeanor which led Rita to wake me up at 6:30 am. That means “in the morning”. I knew I’d regret it, soon and for the rest of my life, if I didn’t get up and take her out. Without coffee. After I had coffee, I decided to take Rita with me when I went to the library. It’s a nice walk, and the library is conveniently located next to a park, so Rita could chase squirrels and pigeons to her heart’s content.

I figured that would hold her until the evening walk, but I was wrong.

A couple of hours later, I was on the phone with an investment banker in New York. Rita started whining and scratching at the door, dog code for “let me out of here or you’ll be sorry”. I couldn’t immediately give in to her demands, or tell her to stop making them, because the banker would wonder why there was a dog in the office. While we do have an office, in beautiful downtown Oakland, I usually just work out of my kitchen, but I didn’t think the banker needed to know that. My professionalism is all an illusion (but he didn’t need to know that, either). He didn’t seem to hear Rita’s pleas for an early release, so when I got off the phone, I took her out again. And again, later that night, when Rita tried to chase a cat, and was forcibly restrained. Cat-chasing in my opinion is not good.

On the way back from the Final Four, a passing child wanted to pet Rita, but Rita wasn’t interested. I have noticed as she has gotten older that she’s less than thrilled with the attentions of puppies and children. The little girl got really upset as Rita tried to slink away, so I stopped her and let her be petted. Sometimes you just have to make sacrifices for your public.

I can personally recommend the lamb.

Before I unleash the puppy cuteness on you – and be warned, these pix are rated X for Xtreme Cuteness – I’d like to note that this is my 1,000th post. And it only took me nearly 6 years to achieve that milestone (the official blogiversary is the 21st, for those who are sending cards and gifts). I really am the slothiest of them all. And it doesn’t look like I’m planning to change my lazy ways any time soon, since this is only the third post of the month. To quote a recent New Yorker cartoon, “If we’re all just energy, then why don’t I have any?”

But enough about me. It’s puppy time!

K and I were greeted by the puppies’ breeder, which we expected, and by a month-old lamb, which we didn’t. The lamb is a special variety whose fleece doesn’t grow long and never needs shearing. Her mother didn’t have any milk, so the breeder was bottle-raising her. She’s quite a sassy little thing, as can be seen by her kissing a total stranger. She also kept nibbling K’s butt when she was on the floor taking the puppy pictures.

But enough about the lamb. It really is puppy time!

Here is the mother with her eight babies. They are three weeks old, and of truly breathtaking cuteness. See for yourself. Here they are sleeping and snuggling. And finally…can you tell which one isn’t a real puppy?

When I was an office drone, I hated those “While You Were Out” things. It seemed all I had to do was step away from my desk to provoke a flurry of phone calls, all of which had to be returned immediately upon my return. Actually, I hated pretty much everything about working in an office except leaving, especially on Friday.

There wasn’t a flurry of phone calls while I was away in Detroit – at least, there were no pink slips of any kind awaiting me – but there was some unusual activity.

Patricia, who knows everything there is to know about what goes on in our neighborhood, tells me that while I was in Detroit, a film company took advantage of my temporary absence to film in the courtyard all night, right outside my wondows. Apparently they had a noisy generator announcing their presence, along with the actors yelling and brandishing rubber crowbars. And then there were the bright lights. I don’t think I really missed out by missing it.

I wonder what will happen during the absence currently in progress. Instead of writing at my messy desk in my messy kitchen, I am writing at my fab friend K’s beautiful, tidy dining room table. I’m spending a couple of days with her, enjoying the peace and quiet of her lovely little house and lovely little town. Makes a nice change of pace from taking Rita for an amble-ette behind our building and discovering a fiesta of seven – yes, seven – previously-enjoyed condoms in a fiesta of colors, the way I did yesterday afternoon. No wonder I felt the need to get out of town, at least temporarily.

Still shuddering in horror and considering moving.

I will now replace that horrifying mental image with a charming one: tomorrow, I am reprising my popular role as K’s lovely assistant at a photo shoot…of 3 week old Australian Shepherd puppies!!! Guess who brought her digital camera? And I promise to share – I’m not all bad.

I’m only getting up for admiration.

My dog* is so pretty, she doesn’t even need to leave the house to get compliments.

The Thai food delivery guy asked me where she was when he brought dinner the other day. I went and got her (she was napping too much to bark when he knocked at the door), and she went up to him wagging her tail. He petted her and said he couldn’t remember her name.

“Rita,” I said.

“Ah, yes, Rita! Like Rita Hayworth, only more beautiful!”

However, like many beauties, Rita, I learned, has a somewhat shady past.

I took her around the back of our sprawling building. There’s a parking lot, a wood-working studio, and a place where movie and TV sets are built. Behind all this is a vacant lot, which looks like a field, but which is actually the former site of a battery factory. Apparently it’s too toxic to build on(!), but not too toxic to walk your dog on.

While Rita was sniffing and strolling, another dog owner arrived, along with PD, an artist who also lives in the building. In fact, he is Former Owner’s next-door neighbor. When the dog owner saw Rita, he pulled his dog closer to him and told me that Rita had been known to fight with his dog on more than one occasion. PD chimed in with the fact that she nipped his hand once. Imagine my surprise to learn that my old girl was so OG. I have to blame it on the bad old days of the Former Owner. She’d never do that now. I hope. I certainly don’t want to have to send her to rehab and reach out to the canine and artistic communities, begging for fashionable forgiveness.

*After more than a year of Rita’s companionship, I think it’s safe to say she’s my dog. I even managed to avoid The Talk with Previous Owner (previously known as Actual Owner). Bonus! How many girls get what they want without having to talk about their relationship?

Last week, I ran into Previous Owner. He lives in the same building, but I rarely see him. So we were catching up, and he never asked me about Rita. I brought up the topic, telling him she was doing well, and so far so good with all the pet food recalls. He said he’d call us that night or drop by, and guess what? Nothing. Girls, I know you won’t be surprised by this, and neither am I. But it’s all good, since I get Rita, discussion-free! I win!

A lot o’ people don’t realize what’s really going on. They view life as a bunch o’ unconnected incidents ‘n things. They don’t realize that there’s this, like, lattice o’ coincidence that lays on top o’ everything. Give you an example; show you what I mean: suppose you’re thinkin’ about a plate o’ shrimp. Suddenly someone’ll say, like, plate, or shrimp, or plate o’ shrimp out of the blue, no explanation. No point in lookin’ for one, either. It’s all part of a cosmic unconciousness.

— Tracey Walter as Miller, Repo Man

I’ve been feeling slightly chilled for the past few days, like a young Beaujolais* (or an old lady). Hopefully, that’s just a coincidence, like all the other coincidences this week:

• I was listening to the Everly Brothers when I read a passage in Richard Ford’s latest novel, The Lay of the Land, in which the hero wonders which Everly Brother is Don (Don’s the older one, in case you, too, were wondering).
• Finished watching the final episode of Monk’s first season, in which Tim Daly was a guest star, and started watching a new Law & Order in which Tim Daly was the guest star.
• Finished reading the Halle Berry interview in the April InStyle, put on CNN, and there was Miss Berry being interviewed.
• Finished watching a 50 year old episode of Alfred Hitchcock Presents, and while idly flipping through the TV channels afterwards, came across Jeopardy, showing a clue to which the correct answer (or question, depending on how you look at it) was, you guessed it, Alfred Hitchcock Presents.

Weird, don’t you think? Also it sounds like I do nothing but read, drink, and watch TV. I do walk the dog, too, you know.

As for the suspense I left you in:

• The cable guy showed up. He wasn’t crazy or a TV addict (as far as I know), and he kept all romantic advice to himself. So much better in real life than the Jim Carrey one in the movies. Of course, someone at the office was supposed to flip a switch and didn’t, so the cable still wasn’t working when I got back from Detroit, but that was solved with a phone call and a ten minute wait on hold.
• The trip was a success from a business standpoint, but not from a personal one, since the delightful Kathleen was (temporarily, thank goodness) on the DL. Detroit without Kathleen is like coffee without caffeine.
• If you’re wondering where the beautiful people (other than Miss K) are in Detroit, I can tell you from experience that they are in a certain real estate office downtown. The landlord of our soon to d?but Detroit office lent us his conference room for the meeting marathon. Two of the loveliest girls I had ever seen brought us coffee and water. As soon as they left, my boss and I looked at each other and said, “Wow.” A few minutes later, another beauty passed the glass doors of the conference room, and then the ravishing receptionist came in to tell us the first candidate was there. After she left, I said, “This is ridiculous!” in admiration, and my boss said, “I can see what one of their hiring criteria is!” And what a sight it was.
• In keeping with the beauty theme, all the Michigan-based managers we interviewed were incredibly sharp dressers (though sadly, not up to the standard set by the bevy of realty beauties). I have never seen so many men with subtly monogrammed cuffs, exquisite cufflinks, daring ties, and flawless manicures in my life. Definitely the most remarkable part of the trip.

*Before you start thinking that I’m the type of girl who’d drink P?trus on the rocks, let me assure you that light red wines should be drunk at about 50 degrees – that’s “room temperature” in the bad old pre-central heating days, or slightly chilled in these halcyon, heated ones.