Suzy Says

What else to do on the last morning of this winter but wait for the cable guy? Hopefully, he’ll be a little more efficient and a little less scary than this one.

I’m already bored, and it’s not quite 10 am. You know how I feel about boredom.

I wish I could tell my boss I’d be in sometime between 8 and 12 (or, even better, 10 and 2), and not have to call if I’m late or don’t bother to show up, as is often the perfidious way of cable guys. They have time to waste, and it’s all yours.

In other ennui-related news, I’m heading to Detroit in a couple of days. Don’t get me wrong, it’s not Detroit that’s boring – quite the opposite – but I’m going for another money manager interview marathon, and with my classic bad timing, I picked a day that my dear and amusing Kathleen is out of town, being dear and amusing elsewhere instead of with me. There’s always next time – and I’m pretty sure there will be a next time. Maybe not soon enough, though.

For now, I’d settle for the cable guy being here now.

Update:

Turns out I was actually waiting for Godot. No cable guy, Carrey-esque or otherwise, deigned to show up.

I called the cable company, who told me that my appointment was for Thursday the 20th. I pointed out that Thursday was the 22nd and that I would not have booked anything for Thursday, since I’m going to Detroit that day. I further pointed out that I had confirmed today’s appointment twice with them. They said Thursday was the best they could do (also, apparently, both the least and the most), and I asked, quite reasonably, if they guaranteed that someone would show up before noon on Thursday.

Of course, they said, there are no guarantees.

Dad and my brother Jonathan, circa 1965

While the rest of the world is celebrating St. Patrick’s death day, I am mourning my father’s birthday.

I wake up to the raucous clamor of birds in the tree outside my window, black against the white, still morning sky. They don?t do this every day, and my first thought is that they are singing for him. Dad loved birds, and kept track of all he saw from the age of five until he died, aged seventy. I slide my feet into my slippers and go to the kitchen to make coffee, wishing I had the luxury of calling him and saying ?Happy birthday? to him, instead of just in my heart.

Most of the people I know have fathers who are still living, but they don’t particularly want to call them, even though they can. Dads like Mike (and mine) are few and far between, it seems.

I realize how long he?s been gone: six years. I do this minor math problem with the same sense of slight shock and dismay as when I calculate my own age when asked (otherwise, I refuse to think about it and just feel like the permanent teenager I really am). I look back over the years that have passed away since he passed away, and am amazed we, his children, have all been able to weather the storm. At first, I thought I couldn?t survive the pain and loss. Now I think, Really? It?s been that long?

Sipping my coffee in the cold morning light, memories of Dad spin through my head:

When I was a child, waiting for him to come home from work, in his white lab coat smelling of mysterious and pungent chemicals. He’d sweep me into his arms and roll around on the floor, and end up with shaking me upside down, “to shake the nonsense out”, as he put it, though in this he never did quite succeed. Years later, there’s still plenty of nonsense left.

His mother telling me how Dad spent hours concocting exactly the correct proportion of cement dust to coal dust to make briquets that would last longer for heating and cooking during the dark, deprived days of WWII. Dad was about 10 at the time, and he and his family lived on the outskirts of London, where bombings were all too common. Indeed, the bombing once started when Dad was walking home from school one day. He was near the train station, and hid under bodies until it was over, finally walking home, blood-spattered, to his anxious mother.

The long, sunny days in Maine, those long ago summers when death hadn’t touched us and the world seemed a bright, safe place. We’d spend our days sailing, swimming, climbing mountains, having lobster for dinner (at that time, it was cheaper than hamburger, which was, as Dad put it, “the way it should be”).

The long, sunny days in England when death hadn’t just touched us, it had knocked us out, doing all the things everyone has to do when a family member dies, no matter how beloved or unbeloved. At the time, you don’t realize how lucky you are to be in shock and to have so many duties to perform, because once all that’s over and you go back to your newly altered life – the one you refer to as “normal”, though it isn’t anymore and never will be again – the realization hits you as hard as the Reaper’s scythe that it’s true, and this, my friend, is, as Trollope put it, The Way We Live Now.

The Empire State Building

Looks a little ominous, doesn’t it?

It looked that way to me, so I spent half a day trying to change my plane reservations to leave before the storm hit. The airline told me that they could change it for me, at a cost of $294, but if I waited until 24 hours before the plane left, I could do it on line for $40.

Seemed like an easy decision.

When the appointed time arrived, I tried to change the reservation on line, but couldn’t. Called tech support. They needed the credit card used to buy the tickets, which I didn’t have, since my boss bought them. Called him in Calfornia. Got number. Called tech support again with the number, only to be told that the reservation couldn’t be changed on line because it hadn’t been made on line.

He transferred me to an agent.

This time, it was $278 to change the ticket, and I was informed that the $40 was fiction. I could go to the airport two hours before an earlier flight, and if there’s room, get a seat on that flight for $50. I decided to just stay with what I had, even though I suspected there would be problems.

There were.

The snow, drifting down picturesquely outside, was causing panic and chaos inside. When I arrived at the gate, it looked a lot like that LIRR train at rush hour. Nowhere to sit, people hollering into their phones, a feeling that there could be a riot anytime. My flight wasn’t ever listed as delayed, but considering it left over four hours late, I think we can safely say without fear of contradiction that it was.

At least it wasn’t cancelled, the doom that awaited the passengers of two other flights, who immediately stampeded the lone airline employee at the desk. I think the only person who hated his job more than that guy that day was the one driving the Crime Scene Clean Up Services van I’d seen earlier that day. I didn’t get to read everything written on the side of the van, but I did see “Homicides, Suicides, Body Decomposition” before it sped off to make the world a cleaner place.

The Toronto Maple Leafs, Nassau Coliseum

For some reason, some of us thought it would be a good idea to go to a hockey game the night before a day of meetings. This is what happens when all your co-workers are boys.

The game was in some distant, godforsaken place in Long Island. Before this, the only place I’d been to in Long Island was the Hamptons, and I’d recommend you keep it that way if you can. If you must venture to the dark side, be prepared, especially if you take the LIRR at about 5:30 in the afternoon.

Arriving at Penn Station after spending almost half an hour getting a cab (note: looking for a cab at 5:00 in midtown Manhattan is an exercise in both futility and frustration), I was horrified by the sight of all the people pouring into its narrow entrance, oddly located directly beneath Madison Square Garden. It looked like a giant anthill. I wanted to turn and flee, but braver hearts prevailed.

The worst was yet to come.

We shoehorned ourselves aboard the train. Trains are usually the most civilized way to travel, but not the LIRR*, and not at rush hour. It was standing room only in a manner that makes a sardine can look roomy. People stepped on my feet, hit me in the head with backpacks, hollered into their cellphones in unmellifluous accents. It was a long way to Westbury.

Took a cab to the Coliseum, which, as previously noted, is located in the middle of nowhere (or possibly the suburbs of nowhere). I still don’t know where it was. The Islanders defeated the Maple Leafs (no-one seems to know why it’s the Leafs and not the Leaves. It just is), but it took several hours, the game going to a shoot-out. For the uninitiated, that means they played all three regular periods, an overtime one, and had to resort to the shoot-out to decide who won, the scores being tied.

Leaving the stadium, I called the taxi company, and was told there’d be a taxi rank on the west side. Got directions to the west side. No taxi rank, but valet parking. The valet parkers said the taxis were on the other side of the building. Decided that it would be better to try the Marriott across the street, so we plodded across the vast concrete steppe in the cold rain and wind, only to discover that there were no cabs at the Marriott, only 30 or so disgruntled Leafs fans (the Islander aficionados all drove, of course).

It took 45 minutes to get a cab, and the trains only run once an hour at that late hour, so, yes, we missed it. For added fun, the station is locked at 6:00, so we had to stand out on the freezing platform and wait for the next train.

I searched my pockets for my gloves, and discovered one was missing. It was my favorite pair: buttery soft black leather, lined with cashmere, and adorned with two rows of tiny, pale pink suede bows. Italian, of course.

When I was a child, I was going somewhere by train with my father, somewhere in England. I don’t remember the details of the trip, but I vividly remember this: as the train pulled out of the station, the elegantly dressed woman sitting across from us looked out the train window and noticed her glove lying on the platform. She jumped to her feet, pulled open the window, and tossed the remaining glove to join its mate.

In the midnight dark and rain, 30 years and 3,000 miles later, I did the same thing.

*When I complained about this to my colleague who lives in civilized Irvington, on the civilized Hudson rail line, he sniffed and said very seriously of the LIRR riders, “They’re animals“.

I’ve been having a Beauty Blast this week. Contrary to Jane Austen’s assertion that “woman is fine for herself alone”, I only bother primping when the results will be seen and appreciated. Rita doesn’t care if I’m wearing make-up or whether my accessories match, so I rarely bother. In fact, the last time I dressed up was probably the last time I was in New York, where I am heading tomorrow.

So everything that can be dyed, shaped, or altered has been done, and I’m now fit for public viewing. And what a viewing it will be: I’m interviewing 6 money managers in one day, which will be something like a marathon of used car salesmen all trying to sell me a different make and model. Don’t you wish you were me?

In the midst of my preenery, I had an email from my sister Beth asking me how to apply eyeliner. Despite my current lack of cosmetic use, at one time I was a serious addict, doing it at least once a day. And I had learned from the best, since all my application skills came from my friend A’s modelling days, so perhaps it’s justified that my sis considers me to be something of an expert. It’s so hard to shake a rep, isn’t it?

The request reminded me of the last time my sis came to visit me, all the way from England, where the Queen’s the boss and they talk funny. Being the hostess with the leastest, the kind of girl whose guests bring not only dinner, but serving dishes, I was a little concerned about how to amuse her. Of course, the first thing I thought of was shopping.

Turned out that we are the real-life Shopaholic and Sister. I took her to worship at Sephora, and discovered that she was not only unmoved by its cosmetic splendor, but confused by it. She kept asking me what things were, and they were always lip gloss, except the one time it was an eyelash curler.

It made me realize that instead of, say, algebra, for which I and everyone I know has never had any real life use, there could (should!) be classes in the correct and fun way to apply make-up. They’d start in junior high, before a taste develops for blue eyeshadow and other bad habits that are so difficult to break. Lessons would include:

• Foundation: it should match your skin as closely as possible. You, only flawless. There should never be a demarcation line at the jaw.
• Lip liner: never obvious, despite the Pamela Anderson school of application. As in Foundation, above, it should match, not contrast.
• How to apply false eyelashes. They’re not just for evening anymore! Extra credit for eyelash extensions.
• How to fake a tan: from bronzers to airbrushing, without orange palms or sun-inducing wrinkles.
• How to perfect your eyebrows: shaping, coloring, maintaining.

Etc.

The world would be a much prettier and Suzier place.

In case you think I left my sis in the lurch, I sent her this link which pretty much explains all without visual aids. Enjoy!

The two old ladies are alive and well, you’ll be glad to hear. And thanks to all of you for checking up on us, especially those who recognized the Oates quote and feared the ominous worst. I haven’t pulled an Oates (and would never be noble enough to do so), but there has been nothing at all amusing happening in my life, so I elected to keep the dullness to myself. Maybe I am, in fact, somewhat noble.

This must be an all-time personal high (or low) for posting, since this is only the third entry this month. I should get some kind of award for it. The Slothy: for outstanding indolence. Problem is, people would get annoyed with me winning it every year, even though I’d be too lazy to write, let alone read, an acceptance speech.

Rita must have wanted to keep up with my accoutrements of old age*, because the vet has put her on prescription dog food (it’s called G/D, which I prefer to think of as Good Dog, rather than what it really stands for) and treats to help keep her joints healthy and happy. She loves them and is prancing around like a little circus pony, charming one and all as per usual.

I?m sure Emily Post or Miss Manners would say that regifting is always wrong (and they’d probably have an aside explaining why the non-word “regifting” was so egregious, besides the idea of the actual regifting), but it was a total success in this case. I received a hat for Christmas which was cute, but not me. Apart from anything else, it had wooly braids, and if I’m going to wear braids, they’re going to be mine. I finally realized it would look great on my neighbor, and since I never know when I?ll see her, I put it in her mailbox. I ran into her a couple of days later, and she was not only wearing it, she was bubbling over about all the compliments she had received on it. Total success! And a gift that kept on (re)giving.

Glowing with regifting glory, I went to the store for some necessities (pomegranate juice for anti-oxidant martinis; shrimps and artichokes; coffee). On the lottery counter, some hopeful yet forgetful soul had left her wallet. It was black patent leather, with a big Pilgrim-y buckle on it (if she wins, I hope she buys a new one). I couldn’t resist peeping inside. There was money – not enough for a pretty new wallet, alas – and ID. I handed it over to the cashier, who was either surprised at my honesty or the ugliness of the wallet. She took it gingerly and stowed it under the cash.

On the way home, I amused myself by thinking of how happy the owner would be to get it back. Like ABC’s Wide World of Sports, only backwards: “The agony of defeat! The thrill of victory!”

*When I complained to a friend about how having bifocals makes me feel old, she said, “Having bifocals just means all your energy goes to your intelligence and your eyes don’t get as much.” I feel so much better. And smarter.

If I were Tippi Hedren, I’d be a little nervous now.

Every day at around this time, the tree in the courtyard hosts a convocation of black birds. They fill the winter-empty branches with their nearly weightless, dark bodies and the air with their raucous conversation. It’s the bird equivalent of a trendy night spot out there, although apparently anyone with wings can get in.

This has been going on for about a week. The variation on the theme is to pack onto all the windowsills, side by side, and then talk as loudly as possible about how crowded it is, comparing it unfavorably to the Tokyo subway at rush hour.

The creepiest part of the proceedings is when someone walks through the courtyard. Then the birds fall silent, as if they had been plotting that person’s demise (or mocking their outfit) and didn’t want to be overheard and caught.

As darkness falls, there’s a whoosh as they all fly off together, calling out one last threat. Or promise.

I’m driving my car, my one and only car. It’s a 1966 Mustang convertible, silvery-blue, and looks a lot like this. The top’s down and the radio’s on – since it’s the original radio, it only gets AM, so it’s on an oldies station, to go with the car.

If you’ve never been lucky enough to drive a convertible, you may be under the impression that the driver’s long blonde hair blows romantically back from her face, in the manner of Grace Kelly in “To Catch a Thief”, in the well-known sequence presaging her untimely death as she careens around the Grande Corniche in a Sunbeam Alpine. Since life is seldom, if ever, like the movies, what actually happens is that your long blonde hair blows into your eyes, making your driving Grace Kelly hazardous. This was quite a disappointment to me, since having your hair in a ponytail or hidden under a baseball cap just doesn’t have the same allure.

There’s no traffic on the road, and it’s smooth, as if it had just been paved. The sky is that deep California blue. I’ve never seen that color anywhere else, just like I’ve never seen anywhere else like California. Does anywhere else have oceans, deserts, mountains, all in one place? Drive a couple of hours from San Francisco, and there’s snow. Drive a few hours south, and it’s warm enough to swim. And there’s nowhere like San Francisco. Or Hollywood.

After a while, I realize I’ve been driving more or less on auto pilot, not really noticing my surroundings. When I do, I realize that it’s dark – I’m deep in a forest – and the road is a lot rougher. It’s gotten cold, too. I’m chilled, but too nervous to stop and put the top up. I’ll stop soon.

But I don’t. I can’t. I just keep driving.

I’ve become frightened, feeling alone. I am alone. And I’m not out of the woods yet.

The road isn’t a freeway now. It’s not even a two lane highway. It’s a dirt road. Soon, the dirt road gives way to a track. I can’t drive down the track, so I get out and walk. It’s a long walk, especially in the dark. Eventually, the track ends, too. I stand in a clearing, looking around. I think, “Now what?”

I think the fabulous Kathleen is tired of me not posting, so she tagged me to fill in the blanks. Fortunately, it’s all about my favorite subject – Me!

Available/Single or Taken? Taken (very taken, with Self and Dog).
Best Friend? Rita the Wonder Dog. Girl’s best friend!
Cake or pie? Pie – cherry, key lime, coconut cream, lemon meringue…
Drink Of Choice? Champagne, preferably La Veuve.
Essential Item You Use Everyday? My aging but beloved iBook.
Favorite Color? Pink.
Gummy Bears or Worms? I am not going to put anything gummy or wormy in my mouth. Not now, not ever.
Hometown? San Francisco.
Indulgence? Way more than there should be.
January or February? February – it’s located closer to spring.
Kids & Their Names? Not now, not ever. One niece (Cat) and one nephew (Ben) is plenty.
Life is Incomplete Without? I have to copy Kat on this one: Family & friends.
Marriage date? December 24, 1990. Divorce date pending.
Number of Siblings? Three – two sisters, one brother. All wonderful (see “L”).
Oranges or Apples? O so boring.
Phobias/Fears? Apparently, transportation, since I hate flying and driving, and avoid public transit at all costs. Oh, yeah, and getting old and ugly.
Quote, Favorite (movie)? “Don’t you know that a man being rich is like a girl being pretty? You wouldn’t marry a girl just because she’s pretty, but my goodness, doesn’t it help?” Marilyn Monroe as Lorelei Lee, Gentlemen Prefer Blondes
Reason to Smile? Do you need a reason?
Season? Spring or Fall? Fall – I love the blazing colors.
Tag 3 people?
Ben
Lisa
Mike
Unknown Fact About Me? It’s a secret.
Vegetable you don?t like? Mushrooms. Fungus should be cleaned away (by someone else), not eaten (especially by Me).
Worst Habit? Procrastination, among many others.
X-rays You?ve Had? I think I had a chest x-ray once.
Your Favorite Food? Dad Food – I still make his recipes, even though he’s gone.
Zodiac sign? Gemini. What else?

The pretty side of patriotism

New year’s news flash: my always reliably-informed older sister informs me that our grandmother was a member of the Daughters of the American Revolution, just like Emily Gilmore. So I’m classier and more patriotic than previously thought. Maybe I’ll join up so I’ll have an excuse for looking down on people.

Speaking of looking down on people: my always reliably-informed friend K informs me that there is a reason why truck drivers always seem to be looking down on you as they pass, rather than at the road, the way you think they would when seated in a huge piece of heavy machinery hurtling through space. K’s bro is one of the trucking brethren himself, and according to him, if a trucker notices a pretty girl, he radios it (“Great rack in the silver Mazda! 10-4!”) so his fellow drivers can check out the passing scenery. Really, you can hardly blame them, what with the long hours and the monotony of staring at the highway. Next time a trucker looks down on you, smile and wave!

So now you know about the DAR and truckers, all in the same place. How educational is that?

2006 was the Year of the Dog* in Chinese astrology. It was also the Year of the Dog for Suzy.

Round about February, I started taking care of Rita (or possibly the other way around) more or less full-time. As time went on, I became more and more enamored of her, and my blog became more and more about her as my life did. I am now totally in love with her and will never give her back to “Actual” Owner, even though we don’t have an official (or unofficial) agreement. She is such a joy.

As for last year’s resolutions, I kept all but one of them. I’m not yet divorced, but the paperwork is in progress. Rather like the Rita situation, there’s nothing official, but we have an agreeable understanding. I’m sure it will be wrapped up this coming year. I’m pleased to report that John and the fabulous cats are all doing well.

This year, I want to focus on physical health (complete ologist removal); mental health (not going back on the pills); and work (getting things formalized, working more & better).

Hope this coming year is a great one for everyone!

*Rita turns 12 next month, so according to Chinese astrology, she was born in the Year of the Pig. She does possess quite a lot of the Boar qualities: “Whatever they do, they do with all their strength…They have tremendous fortitude and great honesty…anyone having a Boar Year friend is fortunate for they are extremely loyal. They don’t talk much…They are kind to their loved ones.”

Dear Dolly, please save us from bummers in the new year. Amen, y’all.

It may have been one of the worst Christmases ever, but it was also one of the sparkliest ever.

Dolly would approve.

If I ran the world, Santa would look just like this.

As I drove to my friend’s house on Christmas Eve, I was filled with anxiety and apprehension. I soon learned that I should have paid more attention to this internal warning system.

After the long, rainy drive (though uneventful, with no mistaken OnStar calls this year), I arrived at my friend’s 120 year old apartment. Here’s where things started to get eventful, as she explained the vagaries of the ancient plumbing to me (“There’s a big stick by the toilet, in case you need to break things up so they’ll flush”), which almost sent Rita and me back to the car in horror.

Friend also is the owner of Dreadful Dog, a yappy, furry bolster of a dog disliked by everyone who knows him. People who can’t agree on any other topic under the sun all agree that Dreadful Dog is, in fact, dreadful. If he isn’t barking his high-pitched bark, he’s whining, which his deluded owner describes as “purring”. Among his other irritating features is his complete refusal to come when he’s called, which can be a problem if, for example, he runs across the road to annoy two stranger dogs. On that occasion, when I approached him with his leash, he kept backing away.

I thought of an alternative use for the big ol’ toilet stick.

You can imagine Rita’s horror at being bracketed with this creature. It’s like when your parents take you to visit friends of theirs and you have to play with their loser kid, who normally has to bribe people with toys to play with him. You can’t believe it, but you’re stuck with it. Also the grown-ups can’t seem to tell that there’s a huge difference between you and him.

Rita and I were mortified at being seen in public with Dreadful Dog, at least twice a day.

Awoke from fitful sleep on Christmas Day to learn that the great James Brown had died earlier that morning. A day that kicks off with James Brown kicking off is not going to be a good one.

Friend’s daughter has Christmas dinner at her elegant house every year. She is a wonderful cook (she even caters occasionally), and her house is always decorated perfectly. On the other hand, she also has an antisocial creep of a boyfriend who now lives with her. He threw a fit that would have embarrassed a four year old after we dared to visit for three hours on Christmas Eve, along with her friends and family. He kept her up all night with his theatrics, and then vanished to the basement on Christmas morning, leaving her to make dinner for ten people, all of whom were well aware of this drama and the many which had preceded it.

Unfortunately, he emerged to eat dinner and open gifts, which led to a complete pall over the proceedings and an almost total lack of conversation, since nothing anyone was thinking could be said out loud. Personally, I was thinking, “Heave ho, heave ho, it’s to the curb you go!”

Just when I thought it couldn’t get any worse, I called my brother and sister and learned that Jed the Wonder Dog is sick. Think good thoughts for her. Being without her is unthinkable.

Thankfully, some things never change. Wishing you all a safe and joyful holiday (and lots of presents, of course)!

Saw the cardiologist on Thursday. He had not received a copy of the ultrasound I had done, so couldn’t give me a diagnosis. But he did say that my heart skipping a beat or going fast isn’t a symptom of something really bad. I had the ultrasound done again, & will have to do the 48 hour heart monitor thing again on Jan 5 (happy new year!) since I’m now off the anti-depressants, which may have skewed it. So as usual: no answers, more tests. Why did I expect anything different?

The ologist’s office is located next to a hospital. Across from the hospital are a funeral home and a party supply place (The Balloon King!) – in the same building.

Tried to get a taxi in the pouring rain, to no avail. I did, however, have some guy pull over in his car, open the passenger door, and ask me if I wanted a ride. Sure! Drive me off somewhere and kill me! Why not? It was hard to persuade him that I wouldn’t consider his offer, whatever his motivation, and eventually, he gave up.

As I trudged damply homeward, somewhat unnerved by both the ology and the offer, I spotted a homeless-looking guy approaching, apparently talking to himself. I’m sorry to say that despite the season of goodwill toward men, I really wasn’t in the mood for a panhandling crazy at that point. He walked right up to me and demanded, “Are you afraid of me, princess?” I shot back, “Should I be?”, and he said no, then meandered off, swearing.

‘Tis the season.

When I checked my mail, I discovered, among other things, the keys to my old apartment were off the old ring. Now there’s just my house key, the keys to my post office box and gym locker, and my father’s dog’s ID tag on the new one. And notes from my sister in the change purse part.

I guess my heart finally caught up with my mind and I realized that I don’t live there anymore.

1. Buy a box of those ubiquitous and delicious holiday clementines (I get “My Darling” brand, because it’s just so cute).
2. Take those darling clementines and juice them. Just think of all that vitamin C!
3. Add vodka and sip until relaxion is achieved. For extra orange-y deliciousness, use Absolut Mandrin. Good-bye, holiday stress!

When I woke up dazed from my odd, dream-filled sleep (the only installment I can remember is staying with Rita in a hotel in Hollywood owned by Heather Locklear*. Heather & I were trying on each other’s shoes. Hers were better), I decided to just stay dazed and confused and get those blood tests out of the way once and for all.

With an agonized look at my coffeemaker, I left the house and grabbed a cab to Chinatown. Arriving at the lab, the sign said, “Number being served: 89.” Pulling off my number, I saw a disheartening 5. But I figured, I’d come all this way (again) without coffee, and I was damn well going to give the people all the blood they wanted.

After awhile, I began to feel like I was at the airport, waiting seemingly endlessly in uncomfortable chairs to get into yet another uncomfortable chair and be slightly or very horrified by what follows after you’re strapped in, depending on temperament.

When my number was finally up, my veins weren’t. The technician kept strappin’ and tappin’ but my veins were hiding coyly, possibly looking vainly for caffeine. I expected her to call the lethal injection team any minute: “We need a cut-down here in Room 2”, but she finally settled on a rather unsettling area about halfway down the inside of my forearm, where it’s more sensitive than the elbow area.

As she merrily bled me (6 vile vials!), she said that my tiny veins came from my mother. I never noticed if Mom had small veins. I mean, you don’t say, “Gee, Mom, your veins are so small! I hope mine are that small when I grow up.”

After she put the little cotton ball and Band-Aid on, she recommended two nearby coffee shops. “You look tired, ” she said. I always think that’s code for “You look like complete shit, my friend,” and should only be said to someone who has run a marathon or given birth. Maybe not even then. Maybe under those circumstances, it should be, “You look radiant.”

I went home and had some coffee.

*Note to self: Must you always dream about such B list celebrities? Aim a little higher. Maybe a Nicole for a change? Or a real Dreamgirl?

Wondering where I’ve been all this time? The answer is simple and dull: working and going to the doctor. Neither of these activities is sufficiently amusing for reportage as far as I’m concerned. I’m (not) doing it for your own good!

Really, I wonder why anyone wants their children to become doctors or lawyers. Given the fact that if your life has either doctors or lawyers in it, things are not going well, that means the public at large will either dread seeing your kids (at least professionally) or avoid it at all costs, and they will serve as the punchline for jokes as long as they stay in these undesirable professions.

But enough about them. Back to Me. For me, a week without doctors is like…well, someone else’s life. A very young someone else. The doctor of the week last week was the eye doctor. He horrified me by informing me that I have to get bifocals. Really, the grey poodle hair must be on the horizon. I can hear the beating of its wings. On the bright side, both he and the purveyor of the breathtakingly pricy old lady glasses* both thought I was 10 years younger than I actually am (thank you, Dermalogica!).

This week’s doctor is the cardiologist. Ologists in my opinion are not good. I’m not looking forward to the last doctor’s appointment of the year, though I’m hoping to actually get some answers. After all those years of school, why can’t they just tell you what’s wrong and how to fix it?

Early new year’s resolution: total doctor avoidance, other than necessary check-up and mammogram.

*Note to self: get better, or at least more entertaining addictions, instead of spending thousands on unenjoyable things such as anti-depressants (though I have broken that particular bad habit, it set me back plenty – at least financially) and bifocals.

What a way to start the day. Woken up fifteen minutes before the alarm was set to go off by the hideous combination of my cell phone bleating that its battery was exhausted plus the unmistakable and agonizing onslaught of GirlGrossness?.

You think I’m a baby? Try my cell phone. Its battery gets exhausted almost instantly, whether I use it or not (and I mostly don’t, except when I travel), and then it whimpers mechanically until I plug it into its electric bottle. I think it knows I don’t like it and is getting revenge by depriving me of much-needed beauty sleep and trying to drive me crazy (or crazier). I can see where Stephen King got his idea from.

When I tried to blow-dry my recently acquired bangs, I tangled them in the round brush so much that I may never get the hair out. The brush is stuck in my hair, just hanging there until I figure out how to extricate it.

No wonder I’d rather think about the lovely past instead of the irritating present. While I go and make coffee (no blood tests for me today!), you can read part two of my trip to Monet’s house and gardens at Giverny. Definitely the more civilized option.

Saturday, August 24, 1991
Giverny & Paris

The house was truly charming, but beginning to be very crowded. All the Monet paintings in the house are reproductions, and most of the pretty pink stucco house is decorated with Japanese prints and drawings. I was especially taken with the cozy yellow dining room and blue kitchen. The house is very unpretentious and just delightful.

[Monet was as good a cook as he was a gardener. Years later, my father gave me Monet’s Table: The Cooking Journals of Claude Monet, full of delicious recipes and photographs. My copy is very well-used!]

By the time I left, the place was packed and the lines were unbelievable. I was lucky I had gone early. My visit there was so magical, I almost felt as I had made a pilgrimage.

Back in Paris, I visited the Square des Batignolles. It’s a pretty place, with waterfalls, duck ponds, and a carrousel. I felt quite at home reading Le Figaro on a green park bench in the early evening. I wonder about the people who say Parisians are rude or unkind. Everyone has been quite the opposite to me, from the elderly lady amused by the fact that we were both reading the same paper to the man who invited me to admire his dog. No-one has refused to help me when I ask for help or directions (such as: where to buy stamps on a Saturday) & some people (such as: the man on the train from Mantes-La-Jolie to Paris) are even too friendly. I think it’s all in your own attitude.

I may not have decked my halls with boughs of holly*, but I have decked my window boxes with holly bushes. Also tiny juniper trees. Aren’t they cute? And a wreath for the front door,

with a couple of
Charlie Brown-ish cedars on either side.

You already know I have the tree up and lit, so let the holidays begin!

And don’t hate me because I have my Christmas shopping done. There are much better reasons.

Here’s how I do it:

• Buy things as you see them through the year, instead of waiting until the week (or day) before Christmas. At a craft fair in the summer and see something your Mom would love? Buy it and put it away in a box or bag with the other gifts-to-be (so you can find them when it’s time to wrap them).
• Buy as much as you can on the net, to avoid the horrror of malls, which are too hot and too full of other people.
• Get everything gift-wrapped if you can. Leave it to the professionals! It will look better, and so will you, bein’ that you’re less stressed and all. You can limit your part of the task to addressing the little cards on the (beautifully wrapped) presents and taking the credit.
• If you can’t think of a gift to give, make it alcoholic, even if the recipient isn’t alcoholically inclined. He or she either has guests/friends who are, or is hiding something. Make it cute, like this fab little gift from our amis at Veuve Cliquot, the merriest and most welcome widow in the world. Once the champagne is gone, you’ll still have the glasses to break and the purse to carry (with or without champagne). The gift that keeps on giving!

  While you’re there, get some for yourself and your guests. As with almost anything, better to have too much than too little.

I feel like a less larcenous Martha Stewart!

*When I was a kid, I thought Boughsofholly was a person, since I knew a girl named Holly. It just seemed to make sense. Of course, I also thought mincemeat was made out of mice after seeing a Tom & Jerry cartoon where Jerry was threatened with being made into, you guessed it, mincemeat. Feel free to laugh. My father certainly did, when I tearfully confessed why I refused to eat my grandmother’s mincemeat tarts.