Suzy Says

Really, isn’t a day without weirdness…well, someone’s life other than mine?

Still in possession of all my blood (fun fact: despite the recent spate of bloodletting, I still have no idea what kind of blood I have), I took Rita for a walk. I expected the construction workers to admire her (and me), but I didn’t expect the Actual Owner.

No-one expects the Actual Owner!

We stopped to chat, and he only asked me about New York. Even though Rita was standing right there, he didn’t mention her, though he did, of course, pet her. It’s impossible not to. Also, I was secretly delighted that she didn’t fuss over him, just gave him the casual-to-enthusiastic greeting she gives the construction workers, who give her part of their lunches and otherwise fawn over her.

Rita soon got bored and started pulling away, eager to get on to the next smell, so we did. He didn’t ask when he was going to see her again, or anything.

Weirdness factor: about 5 or 6 on a scale of 1 to 10.

That night, I was watching the surprisingly dull biopic about the delicious Bettie Page* when someone knocked at the window. I figured it was Charlie, Rita’s sitter and purveyor of fabulous Italian gifts to Suzy, so I went to open the door.

Rita came with me. If anything, she’s actually more curious than I am.

I opened the door to a complete stranger, completely drunk and completely slurring, “Mind if I come in?”

I said, “Yes,” and shut the door forcefully before locking it immediately. Rita was barking loudly and scarily enough to have instantly sobered the guy, though I don’t think it did. I heard him mumbling as he wandered away to annoy someone else.

Weirdness factor: about 8 or 9.

It’s good to have a dog.

*Made me long for the real thing. I’m just going to have to go out and find Teaserama. The faux Bettie was nowhere near as cute as the original, and was lacking in La Page’s trademark sauciness and charm.

And speaking of adorable ecdysiasts, I valiantly resisted buying this pretty pink tome when I was out Christmas shopping. Also a pop up book of Graceland! Will virtue be its own reward?

When I finally went to see the doctor, she didn’t tell me anything about the tests, other that “sluggish heart muscle” thing and “it wouldn’t hurt to take a baby aspirin every day for now.” When I replied that I might as well get a grey poodle ‘do and housedress and get it over with (feeling, as I do, that I’m far too youthful & immature for such potentially serious health issues), she retaliated with anecdotes of patients younger than Self who had worse heart problems.

See, this never works for me. I don’t care about the other people. I only care about Me.

So I have to wait yet again (you’d think I’d be better at this with all the practice I’ve been getting lately, but no) to see the cardiologist* on the 20th. Happy holidays, indeed.

To amuse me in the meantime: more blood tests!

I happened to not eat the next day before I went to the gym, though I kept this secret to myself and nothing untoward happened. The closest bloodletting facility is in Chinatown, so I made my way there after the gym, feeling all virtuous. I worked out! I’m getting the damn tests done! I’m trying not to worry!

I get there, take a number, and wait, my latest hobby. When my number is called, I give the receptionist my list of tests, and she asks me if I ate that day.

“No, ” I say, smugly.

“Coffee?”

“Well, yes.”

“No test!”

“But I had it black.”

“Clear liquid only!”

“Black coffee is clear.”

“No! No coffee!”

For emphasis, she takes off her glasses and stares at me.

“No test! You waste your blood!”

Not quite able to believe this, I stand there, irresolute, until she orders me to “Go home! You go home now!”

I did.

Tests are still not done.

*Really, once the specialist has reared his ugly head, isn’t it just a mtter of time until the poodle ‘do and housedress?

It’s been almost Christmas tree, it inspired me to remember trips of the past.

To recap: I was in London visiting my father and went to Paris on my own (after 15 years, I can’t remember why he didn’t join me).

Now we rejoin our heroine’s past adventures:

Friday, August 23, 1991
Paris

Sitting by the open window of my room in the H?tel des Batignolles. Not surprisingly, it is in the rue des Batignolles, a neighborhood that’s new to me [the 8th arrondissement]. It is not at all touristy, though quite close to Montmartre. At the end of the street is a lovely, quiet square.

After tidying up, I walked to the rue de Rome, full of music stores, to the Gare St-Lazare. Once at the station, I bought a return ticket to Vernon, the closest station to Giverny, for the trip tomorrow. Then I walked down to the Champs Elys?es & changed some travellers’ checks. Had an omelette and a glass of wine at Fouquet’s, watching the people go by. It really is magical to be in Paris again.

Saturday, August 24, 1991
Paris & Giverny

Slept quite well on my down pillows. Walked to the Gare St-Lazare through quiet streets (it was early, Saturday, & August, the traditional holiday month). While waiting for the train, called Dad & bought some stamps. Pleased to have figured out the crazy French phones!

I must remember for future reference that there are no direct trains to Vernon on weekends. So I took an almost empty train to Mantes-La-Jolie and then changed to a train to Vernon. I am most impressed by the punctuality of the trains – mine was slated to leave at 10:37 and arrive at 11:33 and it really did!

You can take a bus from the train station to Monet’s house, but I took a taxi [some things never change!]. The driver was really kind and arranged to pick me up a few hours later. He also pointed out a 400 year old mill on the way, and said that his father had attended Monet’s funeral. Apparently Monet wished for no pretension, and his coffin was carried on a cart, like all the villagers.

I was quite surprised by how few people there were whe I arrived at the Monet museum. Entrance to both the house and gardens was 30 francs, or $5. I was enchanted by the beauty of the gardens. they are separated by pink gravel paths and often have voine-covered archways, but the overall effect is wild, uncultivated. A slim black cat lounged Cleopatra-like on a stone bench, disdaining the passers-by. [Unfortunately, the photos I took on this trip, including the cat, are in storage. They turned out great.]

The garden was a riot of color, filled with roses, hydrangeas, black-eyed Susans, sunflowers, and countless others I couldn’t name. The waterlily pond looked exactly as it was painted, and it was amazing to stand on that bridge and look at those flowers, especially since I had it all to myself. I had time to stop and think, to take it all in.

To be continued – hopefully in less than two months!

…is already under the tree.

Twenty-five years ago today, my twenty-year old sister got married. Her husband suggested that she try him out for 50 years and then decide, a very generous version of the test drive.

Halfway through the trial period, I am pleased to announce that they are still married. They have weathered many storms together, but the strength of their love and the courage of their natures prevailed over every obstacle thrown in their path.

They have two wonderful children, my fabulous niece Cat and my adorable nephew Ben, who will be the first to tell you how great their parents are (and how wonderful their aunts are!).

Here’s to the next twenty-five years, you two. May they be filled with love and happiness.

When I arrived home, I noticed that the scaffolding used by the brick grinders was conspicuous by its absence (yay!) but had been replaced with a giant skip full of old roof chunks, and the work wasn’t done yet (boo!). In fact, they’ll be right back.

When I picked up Miz Rita from Charlie (and rewarded him for babysitting with a cashmere scarf from the magic kingdom of Century 21), he told me that the tar’n’brick brigade had been at it since I left, so even if I hadn’t braved the madding crowds of Gotham, I’d have had the maddening crowds right here in the courtyard.

And speaking of maddening: Rita’s Actual Owner, he who has not seen her or called or emailed to inquire about her welfare for the past several months, swooped in to “borrow” her from Charlie while I was away, putting Charlie in an awkward position and confusing the hell out of the poor puppy. He further stated that he’d be spending more time here, suggesting that his relationship isn’t going too well, so he’s repo-ing Rita as a fallback.

That’s what he thinks. So I have one of those awkward Relationship Talks to look forward to, in addition to the construction.

Oh, and the doctor called me while I was in New York to tell me I’m seeing a cardiologist next month. I tried to get her to explain the ultrasound results, but I was on my cell phone and there was New York in the background, so it was hard to hear, but the expressions “regurgitating valves” and “whether the muscle is healthy or sluggish” were mentioned. Regurgitating never sounds good, unless you’re a baby bird, and as for sluggish, I fail to see how my heart can be too fast and too slow at the same time. I’m seeing her on Tuesday and she told me not to worry. Why is that as soon as someone says “don’t worry”, you do?

Welcome home.

San Francisco is a city. Los Angeles is a city. New York is a city on crack*.

It’s speedy, speedy, speedy all the time. It’s insanely crowded. It’s not just the city that never sleeps, it’s the city that never stops. New Yorkers must be an incredibly tough breed to cope with all the craziness every day, especially all those chicas racing past the sky-high buildings in their sky-high heels.

The traffic is a constant dull roar (as my father used to say, usually in the context of telling his children to quiet down, as in, “Keep it down to a dull roar”) in the background. Car horns are not, as you might expect, the exclamation marks to the traffic sentence; they are the commas, listing each car. Car, honk, car, honk, and so on. The exclamation marks are the police and ambulance sirens, and good luck pulling over to let them pass.

Apparently, there is something to my “city on crack” theory. As reported in the ever-classy and reliable New York Post, New York City is number one in cocaine use in the entire world. It all makes sense now.

Imagine my relief when I hauled my exhausted, NY-battered self to Laguardia on Friday morning and found that there were no lines anywhere. If the day before Thanksgiving is the worst travel day, the day after is the best. I didn’t even have to wait for my bags or get hassled by security. I was thankful indeed.

*Remember this public service announcement? When I was young, it kind of made me hungry, and now it just makes me admire the guy’s egg-breaking technique.

Q: How does a girl who’s 3,000 miles from her family spend Thanksgiving?

A: In a more or less traditional manner. This morning, I read the papers in my bijou hotel room with the 80th Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade on the flat-screen TV, while sipping room service coffee and feeling really quite thankful.

Holiday shopping starts early in New York, and when in New York, go shopping. My hairdresser told me of a mythical place called Century Twenty One (no, not the fashion-challenged realtors in those dreadful gold jackets), where designer clothes and other delightfuls are drastically on sale. Think $450 cashmere sweaters for a paltry $60.

I was a little hesitant to go at first, when he told me it was right near Ground Zero. I had no intention of going there. A place like that should not be a tourist site. (In my opinion, they should have the two blue beams of light there forever, and not rebuild on a gravesite. Of course, I also believe that every single flag in the entire US of A should fly at half-mast until every single soldier is home from Iraq, but that’s just me.)

In the end, I could shop without gawking, and after all, shopping is a New York tradition, especially this time of year. I have to say, the city looks so pretty in its holidaywear that I can hardly wait to get home and put up my tree.

Tonight, I’ll head on over to PJ Clarke’s, the delightfully crowded and friendly 120 year old saloon nearby. Johnny Mercer wrote “One for My Baby” there, and Buddy Holly proposed to his wife-to-be there, saying prophetically, “I don’t have time” when she asked to think it over. I’ll have dinner at Frank Sinatra’s table (Number 20), and think of all of you, my family and friends, who I love, and who, more remarkably, love me back.

It’s Sleepy Hollow Cemetery!

When the day’s duties were done*, my colleague Ken and I repaired to the charming village where he lives. It’s just 30 minutes by train from Grand Central Station, but a world away. It’s also where Washington Irving had his delightful cottage overlooking the Hudson (and now overlooking the train tracks; apparently Irving traded his peace and quiet for unlimited free train rides and the ability to flag the train down like a taxi, instead of going to the station, which is less than a mile away).

In addition to Washington Irving, other dead local celebs include Madame CJ Walker, Stan Getz, and the cast of “The Legend of Sleepy Hollow”. Turns out Irving bagged the names for Katrina Van Tassel, Brom Bones, and Ichabod Crane from the graveyard of the Old Dutch Church (it really is old: built in 1685 and still in use).

While looking at Katrina’s grave (with its cheery, yet accurate, inscription “Death Conquers All” – and you thought it was Love), the groundskeeper approached.

He was from Central Casting, with a weathered face, long white beard, matching hair, and teeth looking much like the tombstones he attended to. He said, “Young lady,” (I immediately felt like I was in trouble) “do you know what happens at 1:15 every afternoon?” Not surprisingly, I didn’t, so he filled me in. “If you sit in front of the grave, the light makes her face come alive! And that, ” he said ponderously, “is exactly what happened to the 15 year old Washington Irving!” And with that, he got back on his John Deere tractor and drove away.

*This reminds me of a Gilbert & Sullivan song from The Gondoliers:

My father used to sing it, usually when he wanted us to do our homework. Despite the fact that he was tone deaf, he loved G&S and he loved to sing around the house.

It’s Suzy!

Starring the Not Ready to Get Up So Damn Early to Work Suzy!

“Hmmm, these bagels are good, though.”

Spent the day yesterday having meetings and doing my off-Broadway performance of Faux Adult.

“Despite countless repeat performances of “Grown-Up”, Suzy’s most famous role by far, there is still something lacking. She is not very convincing in this role, despite the excellent wardrobe, hair, and make-up. She should go back to acting school and prepare for this, her most challenging role.”

— Anonymous Reviewer

The hair part is true, anyway. I had it cut and highlighted last week (making me late to meet up with my nephew and his pal, whom I hadn’t seen in two years – clearly I made the right choice in assessing my utter lack of parenting skills), and it looks so great I’m almost tempted to post a photo.

And cleavage and heels do help a girl to get a cab, even at rush hour.

When the day’s work was done, I rewarded myself with something rare, and legendary (no, not Suzy doing housework): Mr. Bob Dylan, live and in person (he’s the little dot on the left. And you can’t tell, but he’s wearing pants with a sparkly stripe on them, just for me). I can now tell you from personal experience that being in the next-to-last row at a Dylan concert beats the hell out of being in the next-to-last row on the plane it took to get there. And total strangers, including a visibly pregnant woman, danced with me on the precipitous stairs of New York City Center.

I &hearts New York!

At first, I thought the construction site across the street had decided to get up close and personal. Turns out the purpose of this endeavor is to find and correct the leaks that cause my kitchen floor to mildly flood whenever it rains. The workers have been at it for several days, and the rain is still taking a leak in my kitchen.

They’ve been applying concrete to the edges of some bricks, removing others and replacing them, which sounds something like a massive cavity drilling (though much less painful). The best part of the whole irritating and pointless (so far) procedure is that I can eavesdrop on their conversations without even trying.

So far, discussions have included: the exorbitant price of coffee at the doughnut shop; the cheapness of the building’s owner, and surprise that Aaron, whose glass-blowing workshop is next door to me, got upset when he discovered that they had removed his air conditioner and bricked up the hole without asking or telling.

My favorite so far is two of them ganging up on the other and telling him he’s a “fucking old lady”. They start yelling “Granny” at him, and he chases them up the scaffolding.

I think I better pull up a chair and supervise.

Well, my results weren’t quite as good as these. I expected the wiretap to reveal that my heart was about the size of a pre-reformation Grinch’s and as lazy as the rest of me. Turns out that my heart is the only overachieving part of my slothful self, racing away while the rest of me idles.

The abandoned sofabed on my street, missing its cushions, is opened to a bed this morning.

A young man calls to a girl on a bicycle, ?You have to finish telling me about your drugged out professor!? as she rides away laughing. She waves as she disappears around the corner, perhaps promising to tell him the ending of the story, or perhaps ending the story.

In a window at the side of my building, a beautiful white cat with black spots sits serenely, gazing at me with calm amber eyes. ?I?ve seen better,? she seems to be saying. She?s right.

A woman in her car, idling at the red light, rolls down her window and calls out to me, ?Your dog is beautiful!? I smile, acknowledging this drive-by compliment. I think so, too.

My Italian neighbor stops to say good morning. He doesn?t speak English, but with the way he clasps my hands with both of his, he doesn?t need to.

A small boy skips across a busy intersection, unafraid because he is holding his father?s hand tightly. He looks up at his father, not the traffic, his face glowing with happiness and trust, his father?s with utter love.

It wasn’t all bad, despite Hotel Hell (yes, I diid get my deposit back) and the Tigers’ heartbreaking World Series loss.

For once, I had a non-Chevy, non-blinding blue rental car. It was a white Pontiac Grand Prix (at least Pontiac is a city in Michigan) and not at all a clown car. Best feature: the butt warmers in the seats! Rita and I both give them two paws up.

Dinner with Kathleen was fabulous, of course. She is one of the most interesting people I know. It was great to catch up, the food was wonderful, as always, and we had a bottle of nicely chilled white Bordeaux from Graves (90% Me, 10% Kathleen, the designated driver). I even had dessert and ate some of hers. Dessert fans: if you’re ever in Detroit, go to TJs. I had double berry crumble and Kathleen had housemade seedless blackberry ice cream with hot fudge sauce. Being such a good friend, I helped her out with the sundae, and it was a little piece of heaven. They make all their own desserts, and it’s worth the pilgrimage.

You probably won’t believe me after that rhapsody, but I rarely eat dessert. It was so worth making an exception!

And finally…what’s not to love about the giant Uniroyal Tire?

The vending machine at Hotel Hell, consisting mostly of Kools and Newports

Honestly, can’t I leave y’all alone for a few days without all hell breaking loose? I notice none of you cleaned up or did your homework*, either. Next time, you’re getting a babysitter. I don’t care how old you are!

While you were raising hell, I was soaking in it.

A fairly huge error in judgment – and lack of local knowledge – led me to spending a memorable night in Hotel Hell. Thinking that I needed to be downtown in order to get to my 9 am meeting on time, I chose the only hotel which allowed the lovely Rita to accompany me. Little did I know what I was in for.

Arrived late in Detroit, as per usual, having been lost, as per usual, and stalled in traffic for over an hour, as per usual (for extra fun, the car started whining about its low fuel level while I was still stuck. That’s Halloween scary. Or as they call it in Detroit, Devil’s Night.) Found hotel, which was built in the 1920’s. The lobby retained vestiges of its former glamor, but the oddly assorted inhabitants didn’t. To give you an idea of the other guests, one of them informed me that he had lived there for a year, but it was better than being homeless (a few minutes later, I could have debated that point), and another was screaming “You fucking retard!” into his cell phone. Oh, and he had a tattoo of a spider on his face and neck. Yes, yes.

Braved the strange smell – something like old movie theater combined with despair and the reek of failure – to find the room. There was no lamp or overhead light in the room. I called the front desk in near darkness to inform them of this defect, and was asked if I was sure. To paraphrase AA Milne, either a lamp is there, or it isn’t, and I pointed this out to the clerk. She said I could try another room. This room only got one channel on the TV, and in looking for the remote (there wasn’t one), I discovered a half-eaten chocolate bar and “Destyni’s” phone number.

I didn’t call Destyni, though. I called the front desk again. She said that the cable had been turned off in some rooms, but she didn’t know which ones, and she was the only one on duty (for a 20 storey hotel!). However, the bellman(!), who came on duty at 11 pm, could tell me. I bet he could tell me which floors the hoes and crack were on, too. Finally, I moved to Room Three. There was cable, no remote, the usual strange smell (but windows I could and did open, resisting the urge to hurl myself out), a stain on the carpet approximately body-shaped, and as I closed the door, the front of one of the bureau drawers fell off. committing furniture suicide. I could hardly blame it. Rita was so horrified she hid all night, pretending she was somewhere else.

I called the Red Roof Inn, made a reservation for the following night, and poured myself a drink.

Nothing can scare me now. I spent a night in Hotel Hell and lived to tell the tale. Final irony: I had to give them a $100 deposit for Rita, so I’d keep the room, and I quote, “in tip-top shape.”

*Ah, Feasterville Trevose, my little enigma. Will nothing induce you to reveal your true identity? Are you millionaire Bruce Wayne of stately Wayne Manor? You can tell me.

But enough about me. Let’s talk about you!

While I’m away, why don’t you play? I’m curious about you readers. When I check out the locations of readers on sitemeter, I can identify friends and family, but some locations mystify me completely. Sutton Coldfield is where my late aunt used to live, but can that be the connection? And what about the deliciously named Feasterville Trevose, Pennsylvania? And what’s with all those Canadians?

Enquiring minds want to know!

The Spirit of Detroit statue gets its very own Tigers shirt!

On my way tomorrow to the home of the Tigers and the fabulous Kathleen!

Wednesday: Spend all day getting there, getting lost, finding hotel.

Thursday: Meetings all day. Can I pay attention and be nice for 10 hours in a row while being all dressed up and pretending to be smart?! Dinner with Kathleen that evening (what a relief) either at TJ’s or somewhere we can watch the Tigers game.

Friday: Spend all day getting home, getting lost, etc.

Detroit seems to be my second home these days, so I feel justified in saying: