Suzy Says

Faithful readers may remember that Phil, the owner of Rita the Wonder Dog, fell in love last Fall. It’s been good news all around: Phil is now engaged, and I have become a part-time dog owner. Phil’s fianc&eacutee has two small children, who have yet to understand how to play with a dog of a certain age (or any dog). Oddly, dogs tend to dislike having their ears pulled, or being ridden like a horse. So do most people, in most circumstances.

So Phil quite often leaves Miss Rita with me while he tends to his other family. I have to admit to a certain indignation on Rita’s behalf, being that he kind of ditches her in favor of the new family, but I love her company and she does make me get some much-needed cardio. The canine timeshare has progressed to the point that I just keep a leash and a supply of Rita food on hand at all times, and she has her own bed beside mine.

On Valentine’s Day morning, I took her for a walk in the park. She is so well-behaved that I always let her off the leash. She soon met a big black dog with a curved tail, who bounded happily toward her. After the customary butt-sniffing niceties, they ran off to play together. The black dog’s owner was a handsome young man with bright blue eyes. He confided that the dog had followed him home the night before. The dog had no collar or tags, but he looked well-fed and was very sweet-natured.

The guy said the dog followed him all over his apartment that night. He called the Humane Society and Animal Control, and they both said that if no-one had called looking for the dog within three days, the dog was his. The guy said, “I only have a one bedroom apartment.” Pause. “And now it seems really small.” I said, “Well, it looks like you got yourself a dog.” He said, “I know”, and laughed.

Wouldn’t that make a perfect Meet Cute for a movie?

On Tuesday, I was still bored from the Stuporbowl on Sunday, even though I wasn’t in the same room with it. I had been assured that it would all be over at 9:00, but when the half time show started at 8:00, I began to have my suspicions. Next year, I’m going to hang out with K in her civilized antique house and drink wine and watch Gilmore Girls and pretend it isn’t happening. We might make a few prank calls to sports-watchin’ guys we know, but that’s as close as we’ll get.

To recover from the proximity-induced tedium, I went to have my hair highlighted. It was the first thing on my to-do list for the year, and voila! It’s done, even though it’s only February. I met up with K at the salon – she was getting preened to attend the freak show in Madison Square Garden next week, also known as The Westminster Kennel Club Dog Show as a reporter. To get an idea of the level of freakosity we’re talking about here, check out Best In Show.

I was third in line at the 99 Cent Store, where those who have lost their cred with creditors shop.

First in line was a guy who was buying six big bags of bird seed. Each bag was probably ten pounds. He paid with a $50 bill. When the cashier (the one and only in the whole store) scanned it to see if it was real, he started babbling about the scanning process, how you couldn’t trust anyone these days, how he once got paid for a job (unspecified) with a $1,000 bill…

The cashier, who was fortunate enough to have very little grasp of English, nodded and smiled politely, which only encouraged the birdseed buyer and discouraged the line lengthening behind him. Finally, having exhausted his topic and our patience, he left, presumably to feed thousands of birds or start a new diet craze (“Eat like a bird!”).

Second in line was a handsome young couple. They bought:

3 of those candles with Mary or Jesus on the glass container

4 different sized packages of drill bits

1 package of batteries

1 pair of “heavy duty” leather work gloves

Behind me, I heard a guy on his cellphone ask, “Do you like Spaghetti-O’s?”

Now I was really scared.

Sure, there are great things about working freelance and/or part-time. You can sleep in, work strange hours, wear pajamas (or nothing!) all day, and are blissfully free of office politics and soul-destroying commutes. On the other hand, you can’t steal office supplies or gossip by the water cooler or rely on a steady paycheck.

The lack of the steady paycheck led to my missing two months’ payments on my one and only credit card (other than Victoria’s Secret, but it’s hard to buy groceries, gas or plane tickets with it, for some reason). When the apartment sold, I paid off the balance, and a few days later, foolishly tried to use it. It was declined. I was confused. I called the friendly folks at Customer Service, and guess what they told me?

If the bill isn’t paid for two months running, “in 85% of cases, the card holder has passed on.”

They weren’t kidding. Either Visa card owners have an exceptionally high mortality rate, or this is their party line to the folks whose finances have declined to the point that their card is, too. Oh, and the past due amount in my case was a whopping $200.

The Customer Service mortician said that you cannot have your account reopened, even if you have paid off the balance and are not in fact dead. You have to reapply, and let’s guess that the rejection rate for live people who have had their account summarily slammed shut after more than a decade of dedicated use, no longer own a home, and are partially employed is even greater than the assumed mortality rate of those who haven’t paid their bill for 60 whole days.

So where does that leave our heroine? She will have to {gasp!} live within her means;and/or pay cash for everything (except lingerie); and/or get herself a sugar daddy. All suggestions and introductions welcome.

Since you can’t ask me for a note from my mother, you will just have to accept my excuse for my recent and rampant absenteeism:

Work. And lots of it.

I feel as if I were buried in work, only now digging out from underneath it like Punxsutawney Phil, making a hesitant appearance in the outside world, and blinking at the unaccustomed sunshine while looking around. Look at those horseless carriages! Women in pants! My goodness, how things have changed since the Work Avalanche of Ought-Six!

Every quarter, I research mutual funds for a client, notifying them if there are changes in management, fees, etc. Every quarter there are more, and for the quarter ended 12/31/05, there were 1,000. Count ’em (and I did), 1,000. It’s a positively Sisyphean task, though since it actually did have an end, let’s just call it Suzy-phean and be done with it. I’m already afraid of next quarter.

So after spending hours on the internet and phone researching this stuff, I couldn’t bear to even look at the computer, hence the lack of blogging and emailing. To quote the great Mark Twain, the reports of my death have been much exaggerated.

But Real Life (not Work Life) was seriously curtailed the past couple of weeks, though as previously mentioned, I did retreat to a friend’s house for a couple of days, where I did not touch a computer or even think about it for two whole days. Freedom, I’m telling you. It’s great.

Other Real Life events: Went to the dr., and she reduced my dosage of the Evil Effexor. So far, so good. While waiting to see her, enjoyed the following exchange between a mother and her young son in the waiting room:

Kid: Where are the crayons?

Mom: They don’t have crayons here.

Kid (reasonably, but perplexed): Why not?

Made me wonder why there aren’t crayons everywhere.

When taking out the trash, I went through the labyrinthine hallways of the main building (I missed the regular pick-up and had to rely on the Dumpster out back). On the way, I encountered:

The sound of Wilco’s I Am Trying to Break Your Heart (possibly my fave song ever);

The smell of weed;

An exhausted-looking hairnet, as favored by food service workers and certain tough guys in the Mission; and

What seemed to be part of an exploded set of dentures. I hope.

I spent the weekend with my fabulous friend K. She recently bought a 150 year old house in a quaint town, and I couldn’t wait to see her and the house (which has the cardinal virtue of being older than Me, unlike the lovely K, who is way behind me, at least in age).

I went by train, which I really think is the only civilized way to travel, though not as wonderful as in the halcyon days of observation cars, bar cars, and actual furniture. Still, there’s no traffic, you don’t have to drive (a big plus for Me and the unsuspecting world, since my driving is rarely, if ever, uneventful), you can get food and drink at your seat, get up and stretch your legs, and you don’t have to fight the laws of gravity by leaving the ground. Not to mention not having to get to the station half a day before your trip, or being searched (all you paranoid types: maybe trains will be the next terrorist targets! Call Amtrak now!).

After my delightfully uneventful trip, I met K at the station and repaired to her house. It is a charming jewel box of a house, and her hard work since acquiring it really shows. She has a real flair for decoration, too. The highlight for Me, of course, was the bathroom, with a to-die-for soaking clawfoot tub, (looking much like this),which I wasted no time in appreciating, up close and personal.

Since the house is still a work in progress, and the guest room is mostly used for storing tools, K and I slept in the same bed. Well, I slept. It turns out to my horror (a la Mary Tyler Moore) that I snore. Eeek!! I asked her if it was like the gentle buzzing of a distant bee, and she hesitated before telling me that it was “girlie.” Prospective bedmates, you have been warned.

I can’t say I was sorry to see the end of 2005. Here’s what happened:

January: In which Suzy gets to fly, and packs up for a winter in Florida.

February: In which Suzy thinks it’s a good idea to drive to Florida. Discovers her getting lost, being preached at by billboards, and eating scary food. Learns that the South is like a whole ‘nother country. Arrive in Florida with a sigh of relief and thinking nostalgically of the joys of air travel.

March: In which Suzy learns that Florida is like a whole ‘nother country, too. At the State Fair, learns that E.B. White was a big, fat liar, that pretty much everything can be deep fried, and what the hecks “funnel cake” is (hint: it’s deep fried).

April: In which Suzy attends leaves Florida (by plane).

May: In which the fashion show. Mystery remains unsolved.

Unfit for blogging: the sudden death of Sophie, the sweet, shy orange cat who was my beloved Buddy’s companion up until the end of his life. She was 12. She died in her sleep of a heart attack. Now she’s with Buddy again, curled up together and purring happily.

June: In which Suzy spends most of the month in the country, visiting Mom in the hospital. Her puppies!

July: In which Suzy goes home, leaving Mom still in the hospital. Never sees her again.

August In which Mom dies, four years and eight days after Dad died. The four orphans spend the month together. We’re all we have now.

September: In which…well, you can probably guess.

October: In which things are sale.

November: In which Suzy doesn’t have all that much to blog about (or brag about).

Unfit for blogging: The death of a beloved friend of more than 20 years, the beautiful and kind Genevieve. She was like a second mother to me, and losing her so soon after my mother’s death was especially painful. However, I’m grateful that she died at home in her sleep after attending Mass and didn’t suffer pain or indignity. I will always treasure her friendship.

December: In which Suzy is surprisingly Resolutions are made (to be broken).

Despite last year’s theme of death and despair, I am feeling hopeful about the new year. I’m definitely on the road to recovery from the breakdown and depression which occupied most of 2004 and 2005, and feel as if I’m ready to rise from the ashes, like a phoenix. Look out!

It is a truth universally acknowledged, that an exceptionally adorable two year old with an exceptionally wonderful mother, must be in want of a kitten.

Off they went to the local Humane Society, where the girl headed straight for the ugliest kitten there – scrawny, tiny, messy fur, “salvaged from somewhere”, as the shelter worker put it. It was love at first sight. And what did she want to name her kitten? What any two year old would: “Mine”.

When my niece was small, my sister Beth made the mistake of telling her that if she did something, she’d get a kitten. Of course, the task was completed immediately, and Beth was faced with traumatizing the kid with a lyin’ mama, or getting the promised kitten.

Off they went to their local humane society. On the way, my niece explained that her cat, Jimmy, was waiting for her there. On arrival, they roamed past the cages, with my niece calling “Jimmy, Jimmy! Here, Jimmy!” Guess who answered the call? Yes, the ugliest kitten there – to adult eyes. My niece thought he was beautiful. As she lifted him out of the cage, she told her mother, “I told you Jimmy was here.”

When my younger sis Megan was a kid, she went to camp, where she discovered a starved, stray dog, a mongrel mix beaten within an inch of his life (he actually had a broken bone over his eye, and both his back legs had been broken). She hid him in her tent and fed him until the inevitable discovery. Mutt was shipped off to the pound. Megan went crying to Dad, and told him she had found the most beautiful dog in the world and wanted to bring him home.

When they arrived at the pound (with Dad’s friend Ted in tow, who happened to be a veterinarian), the dog was tethered outside. Megan ran up to him and hugged him, saying to Dad with shining eyes, “Isn’t he beautiful?” Dad asked if she was sure this was the dog. An enthusiastic yes. He asked if she was sure that it was in fact a dog. Yes again. Ted checked him over and said other than fleas and malnutrition, he was healthy, so they took him home.

Little did Dad suspect that this funny-looking dog, Jesse, would become his beloved companion for the next 13 years, until Jesse died, an old and happy dog. Their ashes are scattered together beneath a tree, per Dad’s request. As for the kittens, they lived happily ever after, though “Mine’s” name was changed to Mia. I think children can see beauty in people, places, and things that we grown-ups can’t. If we’re lucky, they share it with us.

This year’s resolutions should be easier to keep than last year’s, which were to be better at answering emails and blogwalking. Considering the many emails still awaiting my attention and the lack of writing my own blog, let alone reading other people’s, I don’t think I get a passing grade for the passing year. Hopefully this year’s model will be more attainable:

1. Get hair highlighted. It’s been 5 months now, and the roots of darkness are only lightened by rogue silver hairs. It’s time for a Pentagon-sized cover-up.

2. Get divorced. It’s been two years since we separated, the apartment is sold, and in the words of more famous former couples, we remain committed and caring friends. It’s time to get on with our lives.

3. Get off anti-depressants. They are expensive and bad for one’s girlish figure. It’s time to get off the pills and get real.

4. Find the perfect nude lip gloss. It’s time to go to Sephora!

Wishing you all a happy and peaceful new year.

The apartment has finally been sold. Other than the breathtaking rudeness and generally unpleasant personality of the woman who bought it, the most shocking thing about the entire depressing process was the fun-filled discovery that the seller gets to pay the buyer’s real estate agent, too. The grand total for both agents was $35 grand. Grand for the agents, that is.

I can’t help resenting paying the Other Agent, when all he did was make a spacious apartment in Pacific Heights with a view of the Golden Gate Bridge from the roof garden and beautiful period details sound like a tenement in Hunters Point. A really good agent can make you totally ashamed of your place in under five minutes.

So let’s take a farewell tour of the place I lived in and loved for well over a decade.

Here’s the outside of the building which dates from 1927.

It’s three blocks from Nicolas Cage’s house
and the famous Haas-Lilienthal House, now a museum.

Guess we all just love to slum it.

This is the living room, which I painted a sunny yellow.

You can see the 250 year old grandfather clock, which has been in my father’s family ever since it was made. The rocking chair was made by my mother’s grandfather from cherry wood, with mother-of-pearl inlays. The plant is called Frank.

Another view of the living room, looking toward the kitchen.

The desk was my beloved godfather’s.

The kitchen, showing the wonderful old Wedgewood stove (it’s more than 50 years old and the best stove I ever had).

Behind the stove and sink are the handmade Italian tiles I had put in. The counters were made by my brother from quarter-sawn white oak. I really hate it that the new owner appreciates none of these things. She complained bitterly that there was no dishwasher. Undoubtedly, she’ll yank it all out and replace it with stainless steel everything and never cook in it, just show it off.

The bathroom has William Morris wallpaper (the frieze is called Willow Bough, and the rug matches) imported from England.

The doorknob on the closet is lead crystal, as are all of the doorknobs in the apartment. The tub is a real cast-iron clawfoot, dating from 1890. I painted the outside green and the feet silver.

Last of all, the bedroom, with another Morris rug and the 1920’s dressing table I got at a yard sale 20 years ago. It turned out to be surprisingly valuable.

You can also see the bay window with a glimpse of the garden.

So there you have it. It doesn’t look that bad, does it?

You know how it always seems that you have a million things to do right before Christmas? Especially if you’re a dyed-hair, dyed in the wool Procrastinator like I am. My last-minute Christmas Eve tasks did not include malls or shopping, but rather, a trip to the notary, Barney, and then there’s the OnStar incident.

I was invited to spend Christmas with a friend and her family in another city, so I had to rent a car. As with most rental cars, it was far too fancy and complicated for the non-mechanically minded Me (I don’t care how anything works, as long as it works). Picked up car without incident, but faithful readers will know that if I get anywhere near a car, something will happen sooner or later. This time, it’s later, so you’ll just have to wait and see.

Of course I had not packed for the trip or wrapped the presents, though I had at least bought the presents. I was about to pack up the car and go when I got a phone call informing me that I had to get some documents notarized and Fed Exed for arrival on the morning of December 27 at the latest.

Swearing in a most un-holiday manner, off I went to the notary, thankful for their non-holiday work ethic. I took a number, and was banished to the waiting room, which was dominated by a TV set bolted to the wall and inflicting Barney on an unsuspecting public. As he cultishly sang repeatedly how much he loved his (presumably unknown to him) audience and informed them that they seconded his emotion, I looked vainly for an off switch or volume control. Barney, wherever and whatever you are, you freak, I do not love you. In fact, I think you’d make one fine target.

The three kids planted squarely in front of the set would have disagreed with me, except they were in a narcotic haze. If it weren’t for the evidence of Barney so unmissably present, I would have suspected their parents of improving the kids’ juice boxes with a calming hit of an opium-based derivative. But it was Barney himself who caused the slack-jawed, glazed eye look of these brainwashed infants. I was scared.

Fortunately, my number was called, I was relieved of some cash, and I was on my way before there was an incident.

On the highway, an old gentleman driving a white Cadillac and wearing a Santa hat passed me. I wonder if that’s how Santa gets around now? So much more comfortable than a sleigh, where he is exposed to the cold night air and reindeer butts and their products. And just wearing the hat instead of the whole costume is much more modern. Stylish Santa for the 21st century. About time he updated his look.

I stopped at Denny’s en route (I know, I know, but I really had to pee. Those among you who indulge in caffeine will know that a coffee-induced pee is more unstoppable than Barney), and I swear someone was doing coke in the next stall. All I can say is, she went in, didn’t avail herself of the usual facilities, but there was lots of sniffing going on. It seems eccentric to do coke in the Denny’s ladies’ room on Christmas Eve, but perhaps we all need a little help in dealing with our holiday stress.

Back on the road, it was dark, and the inevitable occurred. I got lost. I pulled over to consult the minutely detailed instructions so thoughtfully (and fruitlessly) provided by my hostess. My attempts to turn on the lights in the complicated car resulted in:

1. Opening the moon roof to the cold and rain.

2. Accidentally hitting the OnStar button.

I tried desperately to turn it off, to no avail. A creepy computer voice informed me that it was connecting, connecting…then Kanye West abruptly stopped playing and a voice over my stereo speakers said, “This is Darnell. What’s your emergency?”

I didn’t have the nerve to tell Darnell that my only emergency was being lost, bored, traumatized by Barney, and sick of driving, or to ask him if he was the same Darnell as Crab Man on My Name Is Earl, so I just stammered out an apology for my mistake. Darnell forgave me with the grace of a Wise Man, and vanished from my life, leaving Kanye West and a blushing Suzy in his wake.

I’m never calling OnStar again.

This is a 162 year old Christmas card – one of the very earliest. Who says Victorians didn’t know how to party? I think it’s going to be a goodnight pretty soon for the wine-guzzling kid in the foreground!

Wishing you all a joyful holiday season (and lots of presents)!

I was awakened this morning by someone shouting, “Who the fuck do you think you are?!” angrily and repeatedly. I lay in bed, wondering what the answer was until curiosity overcame me and I peeked out the window.

There was an ancient-looking man, intoxicated, insane, and irate, walking out of the courtyard, gesturing at no-one (no-one visible, anyway) and screaming the age old, unanswerable question at the uncaring sky.

I discovered that Santa had come early this year, and had broken with tradition by substituting the oh-so-fashionable germ warfare for the usual stocking full of coal for those of us who are habitually naughty rather than nice. A seasonable, but so far, small-sized case of a flu-like illness. I never thought Santa would look like a crazy homeless guy, but then again, so many things are disappointing as an adult. Undoubtedly, an efficiency expert told him to get the bad ones out of the way early, and don’t bother dressing up for the likes of them.

With even more excuse than usual to languish and lounge, I checked out the December issue of Vanity Fair. The Letters section was frothing with rage about the November issue’s cover starring Paris Hilton. I thought I was underemployed until I saw the letters from rabid readers who angily cancelled their subscriptions and/or tore off the offending cover and mailed it back to the magazine with their complaints.

The most amusing letter for me was from none other than Mama Partridge herself, Miss Shirley Jones, she whose TV son was arrested for beating up a TV hooker, and whose catalogue of his many, many misdeeds can be found in his very entertaining and well-written memoir, Random Acts of Badness. As far as I know, Miss Jones never publicly railed against Mr. Bonaduce for being a bad role model, and I would venture to say that being a socialite who likes to have her photo taken is not as bad as being arrested for assault or being a crackhead.

But that’s just me.

Being an equal opportunity reader, I decided to check out La Hilton’s memoirs, too. However, they are less of an autobiography and more of a picture book. On the other hand, I did get diet tips, which, as you may recall, my dream girl wouldn’t give me:

Eat fast food, pasta, and chocolate as often as you can. Only eat carbs at night. Never take diet pills or drink diet soda or go to the gym. You might get sweaty.

And words of wisdom on topics of vital importance:

On tiaras: People act differently toward you when you have jewelry on your head.

On skincare: I’m over tanning beds, because I don’t want to get skin cancer. Mystic Tan instead. Be tan all year round. I go to sleep with my makeup on, because it makes my skin look all dewy, and there’s less to do in the morning.

On my beloved Weeki Wachee Springs: My first job (on the Simple Life 2) was at Weeki Wachee, a kids’ place with an underwater show. I got to play a mermaid. It was kind of stupid, but Elvis has been there, so that makes it kind of cool

On public transit: Yes, I admit I’ve taken the subway in New York – and it smells. It literally smells like pee. Why can’t they do anything about that? Does anyone ever clean down there?

And unlike the rest of us insecure girls, she only hates one thing about her body. It’s her size 11 (transvestite sized!) feet.

Observant readers like the eagle-eyed Mike (I’m betting his kids don’t get away with much!) may have noticed that although my door has a wreath, it did not have a doorknob. Typical of Me to accessorize without worrying about those dull necessities.

It really wasn’t my fault, though. A couple of days ago, I woke up to discover that the door would not open. The diva doorknob generally expressed her temperament by refusing to stay closed, but decided that an amusing variation would be to stay closed and see how I liked it.

I didn’t. I also could not open the door, and sooner or later, I would almost certainly want to venture out into the Wide World, despite generally agreeing with the Water Rat’s dim view of it.

With the doorknob snickering in the background, I called the building manager, Mister Anonymous. Yes, that’s his legal name. No, I don’t know why. I just call him Mister.

He came over as soon as he could. First, he had to oversee the ejection of an enraged and screaming Boob Girl, who managed to smash the glass in the building’s front door on her way out, in spite of the fact that she was in a straitjacket and being carried by a couple of strong men. I learned later that she had expanded her sales campaign from knocking on doors to slipping flyers advertising her sexual services under them. Imagine my annoyance to learn that everyone I know in the building had summarily disposed of these erotic ephemera. Now I’ll never see one.

So Mister went from one broken door to another. You can imagine that he was in a pretty good mood by the time he got to mine. First, he took the doorknob off. Still stuck. Tried to take off the hinges, but only two out of the four would come off. Finally, in exasperation, he kicked the door – and it opened. I still have the deadbolt to keep it closed, but Mister hasn’t brought me a replacement doorknob yet. Fortunately, the wreath was unscathed.

I am feeling all festive this year. This is a bigger deal than you’d think, since it’s the first time I’ve felt like celebrating Christmas since Dad died, four years and four months ago. We always had such a wonderful time at Christmas. He and my stepmother would come every other year, and we’d rent a house right on the ocean in Bodega Bay. Often, it would be warm enough for a Christmas Eve picnic on the beach, and one of my very favorite photos of Dad was taken on New Year’s day at nearby Point Reyes, as he paddled in the ocean, loving the sun and the shore birds (the sanderlings were his favorites, and are mine as well: they’re like charming wind-up toys).

That can of GrinchBeGone must have really worked, because I have a tree! Naturally, it’s unnatural, being a vintage, silver and white number, originally from the long-gone, legendary Gimbels department store in New York. It may be even more vintage than I am, since the price tag reads $2.88!

I thought it would be a lot easier to set up than it was. I sort of imagined that you’d just open it up like an umbrella, but no. You have to put it together, and fluff out the branches. Then you have to find a tree stand to fit a trunk approximately the thickness of your average broom handle. I soon discovered that in the world of tree stands, you most certainly can be too thin. Nothing fit my tree’s svelte silhouette, so I ended up trapping it between bricks I found at the back of the building and covering them with cloth napkins I liberated from some first class travel some time ago. Who says crime (well, pilfering) doesn’t pay?

It’s also much harder to take a good picture of the tree than I had anticipated. It has three sets of twinkly lights that twinkle at all different times, so it’s never all lit up at the same time, and the photo was the best I could get. I love the twinkling, though.

As if that weren’t enough, I also have a wreath. This one is real Scotch pine and smells all Christmassy. You can tell I decorated it, since the ornaments are all haphazard. I think it looks pretty anyway.

The phone rang at the ungodly (well, un-Suzy) hour of 8:00 this morning. It was my doctor’s secretary, asking if I could come in this afternoon. Caught unguarded and uncaffeinated, I agreed. Later, considering the fact that I have to take two buses to get there (that’s two too many) and that I was overwhelmed by slothfulness (one of my personal favorite sins), I regretted this, but reflected that the dr. visit might result in a reduced dosage of happy pills, which should also result in a reduced size of Suzy. One of the side effects of the expensive, yet unamusing, happy pills is that one goes from Ab Fab to Ab Flab.

So I grumpily went to the bus stop an hour before the appointment, and as in Casablanca, I waited. And waited. And waited….

Finally, the long-awaited bus appeared. I got on, all unsuspecting, and suddenly, it took a detour. By the time I realized that it was not, in fact, going where I wanted to go, there were 15 minutes left before my appointment. No way I could make it. I got off the bus, called the dr.’s office, and got their voicemail, which breezily informed me that they were at lunch and – get this – they do not check messages left during their 1 &1/2 hour lunch break (despite the fact that my appointment was scheduled during that time). I left a detailed and annoyed message, and then spent almost the same amount of time I had spent waiting for the bus trying to get a taxi. There was no way I was dealing with any more public transit that day. I had waited and smelled enough, thank you.

By the time I got one, I was homicidal. When I got home, the phone was ringing. It was, you guessed it, my over-lunched dr.’s receptionist asking where I was. I explained everything yet again and told her I had left a message, but she said she hadn’t gotten it. Not checking your messages will do that, dontcha think? And why have voicemail at all, if you’re not going to check it? And PS to the public transit people, who are no doubt snickering evilly about the success of their practical joke, you might want to consider posting signs warning innocent patrons that the route has changed, and what it has changed to. Just a thought.

Martini o’clock is going to be a little early today.

I know they say hearing about other people’s dreams is really boring – and while I may be many things, I hope boring isn’t one of them – but I promise to keep it brief. Also Kirstie Alley wasn’t in this one.

I dreamed that I called a company to complain about something, only to be informed that they had closed their complaints department. No further complaints would be taken. I was furious, because complaining is one of the few things I do well. And often. If there were a Complaints competition in the Olympics, I’d get a gold medal. They could give you a topic, and the one who complains the longest and most entertainingly wins.

I don’t know why there isn’t, come to think of it. Practically everything else is an Olympic sport these days. Synchronized Knitting, with players all knitting and purling at the same time with the precision of the Rockettes. Points will be dropped for dropped stitches. Relay Speed Coloring, where one player feverishly fills in as much as s/he can before passing the crayon to the next player. The first one to fill in the entire coloring book without going out of the lines wins. False Eyelash Application, individual and whole strips. There will be mandatory eyelash extension testing, and anyone who fails will be condemned to using mascara only for an entire year.

As requested by La Candina:

1. What time did you get up this morning??8:30 am (and I had to set the alarm!)

2. Diamonds or pearls? Do you even have to *ask*? Gotta go for the sparkle, every time.

3. What was the last film you saw at the cinema? Capote. It was brilliant.
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4. What is your favorite TV show? Glimore Girls, Everwood.

5. What did you have for breakfast? Pink grapefruit & black coffee.

6. What is your middle name? Jean (ugh – so unglamorous)

7. What is your favorite cuisine? Italian or French.

8. What foods do you dislike? Tofu. Anything soy-related, actually. Most dairy (milk; yogurt; sour cream, etc.) other than cheese. Oysters, caviar (why won’t anyone admit it’s fishy Jell-O?), smoked salmon, tuna, sushi. I don’t eat beef or pork. Maybe I should have listed the foods I do like instead!

9. What is your favorite potato chip flavor? I don’t really eat them. I do like Lundberg’s rice chips, though. Sesame-seaweed’s my favorite.

10. What is your favorite CD at the moment?? Blackalicious, The Craft, Janis Joplin, Pearl

11. What kind of car do you drive? I don’t have one at the moment, though I used to own a silver-blue 1966 Mustang convertible. My first and only car.

12. Favorite sandwich?? Chicken Caesar wrap.

13. What characteristics do you despise? Ignorance, cruelty, piety, intolerance.

14. What are your favorite clothes? My lavender suede Manolo Blahniks.

15, If you could go anywhere in the world on vacation, where WOULDN’T you go? Most of Asia, other than Thailand.

16. What color are your eyes? Green.

17. Favorite brand of clothing? In real life, I seem to wear a lot of Gap and J Jill. If money were no object, Prada.

18. Where would you want to retire to? Like I’ll be able to!

19. Favorite time of day? Twilight.

20. Where were you born? Syracuse, New York. Other than that, it has no redeeming qualities.

21. Favorite sport to watch? Sporty Suzy is teetering on the edge of extinction.

22. Coke or Pepsi? Champagne – if you’re going to drink calories, you might as well get a buzz. Or Perrier, despite the opinion of a well-known socialite who said, “I never drink water. Fish fuck in it.”

23. Are you a morning person or night owl? I’m a reformed morning person. So I’m a dedicated night owl now.

24. Any new and exciting news you?d like to share with everyone? New news? Isn’t that redundant?

25. What did you want to be when you were little? Idle rich. Still hopin’.

26. What are the different jobs you have had in your life? Au pair on the French Riviera; all-purpose worker (checking people in and out, making breakfast for hundreds, giving tours) at a youth hostel that was formerly a 150 year old jail; about a thousand temp secretarial jobs (commitment phobic); investment analyst, wife.

27. Nicknames: What is your nickname? Suz, Suzy (my family also likes to call me things that rhyme, like Floozy, Boozy, etc. and always laugh when I answer).

28. Piercings? Both earlobes, the cartilage of my right ear. A friend pierced my cartilage in 1984, so I feel well ahead of the trend on that one.

29. Ever been to Africa? No.

30. Ever been toilet papering? No.

31. Been in a car accident? Once, when I was about 9 years old. No serious damage. I wasn’t driving.

32. Favorite day of the week? They’re all the same to me.

33. Favorite restaurant? Swan Oyster Depot.

34. Favorite flower? Lilacs, sweet peas, lilies of the valley.

35. Favorite ice cream? Double Rainbow White Pistachio.

36. Favorite fast food restaurant? Those roadside stands in New England where you can get fried clams and lobster rolls.

37. How many times did you fail your driver?s test?? None, even though I hate to drive.

38. Before this one, from whom did you get your last e-mail? Sadly, my boss, if you don’t count junk mail.

39. Which store would you choose to max out your credit card? Do I have to pick just one?

40. Bedtime? When I’m sleepy.

41. Last person you went to dinner with? My fab friend Kelly.

42. What are you listening to right now? The whoosh of traffic and my life zipping by.

43. What is your favorite color? Pink.

44. How many tattoos do you have? None. Makes me feel all distinctive. Am convinced that there will soon be a porn fetish for girls with unmarked and unpierced bodies, since tattoos and piercings are so commonplace.