Suzy Says

Awright, sports fans (and you know who you are). The neophyte and knowledge-less Sporty Suzy (who has no stats at her manicured fingertips and nothing in her brain cell that isn’t frivolous, shallow, and non-athletic) needs your help.

How and why does one keep supporting one’s home team?

1. The players rarely, if ever, actually come from the city whose team they play for, so it’s not like they personally embody the spirit of the place.
2. While they do get paid a lot of money, they are more or less helpless pawns who may be traded at any moment. Despite this sword of Damocles hanging over their heads, they have to be team players in the most literal sense, all working toward the same goal (no pun intended). If they do get traded, they have to start all over again with people they don’t know, or possibly with former enemies.
3. Your favorite players get traded and you don’t get to see them play anymore. Do you switch loyalty to the team they play on, or keep watching the old team with the new people you don’t care about?
4. Do you have to overlook things like Barry Bonds’ deplorably diva-like behavior, both on and off the field (I find the way he treats the women in his life more deplorable than the steroid accusations)? Do you have to overlook the fact that the Giants didn’t can his overbearing ass, but they did dump several players so late in the season that it was almost impossible for them to get picked up by other teams? I admit this rankled with me the most in the case of Marquis Grissom, my favorite Giant, who was a total gentleman about the whole thing. He was the Anti-Bonds. I really miss him.
5. The whole embarrassing NHL d&eacuteb&acirccle. I can’t believe they were all so damned childish that there was no hockey for a year, and when it came back, the schedule was stupid, the rules had changed, and with the salary cap, some of the best players became instantly unaffordable. The Maple Leafs, for example, were dropping like, well, leaves (why are they the Leafs and not the Leaves, anyway? Anyone? Anyone?), losing stellar players like Brian Leetch, Gary Roberts, and Joe Nieuwendyk faster than you can say Don Cherry.

   Leaf it to a bunch of men to mess things up. I wonder if sports would be different if we girls ran the show. I bet the uniforms would be cuter.

Apparently.

Last night, I dreamed that Kirstie Alley and I were in a public restroom somewhere (no, not like the infamous cheerleaders – sorry if you were hopin’ for some hot hot voluptuous girl-on-girl action, guys). She was earnestly trying to convince me that I had thrown something in the sink. I maintained my innocence, claiming that it was, in fact, pink confetti*.

I was distracted from the argument by the fact that I was unable to open the clasp of my adorable new pink handbag. I kept fiddling with it, to Kirstie’s great annoyance, until she finally grabbed it and opened it for me, dumping it back on my lap with disgust. I, on the other hand, was perfectly happy and starting rummaging through the contents: lip gloss! A sparkly hair ornament! Oooh, money!

I still say it was confetti. And I didn’t even get any diet tips.

*This reminded me of when I visited the Motown Historical Museum and found a single red sequin on the floor of the ladies’ room, as if one of the ladies from that glamorous era of music had just swept out the door in a fabulous gown.

Ever wondered what to do with those pesky wedding rings, promise rings, and other sentimental jewelry which are no longer sentimental? Assuming, of course, that you refrained from throwing them back at the giver (though I believe tradition dictates that the one who gets left gets to keep the jewelry, as a sort of consolation prize: “And thank you for playing our game!”).

Worry no longer. The good folks at Goddammo will help you out. For a nominal fee, they will transform your unwanted rings’n’things into something much more useful: a bullet. Keep in mind: they don’t include gunpowder, and platinum costs $5 extra.

Paint It Black

Today I followed the Rolling Stones’ advice and painted my front door black (though I probably wouldn’t take their advice on anything else, especially dating and cosmetic surgery). It’s all shiny and looks great. Now, if I could just find a way to haul home the two cement lions discarded outside a defunct night club down the street, I’d be all set.

Somehow painting your door black seems so Halloween. I also have a plastic light-up pumpkin in my window, but I doubt if I’ll get any trick-or-treaters, since I’m a little off the beaten track. The building was originally a coffin factory (and how Halloween is that?) in the 19th century. It was built onto as needed, so it’s full of strange passages (some underground) and weirdly-shaped rooms. Some of it is used as businesses, but most are live-work lofts, though officially, no-one lives here.

The part I live in is the former woodworking shop, and is attached to the big building, but has its own front door. Everyone else has to share. And to get to my shiny black door, you have to go through a semi-creepy brick, pigeon-infested passageway and then there’s the courtyard and Chez Suzy.

This can be a little annoying when having necessities of life like booze and groceries delivered, since I almost inevitably get a semi-irate delivery guy on his cell phone, saying, “I’m right outside, where are you?” and I have to direct him in. Nothing like a guy frustrated from making his delivery, is there?

In other building news, Boob Girl has been thrown out of her roommate’s apartment, but is still living somewhere in the building. Rumor has it that it’s a windowless room which used to be an office. Charlie has stopped answering his door at night.

Phil, the owner of Rita the Wonder Dog, has a new ladylove, which is good for me, since I get to keep Rita when he’s away at his girlfriend’s overnight. And you know how love is, especially in the first throes. So I get companionship, too, and I have to get my voluptuous butt out to the park twice a day to walk the dog, so that’s good, too.

However, I don’t think I’ll ever get used to picking up poop. I’m just not scatologically inclined. I laughed so hard when I read this on PostSecret. I wonder if I could teach an old dog that new trick?

Wild, Wild Life

Bigger is not always better. For example, thighs. Or butts. Or To Do Lists. Or obstacles.

Or vermin.

The home invaders have gotten bigger and badder recently. In the past week, I have been visited by a squirrel and a pigeon (on different occasions, but both uninvited). It’s my own fault for leaving the front door open, but that doesn’t seem to matter all that much when you have a pigeon flapping around overhead or a squirrel scrabbling in your kitchen.

I’m sorry to say that I was unequal to the Nature challenge (as usual). Being the Hysterical Female Poster Child, I fled the premises and grabbed the nearest boy. Fortunately, the building is well-equipped with boys, available to deal with sudden emergencies of the plumbing and wildlife kind. Here are the lessons I learned:

1. What a broom is for. It’s for removing pigeons. Broom in hand, brushy side up, you wave it around over your head, and sweep the pigeon out of the door. Any fallen feathers can be removed by the cleaning crew, who probably already know how to use a broom.

2. In the case of squirrels, the approved method is to block all methods of egress (as PT Barnum would say) other than the door. Make a loud noise to flush squirrel out of hiding. Chase it out the door.

Alternate method: Get Rita the Wonder Dog to chase it out for you. This is one of her specialties.

3. Boys: they’re not just for opening jars!

4. Mr. Mouse is not as scary as previously thought. Of course, I haven’t seen him in about a year, and supposedly absence makes the heart grow fonder*, so this opinion is subject to change. After all, it’s a woman’s prerogative to change her mind.

5. Don’t leave the front door open.

Well, this young lady has learned her lesson.

*And they also say, “Out of sight, out of mind”, but which one is it? I mean, you can’t have it both ways.

My friend and neighbor Charlie, who lives across the courtyard (and, more importantly, brought me the fabboo Venetian presents this summer) heard someone knocking at his door ’round midnight.

He opened it to reveal a woman he had never seen before, holding two cigarettes. She offered him one in return for using his computer, but alas, smoking is not one of his vices. Her alternate suggestion? “Want to see my boobs?” His civilized response: “That won’t be necessary.*”

It turned out that she is an (allegedly) former stripper that a girl in the building took on as a roommate out of desperation. Her boyfriend left her suddenly and she needed help with the rent. A couple of days ago, I saw (and heard) the two of them arguing in the courtyard, the roommate telling Boob Girl that she never wanted to come home and find homeless people in her livingroom ever again. This seemed to be quite a reasonable request to me, though not to BG, who expressed her opinion so loudly that someone thought police intervention was necessary. It probably was. Homeless person was ejected, and I haven’t seen BG since. This roommate thing seems to be somewhat problematic.

On the (thankfully) less wild side, Jeff, who also lives in the building, just got a new roommate. He already lives with his brother Aaron, and the new roommate’s name is, you guessed it, Aaron, which is so delightfully Newhart. “Hi, I’m Jeff, this is my roommate Aaron, and this is my other roommate Aaron.”

*This reminded me of when Dad and I were walking through the Tenderloin, favored hangout of hookers, and he was propositioned. He very politely said, “No, thank you very much” in his cultivated English voice, which made me laugh. He said, “There’s no point in being rude about it,” and walked on.

Suzy’s Top Five Reasons For Not Blogging:

1. Mom’s death hit me harder than I thought it would. In addition to working through the grief, I’m also working through the regret and guilt of not being a better daughter to her.

2. I’m selling my apartment. Any takers? I’d love it, since….

3. I’m broke and have the overdraft to prove it. I now understand how those English aristocrats can live in a castle, but not have enough money to pay the milkman. That’s how it is when all your money is tied up in real estate and not cash. And have failed to achieve idle wealth (the best kind).

4. The happy pills from the doctor aren’t making me happy. It’s an expensive, yet unenjoyable drug habit (the worst kind).

5. All this is making me suspect that the premise of the delightful comedy My Name Is Earl is correct, and all the bad things keep happening to me because of all the bad things I’ve done. If I followed his example, my list would take the rest of my life – and that’s just the stuff I remember.

Now I’m really scared.

The party lived down to my expectations, ending at 4 am. In addition to the catering, there was a professional DJ, so at least I was annoyed with no expense spared. I’m probably just jealous of the Trust Fundies, since at about half my age, they have already achieved the goal of being idle rich – a goal which has so far eluded me.

I have a pre-season cold, which seems as unfair as having to go back to school before Labor Day. However, it’s a good excuse not to do much of anything except feel sorry for Self (one of my special skills) and lounge (ditto).

I was lounging around watching the spectacularly freaky Varietease, starring the spectacular Bettie Page and Lili St Cyr, along with transvestites (why do they always have such great legs?) and an MC who was definitely high on something, I know not what, when the fire alarm went off. Trained since elementary school in fire drills, I assumed it was a mistake or a prank or a test. Imagine my surprise when I heard fire engines and they stopped right outside the building. Not even Bettie Page was more interesting than that. I ventured outside and saw smoke coming from the roof of the main building.

I let the firemen into the building and left them to it. I knew it wasn’t my part of the building on fire, and since my bro is a fireman, I know how much they hate an audience. Later, I learned from the superintendent that:

– The fire started on the roof, because the guys who were tarring it (though not feathering; that was the pigeons’ job) went to lunch, leaving the tar and its heating accessories unattended.

– The super had put it out before the firemen got there.

– The firemen were furious, because the funky old building has all these mysterious hallways and doors and passages, and it’s hard to get where you’re going unless you already know or have a native guide. They weren’t too happy to find the fire was out by the time they had negotiated their way Through the Looking Glass.

– There was a naked man sitting calmly on the fire escape, holding his clothes and watching the proceedings.

“Plus Ca Change, Plus C’est La Meme Chose.”
(“The more things change , the more they remain the same.”)
— Alphonse Karr, Les Guepes, January 1849

I’m still here, folks. Suzy has not (as yet) left the building.

I’m still struggling to come to terms with being Little Orphan Suzy. I have a lot of regrets about my relationship with my mother, as well as the sorrow at losing her. There’s no easy way to work through these things, and as you know, I’m not a big fan of the hard way or the long way in anything.

Speaking of which, I haven’t given up on my beautification project. Reason dictates that it’s easier to fix up the outside than the inside (either physical or psychological), but as anyone who has ever lived through renovations will tell you, it takes longer and costs more than you’d ever think. There are sudden, inexplicable work stoppages. Things that should have been done weeks ago are not finished, or half-finished. Sudden problems are discovered. And then there’s the noise and the mess.

The road to hell (aka the gym) is paved with good intentions, especially mine. I only went once last week, and the only other real exercise I got was dancing to Blackalicious at a small club. The club cardio was probably cancelled out by the two Cosmopolitans I had, though they were each just a tiny puddle in a huge glass. If gyms had martinis, I’d probably be more likely to go, but even my poor math skills tell me that 1 workout+2 martinis = no thinner (though definitely happier). And there you have it: the conundrum of this girl’s life. One of them, anyway.

Others:

– What to do about my temperamental computer, which had a temper tantrum last week and lost my email for that week, along with changing the URL of my blog (it must have felt like being incognito for a while). Other computer-related issues are that the track pad doesn’t work, necessitating the use of a mouse with an iBook, and only one USB port (that used by the mouse) works. The iBook is about 4 years old, but I think computer years must be even longer than dog years, and mine is about 90 now, hobbling around on a cane and being ornery.

– What to do about the upstairs neighbors. Their G-rated nickname is the Trust Fundies, due to their outstanding youth (about 25) and sense of entitlement (boundless) and apparent disposable income despite lack of obvious employment (ditto). Their dogs are still howling and barking, and when the guy who lives above them had the temerity to complain, Mr. Trust Fund went psychotic and the neighbor fled in terror. They have informed me that they are having a catered party on Friday, meaning: don’t complain about the racket, even if it goes on until 3 am.

Of course, it’s catered. These are the same people who spent $5,000 on hardwood flooring for their rented apartment and have their windows professionally cleaned, despite their youth. Can’t they afford to put their dogs in daycare, so they don’t howl and bark all day long? The only consolation I have is that Mr. TF and both dogs got thoroughly skunked a couple of days ago. Thanks, karma, but I’m kind of looking for a bigger gesture here.

It was an unusually embarrassing day for our heroine, whose aliases include “Calamity Suzy” due to her amazing talent for being accident prone. Not to mention that in addition to the usual fights against gravity (boobs’n’butt), she ends up wearing part of every meal. Her eating style is probably comparable to Mike’s beautiful daughter Marina (though far less charming). I hasten to add that despite being a messy eater, our heroine does know what fork to use. The food just might not stay on it.

The day started out reasonably enough, with a cup of black coffee and a completely perfect peach, but deteriorated rapidly. I went to water the flowers so kindly planted by (but not maintained by) the Mystery Gardener. While walking out the door, I managed to trip and fall forward, smashing the pitcher of water and falling onto my side. My shoes had fled inside, and I lay there winded for a moment, hoping that no-one would see me. They would be all too likely to jump to the wrong conclusion based on the contents of my recycling box, against which I was gracelessly arranged.

When I was finally able to get up and breathe again and wash off the blood, I went to the doctor. Not because of the watering incident, but because of my oh-so-tenuous mental health. I burst into tears in her office. She increased my dose of happy pills.

I thought it would be too embarrassing to be seen on public transit, weeping and sniffling, so I treated my beat-up body and psyche to a cab ride home. Waiting at a red light, a loiterer on the street corner winked at me. I smiled politely. He said, “Meet you at the next traffic light, baby!” I just shook my head and looked away. Then he started knocking on the window of the cab, saying, “You can’t even look at me now? Aaaah, you’re blushing!” Which was true. This was the longest red light in the world. The cab driver was supremely unaware or superbly uninterested, since he appeared not to notice a thing. He has probably seen far more interesting things in his career.

I finally got home and decided to have a nice long bath, complete with a Lush bath bomb. I ran the tub, applied the bath bomb, which fizzed deliciously, and went to get my silly, fluffy novel and a glass of wine, which I set on the edge of the tub. While leaning forward to turn off the taps, I managed to slip on an errant piece of cinnamon from the bath bomb and knocked the entire glass of wine into the bath. The glass didn’t break, but I sat there thinking of an old commercial: “You’re soaking in it!”

“When you die, they let you off the hook.”
— Bob Dylan

I’ve been having some random thoughts since my mother died, of varying degrees of weirdness and self-involvement. In fact, I’m self-involved enough to tell you what they are:

1. The tragedy of 9/11 happened only days after I returned home to California from London after my father’s death*. The disaster of Hurricane Katrina occurred days after I returned home from dealing with my mother’s death*. In both cases, I watched the news and just cried, feeling the grief of those who had lost their loved ones along with my own.

2. In both cases, I went home and watched Six Feet Under, which seems even to me to be an odd TV choice, but maybe it has its own peculiar logic. Or not.

3. I’m finding my family’s diminishing life expectancy a little disturbing. My great-grandparents, all four of them, lived into their 90’s. My grandparents, who all died within one calendar year, were all in their 80’s. My father barely made it to 70, and Mom was only 73. Does this mean I only have 20 years left? If so, I better start having fun right now.

*Why do we say “someone’s death” like they possess it somehow, that death belongs to the dead person? Clearly, it’s very much the other way around.

It certainly seems to be about time we brightened things up around here. Though you all know I’m not a big fan of Nature, I can always be persuaded by the pretty, shallow thing that I am. So here are some photos of pretty things I recently saw:

The beach at MacKerricher State Park.

A sassy squirrel, at home in the Park.

Baby harbor seals chilling on the rocks (they are the white blobs. Really. I swear!). They were unbelievably cute.

Canna lilies in my sister’s garden.

Casablanca lilies (white house lilies?) in her garden.

A white rose in the afternoon sun in her garden.

The following is a public service announcement, brought to you by Miss Suzy:

If you ever see a car ahead of you with Colorado license plates 651 BZZ, do yourself a favor and hit the gas. Pedal to the metal! Pass him with the speed of Superman, or fleeting youth! I’m begging you! If you don’t, you will have to gaze at his unappealing ass until one of you reaches your destination or commits suicide or murder (choose the appropriate crime).

My good and kind sister Beth drove me to Santa Rosa to catch the bus back to the city. OK, she also had to exchange her rental car in Santa Rosa, but still. She got my portion of niceness as well as her own, and is a better driver. She also had to put up with me expressing my feelings about Mr. Colorado, who stubbornly refused to let us pass him for 65 interminable miles. I tried to convince her to honk at him, to bring to his attention the error of his ways in ignoring not only the turnouts (the road was two lanes, so to pass, someone has to get outta the way), but the signs stating that the State of California orders you to use the turnouts and has provided them for this very purpose.

However, Beth felt this was rude and unnecessary, despite having a Suzy right next to her who was incandescent with impotent rage (I think we can all agree that’s the worst kind) and yelling things like, “651 BZZ, buzz off!” accompanied with illustrative hand gestures. Why she was more concerned about consequences from someone who was in a whole other car and apparently oblivious to anything going on in the outside world than an enraged sister only inches away, I do not know. Anyway, we and our fellow unfortunate travellers were a convoy of misery right up until the end of the road. Unbelievable. Oh, and did I mention that just for fun, wherever we could pass him, he speeded up just enough that we couldn’t?

I’m telling you, if you see him, get away as fast as you can. You have been warned.

On the bus, I was entertained by:

1. The couple sitting ahead of me. Whatever the girl said, the guy responded with “For real.” Now, “for real” can apparently be a question, agreement with a previous statement, or an expression of surprise. For real. Examples:

   “That girl ain’t no damn good. I don’t know why your brother is still going out with her.”
   “For real.” (Resigned to brother’s bad taste in girlfriends)

   “So I stole his car, drained all the gas out of it, an’ left the keys in the ignition. Then I tol’ him where to get it. He didn’t mess with me no more.”
   “For real?” (Questioning; possibly reflecting that bad taste in girlfriends may run in the family)

   “You got that class on Fridays, right?”
   “For real.” (Agreement; should be taking a class in how to pick a girlfriend)

2. Two guys comparing their sentences at San Quentin (for real!!!) and exchanging tips on how to pass drug tests while still taking drugs. One of the guys had finished an eight year sentence two days earlier; the other had been out for a while. They compared personalities of the guards, including one called Butter Bean and another one:

   Guy One: “He a Nazi, man!”
   Guy Two (nodding vehemently): “A black Nazi!”

   Talk turned to drug testing. Guy One hadn’t had to do his yet, but Guy Two had one every week:

   Guy Two: “Here’s what I do, I take niacin and lots of B3.”
   Guy One: “B12?”
   Guy Two: “No, it’s gotta be B3. Makes you hot, your face gets all red, but it gets everything outta your system.”
   Guy One: “I heard drinking lots of water works. Or Gatorade.”
   Guy Two: “That shit don’ work. Gotta be the B3.”

For real.

Thanks for your kind words and thoughts, everyone. My family and I really appreciate it. Sending you love & hugs right back!

Faithful readers may remember that today marks the fourth anniversary of my father’s death. I’m happy to report that these freshly minted orphans were actually able to laugh, sharing some of the sillier memories of Dad:

1. How he always woke us up for school, snapping open the blinds and merrily carolling, “Wakey, wakey, rise and shine!” Not surprisingly, we often did not rise, and we never shone, though it was pretty much impossible not to wake(y). If we did not rise soon enough for Dad, the covers would be yanked back, admitting the cold morning air, while Dad said “up, up, up!” like a drill sergeant, each “up” accompanied by a hand clap. More effective than any alarm clock.

2. How he never did learn to change a tire. My brother used to work as a cook, and Dad actually called him while he was at work and told him he needed him to come and change his tire. My brother was caught between the chef, who had big, sharp knives, and Dad, who informed my brother that he put him on the planet and he could take him off it, too. He went and changed the tire.

3. How I saw pictures of myself as a really little baby and was horrified by how ugly I was. I was, too. I had a giant, blocky head and a pig nose and the general effect was something like one of the Whos from How the Grinch Stole Christmas. I told Dad how appalled I was by my babyhood hideousness, and he said, “Yes, I felt quite sorry for you.” Dad always said what he thought, even when he shouldn’t.
   

It’s a warm summer afternoon. A breeze ruffles the leaves on the tree outside the open window, and the flowers bow their heads gracefully. The scent of freshly cut grass drifts in.

A girl – a woman, really, but since she’s the youngest in the family, she’ll always be a girl – sits at her mother’s bedside. The hospital bed is raised up so that her mother is sitting. She is painfully thin and drawn, the battle scars of her long and valiant fight against cancer. In contrast, her youngest daughter is strong and flushed with youth, her bright hair shining in the sun.

But her mother looks better than she has in days, even weeks. She is bright and alert and smiling. The daughter is reading to her mother from The Phantom Tollbooth, which was a favorite of her childhood. Mother even jokes about the story, and they laugh together, the old voice and the young voice mingling together with shared joy.

When the daughter is ready to leave that evening, the mother says to the nurse, “I’d like to fly!” The nurse, who knows and loves her, says, “You do? Well, I’ll get you some ativan.” Mother says happily, “I want to hang glide!”

The nurse goes out to get the medication. A doctor, who has overheard the conversation, says, “Let’s give her the full dose and really let her fly.” He, too, has become fond of her, as has most of the staff during her long stay at the hospital.

The nurse gives the mother the medication and asks, “Are you flying now, honey?”

Mother says, “I’m flying! I’m flying!”

Those were her last words.

I hope she is flying.

We love you, Mom. Always and forever. And just as we once shared a body and a soul, we will never be separated.

Found this on Alison’sblog (she is literally one of Utah’s finest treasures), and couldn’t resist, narcissist that I am. Much of what came up was quite naughty (Google clearly knows me a little too well), but here are some of the more amusing, accurate, and less naughty results:

suzy is gorgeous

suzy is fictional

suzy is a well written movie that takes place during the war in 1914

suzy is nice

suzy is knowledgeable and sincere

suzy is currently touring colleges and universities throughout the us and canada

suzy is one of our finest

suzy is me

suzy is innocently bathed in the warm blue tones of luciano tovoli’s glorious cinematography

suzy is the last person to see her alive

suzy is a lifeguard on the world famous north shore of oahu where she has lived and surfed for the last ten years

suzy is complaining

suzy is clearly lying about her original story

suzy is alive and well

suzy is ready for a new home

suzy is set for a night out with her girl friends at the new italian restaurant just opened in town

suzy is now offering her range of fabulous handbags online

suzy is adorable

suzy is playing with another picture book idea

suzy is a great talent

suzy is my given name

suzy is my idol luv ya

suzy is curious

suzy is on place 61 on the airplaycharts in japan

suzy is actually available

suzy is the best

suzy is presumed murdered and has been declared dead

suzy is our drug and alcohol specialist

suzy is motoring along the freeway

suzy is just as close to the perfect country music artist as you can get

suzy is the little convertible that can really zip

suzy is trying to figure out ways to pay for a vacation while i’m trying to figure out how to pay for my own funeral

suzy is

suzy is off

Now is the summer of our discontent….

A construction worker, talking on a payphone (how retro is that?):

“And that’s why this city drives me crazy. Honest to God!”

Two guys on bikes:

Guy One: “That’s the kind of bullshit I’ve had to work with here.”
Guy Two: “it’s all bullshit here.”

Maybe I should move.

I already have two summer-related stupidity injuries (Calamity Suzy did not stay in Florida):

• A scrape on my left elbow. This was due to breezily informing a friend and hammock owner that I knew all about getting into and out of these summery contraptions. I may have gone so far as to boast that I had “skills”. The hammock promptly dumped me on the ground in a graceless heap to prove that I was just as wrong as I could be. That’s the “mock” part of the hammock. Yes, it mocked me for being such a ham.
  
• A burn on the fingers of my right hand, incurred while attempting remove skewers of shrimp from my barbecue unassisted. I discovered that you really shouldn’t hold onto the barbecue with your bare hands (or fingers). Kids, don’t try this at home.

It’s my grandmother’s birthday today. My American grandmother, I always say (my other grandmother was English). But we called her Nana. Everyone in town called her The Lady. She never left the house without her shoes and handbag matching. When she died, we found a box, carefully tied with a ribbon, holding the clothing she wanted to be buried in, from the dress right down to the underwear (including a girdle!) and stockings and shoes.

That’s the kind of woman she was.

She was born 104 years ago on a farm in New York State. Her father didn’t want her to go to high school; he said it was as much use to educate a girl as a female cat. Nana didn’t listen to him. She ran away to her Aunt Louella’s house in town – Aunt Louella had shocked the town some years before by getting married in a fuchsia wedding dress – and got a job in a candy store. The store owner wisely allowed the help to eat as much candy as they wanted, since they got good and sick of it quickly and never depleted the stock.

Nana bobbed her hair, as scandalous at the time as Aunt Louella’s wedding dress had been. She not only went to high school, she went to teacher’s college. Her marks were all in the 80’s and 90’s, and she was so proud of her final exam results that she kept them and showed them to me, when she was an old lady and I was a young girl.

She became a teacher and taught in the town high school. She married my grandfather, who became the high school principal. They were devoted to each other for more than half a century. When my grandmother died, my grandfather followed her within a few months. Pneumonia, they said. But it was a broken heart.

I made one of Dad’s recipes for dinner last night. It was Egyptian fish. I love how his recipes always say things like “garnish with coriander” – as if I ever would! The thing is, he *would* (and did) – even if he were dining alone.

Apparently, I need to start eating yogurt. My trainer claims it speeds up your metabolism (mine may well be dead, or at least moribund), boosts your immune system, and basically performs miracles, other than granting wishes (my first wish would be not to have to eat yogurt). But it’s milk. Spoiled milk. And she says you have to get it with… ~shudder~ …”live bacterial cultures”, so it’s germy spoiled milk. Live! Rude! Germs! I’m going to have to come up with some way of disguising it enough that I can fool myself into eating it. Good luck with that.

The other thing that’s supposed to be so wonderful for you is tofu. That right there is desperation food*, I tell you what. I can never *believe* all those people who are like, “Well, if you take tofu and marinate it and grill it and…it’s actually OK”. Basically, what they mean is, “If you remove every tofu-like quality, you might be able to choke it down.” On the other hand, it’s supposed to be good for your heart, and with all the strokes in the family, that can’t be bad.

Honestly, sometimes I just want to say screw it and eat and drink whatever I want and weigh 200 pounds and the hell with it. Problem is, am too vain and want to look good in clothes again before it’s too late.

*Something you eat when there’s nothing else to eat, or cannibalism is your only other option. Especially if potential victim of potential cannibalism is particularly unattractive.

Well, the good will toward the Howler has left the building as suddenly as it came. She escaped through the window again, only this time, she attacked Rita the Wonder Dog, who was on her way home with her owner after spending the weekend with me. It was a brief, yet terrifying encounter. No-one was hurt, and I hope Upstairs Guy is suitably embarrassed. They have caused an astonishing amount of trouble in the short time they have lived here. Talk about getting off on the wrong foot (or paw)!

My sister had an unpleasant experience of her own this weekend. While swimming at the river, someone stole her wallet out of the trunk of her car. No-one locks their car doors there in the depths of the country, but she figured, why tempt people more than necessary, so she put the wallet in the trunk. One of the other swimmers left, and then came back to tell my sister and the other swimmers that her car had had its windshield smashed.

I would have gone up right away to see if my car had been interfered with, but Megan figured, it is what it is, and finished her swim before returning to the parking lot. There was a whopping six dollars in the wallet, and now she has to replace her ambulance driver’s license along with her regular one, and all the other stuff. The worst thing was she carried around a little something I sent with her for encouragement as she nursed Dad through his last illness, and now it’s gone forever.

On the other hand, she’s getting this adorable replacement wallet. Nothing like shopping to cheer a girl up.

And just when I’d pretty much lost all faith in both human- and dog-nature, my friend Charlie returned from a trip to Venice with an adorable handbag for my collection and two shotglasses (Venetian glass!). He knows me too well. Cheered me right up, shallow Suzy that I am.