Suzy Says

Guilty secret #4,392 (of a continuing series, most of which is not fit for public consumption): I just couldn’t finish reading Seabiscuit. Everyone goes on and on about it, but it just doesn’t do a thing for me. I’ve been trying to read it since March, but I can’t get into it*. Normally, I hate being defeated by inanimate objects, but after my sis told me she couldn’t get into it either, I felt better and decided I could just let go.

As usual, she did me one better by renting the movie. She was interrupted partway through the movie by the phone, and never turned the movie back on. Maybe it’s yet another family failing (#4,392 (of a continuing series, most of which is not fit for public consumption).

*On the other hand, I’ve had absolutely no problem re-reading the Shopaholic series or reading The Devil Wears Prada.

It’s a week until my birthday. Normally, I’m all “Only 7 shopping days left”. In fact, normally, I start the birthday countdown three months before the big day in order to make sure there’s lots of shopping time to get me a totally fab gift – I may be spoiled, but I can be accommodating, especially if it means getting more & better gifts. Normally, I have a Birthday Week, feeling that one day just ain’t enough.

But this year, for the first time since I can remember, I don’t really care about it. Can you believe this? It’s not because I’m worried about getting older. I’m still hopelessly immature and feel like a girl, even though I’ll be turning 42 next week. I feel better about myself than I did 20 years ago, and I wouldn’t be 30 or 25 or 18 again for anything (though I’d love to spend a summer week in Maine as a 9 or 10 year old, circa 1970). Construction workers and truckers and college boys still notice me, and yesterday, a girl who looked around 25 hit on me in Whole Foods. So it’s not that, though I am of course aware that my cute days are numbered and I better enjoy them now.

I’m not sure what it is. Part of blogger’s block? The birthday malaise suffered by many, if not most people? Maybe it will go away with sufficient application of champagne and cupcakes. Oh, and maybe sparklers!

The last two times I have opened the front door, there has been a large grey pigeon waddling away in horror, as if I caught him/her trying to break in.

What do I have that a bird could possibly want? And how does a pigeon manage to look so guilty? If I did catch the delinquent avian actually committing whatever crime is on its bird brain, any jury, even one of its peers, would convict in record time.

Of course, it might just be a location scout. One came by last week and wants to film for a couple of hours next month.

I don’t know if it’s part of the whole blogger’s block thang, but I seem to be incapable of accomplishing much, if anything at all, during my waking hours these days. Yet the time blurs by magically. Where the hell did the week go? I think, as I realize that today is in fact Friday again.

Here’s the sum total of my accomplishments du jour:

– Sent a birthday card.

– Actually put in contacts and applied make-up for a change.

– Bought a pair of completely adorable and utterly unnecessary shoes.

– Replenished the wine supply.

– Tried to call my Mom (no answer, so no credit, since she doesn’t have an answering machine or voicemail).

– Got money out of the bank.

That’s pretty much it, and it’s almost dinner time. Am I in a time warp or a wrinkle in time or something?

Is there such a thing as blogger’s block? We’re all familiar with writer’s block, suffered by some of the best – Kafka, Flaubert, Plath – and, come to think of it, neurotic writers of our time. I’m certainly neurotic enough. Maybe writer’s block and blogger’s block be the same thing?

As blockages go, I guess it’s not all that bad. I mean, it’s definitely better than a blocked artery or even (to someone as vain as me) a blocked pore or a blocked sink requiring the expensive and icky services of a plumber.

All I know is that I seem to have lost the inspiration and ability to write like I used to, though I don’t know why. Do they make Drano for bloggers? “Unblock that pesky muse once and for all!”

Well, I am just exhausted.

First, I did my little bit to improve the economy, buying a bottle or few of wine and Calvados. The recycling bin is very happy. It has fancyass tastes and is somewhat greedy. I think we’ve been spending too much time together.

Then, I did my little bit to improve Me, having all my nails done and my eyebrows waxed and so on. Being a girl is just so much work. It seems like I’m always dyeing my hair, having it cut, washing it, styling it, putting on make-up and accessories, taking them off again, waxing, shaving, tweezing, perfuming, manicuring, pedicuring (though not curing cancer or any of my many less attractive character flaws).

Men always bitch about having to shave their teeny little faces (and I don’t know many who actually do it every day), but that’s nothing compared to the acres we girls have to shave. And just think how bad it must be if you’re a transvestite. All the girl work and all the boy work. Not to mention having to find size 12 stilettos.

Woman’s work really never is done, is it?

I’m three years old today. No wonder I’m so immature!

I managed to do something to my lower back (not, as you would suspect, by lifting the bottle-laden and oh-so-heavy recycling bin, but by pushing the sofa in a non-Erica-approved manner, and now look) and am hobbling around like an 80 year old, all bent over. I even make little involuntary noises when I sit down or get up. It’s beginning to feel like a preview for when I’m an old lady*.

Bette Davis was right: old age ain’t for sissies.

*I have this fear that one day I’ll wake up and it will all have caught up with me. Wham! I’ll look like hell and/or Keith Richards. If/when that happens, I’m heading straight to the plastic surgeon without passing Go or collecting $200 (hey, I’ll be spending waaaay more than that). And no-one can stop me. So there.

Way to go, Barry!

The recycling has really gotten degenerate these days. It consists almost entirely of wine bottles, with the occasional mineral water bottle and empty jars of olives and artichokes and other assorted delicacies. Granted, the wine is pretty good stuff – no Night Train or Thunderbird (yet) – but it’s really the quantity and not the quality that’s disturbing in this case. Garbage (and recycling) are quite revealing, aren’t they?

I wonder if the recycling collectors look at the dissolute collection with disdain, or wonder where the party is, or don’t even think about it. Probably the last option: just imagine what recycling and garbage guys must see. They’re undoubtedly some of the most jaded people on the planet.

Papa’s got a brand-new blog!

Q: When is a Bar Mitzvah like a baseball game?

A: When everyone tells you that it will be too long and too boring, yet it turns out to be one of the most amazing days of your life.

It’s interesting that both the prospect of my first baseball game and my first Bar Mitzvah evoked the same general response: I was risking coma or death from depths of unimaginable boredom (my worst fear after death, and who knows, maybe death is in fact boring, making two fears in one!) from attending either event. Yet baseball is our national pastime, and Bar Mitzvahs have been celebrated for hundreds, or possibly thousands of years, so there must be something to them.

As we know, attending the ball game saw the birth of Sporty Suzy, and while attending the Bar Mitzvah didn’t make me convert from confusion to Judaism, it was one of the most moving and beautiful days of my life.

The guest of honor (Bar Mitzvee?), Samuel, lost his father to cancer five years earlier, so he wasn’t there to see his son’s coming of age. But pretty much all the rest of Sam’s family were, having come from near and far and filling the synagogue with more love than I ever felt in one room at one time. At one time or another during the ceremony, every immediate family member participated and was on the stage with Sam, supporting him and sharing the experience.

After the ceremony, there was a lunch of breathtaking lavishness. It was all kosher, all delicious, and all, if you can believe this, prepared by Sam’s mother. For almost 150 people. It was exquisitely presented, too, with cornucopias filled with fruit carved like flowers and swathed with ivy and real flowers. Every dish was labelled, from the bagels and lox to the five different kinds of cake. So yeah, there was cake!

The most moving moment – of so many – was when Sam stood in front of the room and made a little speech about some of the people he is closest to and who helped to get him there. After each little piece about the person, Sam invited him/her to come up and place a flower in a vase beside him. The final flower was placed in the vase by Sam’s mother, who said, “This bouquet is Samuel. He is made up of all these people who love him.”

Part of the lengthy process of attempting to make my computer stop its hissy fit was to bribe it with shiny new software. It turned out to be as ineffective as using this approach with a small child, but in my defense, I’m equally ignorant of both subjects, and in both cases, I think they can tell and (mis)behave accordingly.

The new software is thrillingly named Panther (though I don’t know why), and includes all this fascinating stuff which I will almost certainly never be clever enough to use: iPhoto, iTunes, iChat, iThis, iThat. Despite all these i’s, they are missing the most important one: iSuzy.

iSuzy would include things like iShopping; iSparklyThings; iWine; iTravel (really: iBeingSomewhereElseNotTheHorrorOfGettingThere. but that’s too long and not catchy enough); iArtGalleries; iJewelry and iSports (really, iBaseball, or to be totally accurate, iGiants).

What would iYou have in it?

My computer has been misbehaving to a melodramatic extent for the past few weeks. Friends and relations, as A.A. Milne’s Rabbit would say, all tried to reason with it, but in vain. I couldn’t email, and posting here was a nightmare, with nothing to say anyway except “My computer still doesn’t work.”

Finally, I located a guy who would actually come to the house and fix it, both solving the problem and indulging my inherent laziness. It took him three hours and two visits all told to get everything working, which, while a little pricey, was not only worth it, but it was also nice to know that the problems were that complex and clearly beyond the abilities of mere mortals. Yet another thing that should be left to the professionals, like cleaning.

So those of you who have been waiting for my response to your emails of the past several weeks can now either look forward to or dread getting them, as the case may be.

You may not be able to get a doctor to make a house call to see a human patient, but you can get one to see a computer. I guess it’s all part of how machines are replacing people. Pretty soon, this blog will just write itself!

Typically, I never forget a birthday or an anniversary, but this year has been atypical, because I have forgotten (or been late for) pretty much all of them. However, I am trying hard to overcome this and hopefully those special dates located later on in the year will get the attention they deserve.

One of the most egregious oversights of this recent character flaw was forgetting the third birthday of Mike and Jennifer’s fabulous son, Matthew. Poor kid didn’t even get a card, and today is his birthday. Fortunately, he’s still too little to remember this, so it shouldn’t scar him for life, and he’ll get even better gifts for the next few years until I stop feeling guilty about blowing it this year. And in celebration of his birthday, here are some of my favorite photos of him.

Happy Birthday to Matthew!!!!

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Even those of us who are normally immune to the charm of children can see this one is cute as a button. And here’s good news: the co-creators of Matthew are currently working on a second project, which will debut very soon. Unlike most sequels, I fully expect this one to be as good as the original.

Sooner or later, everyone wants his/her own room, and John’s getting his at last. So head on over and say hi, keeping in mind that there’s still construction going on, so there may be dust, stray nails, bad language, and other hazards.

For those of you who haven’t followed the story of my little blog since its birth almost three years ago, I wrote it alone until my father suddenly died. I then had to fly to England as fast as I could to deal with all the things that people do in such circumstances, so John filled in for me as a guest writer. He enjoyed it so much that after I got back, he and I shared it.

But my little site is running out of disk space and he’s ready to strike out on his own. Also, I have never been good at sharing or played well with others. And sometimes I even run with scissors.

I don’t think my computer loves me anymore. It happens.

Maybe it’s tired of being hauled all over the world, where it not only has to cope with the hard work and horror of dial-up, but being fondled by airport security and endless changes of time zone.

It won’t tell me what’s wrong, even though I have begged and pleaded. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t, and I never know why. There is no discernible pattern.

Finally, I decided to wine it and dine it with expensive new software, which it seemed to like at first, but now it’s being diva-like again. It may be even more temperamental than I am.

It will be even more annoyed when I blame my lack of posting and inability to respond to emails on its bad behavior, despite the fact that it’s completely true, and will probably punish me by acting even worse.

That, or it will act all perfect just to make me look bad. We’ll see.

I have been invited to the first Bar Mitzvah of my life. It is, presumably, the first Bar Mitzvah of the kid in question as well, but he has the advantage over me of having a religious tradition which he must also understand to a reasonable extent. Those of us who have been brought up with no religious tradition are at a notable disadvantage as guests at ceremonies of any religious description, such as this one, or a Catholic funeral Mass. I can?t even fake it convincingly.

Apparently, it’s a very long service, so I’ll have to practice looking serious and/or interested for extended periods of time. It shouldn’t be that hard. I mean, I had to do it for hours at a time back when I had a job. However, I’m not sure what to wear, and whether there’s a traditional gift besides money. Not working and sudden trips to Florida combined with shopping cardio tend to lead to cash flow issues, even temporary ones, and rumor has it that the money you give on these occasions is supposed to be pretty serious. Maybe not Sopranos serious, but of an amount to help towards education and other weighty, grown-up things, since the poor kid, at 13 or whatever, is now supposed to be a grown-up. Which means the fun part of his life is over.

Actually, the entire endeavor seems to be remarkably lacking in fun (though perhaps this is appropriate, given how remarkably lacking in fun it is to be a grown-up most of the time) for the guest of honor. Long before the ceremony, s/he has to learn a lot of Hebrew, a lot of religious stuff, and then have this very long ceremony at which s/he must not only be the center of attention, but give a speech. And after all that, not even any presents, other than money, which your parents immediately put in a college fund.

Maybe there?ll be cake, though.

Remember the Kathleen who saved Christmas? The one who couldn?t bear the Grinchitude of our pathetic little family not having presents, so she made them and mailed them to us? The picture I posted of her then with her lovely handiwork did not do her loveliness justice at all, but I have since been fortunate enough to locate a picture of her which actually does. She?s the one in the middle. So you can see that her outer beauty matches her inner beauty.

She is one of the least judgmental and most giving people I know. And she?s gotta be one of the few girls in the US of A who look like that and love hockey and race car driving as much as the symphony and Iggy Pop. She?s not only a giver of gifts, she is a gift.

I say adventurettes, because we really didn?t do much, if anything. It was all about escaping from reality and hanging out and enjoying the sun.

And sun there was. It was in the neighborhood of 80 to 85 degrees, and that?s a really nice neighborhood to be in. The air was all soft and tropical, and I think I may finally understand why Florida women often seem to go for the big hair: the humidity in the air just makes it big. Ain?t nothing you can do about it. Even my normally flat, straight hair got puffed up and slightly wavy. It was all part of being Florida Suzy.

Not only was it the first trip ever to Florida for my sis and me (Florida virgins!), it was our first sight of the Gulf of Mexico. Both the Atlantic and the Pacific oceans are old friends to us, but the Gulf was all new. It?s very blue in the manner of the Mediterranean, but with a more translucent quality. It?s also way more pacific than the Pacific, with about as much wave action as a lake or the bathtub when I step out of it. Surfers, go somewhere else!

But Megan had a great time scuba diving in the Gulf, where she met dolphins, giant turtles, and manatees. She is now totally in love with manatees. I think she snuck one home in her suitcase. Lazy Me just swam in the fabulous pool under the bright blue sky and palm trees, and when I got slightly chilled, like a bottle of white wine, I hung out in the hot tub beside the pool. Repeat as needed. You gotta love swimming outside in February. Not to mention having your morning coffee outside under the orange tree and your dinner on the patio under the stars. At one dinner, we were even serenaded by an acapella men?s chorus, who happen to adjourn to that particular restaurant on Monday evenings following their practice. They drink beer, talk about the rehearsal, and practice a little more. They are something like a barbershop quartet, only there were about 10 of them. It was a pleasure to hear them, and it must be a dying, or at least declining, art, so it was a privilege, too.

Florida, at least the little I saw of it, is (look out, you know what?s coming next!) what the French would call jolie-laide (roughly translated, “ugly-beautiful”). It has great natural beauty: the blue waters of the Gulf; the beaches with sand like white sugar, scattered with exotic shells; tropical trees and flowers (in the dead of winter!), but all this is tempered considerably by endless strip malls (which, oddly, often seemed to contain both churches and porn emporia), billboards, and thousands of trailer parks. Pretty much the epitome of that part of Florida for me was when we went to a beautiful beach near St. Petersburg (quite unlike the Russian one, I can tell you from personal experience) and watched the sun set. Right across the road from the beach was, yes, you guessed it, a strip mall. There you have it. And it didn?t make the beach any less beautiful.

Next time, I?ll venture over to Colin?s and Aim&eacutee?s coast, check that out, and of course, give an Oscar-worthy performance in my teeny part in their next film. If I?m really good, I might get a line or two instead of just a walk-on part.