Suzy Says

Looks like I jinxed my favorite ornament by posting a picture of it. I’m sorry to report that it is no more, just like the favorite ornament Clyde broke a few years ago. We’ll always have Paris?

I came downstairs one morning to find that the cats had knocked over the tree. It looked significantly less festive lying on the floor, even though the lights were still on. Of course, the side with the delicate mercury glass Eiffel Tower ornament was the one that hit the floor. Nothing else was broken. Why are the favorite ones always the victims?

On the bright side, I noticed this weekend that the amaryllis bulbs are beginning to sprout. One seems to have two stems, while the other only has one, so I might have an overachiever and an underachiever again.

A friend reminded me that next week marks the winter solstice, the shortest day of the year, and that the days will start to get longer after that. I found that an encouraging idea as I drove to work through the darkness that morning.

This time of year, the historic Little River Inn is lit up, and it gladdens my heart as I reach the crest of the hill and first spot the festive lights blazing in the darkness:

The Botanical Gardens also have a line of lit up, multi-colored stars along the highway, and I look forward to seeing them, too.

Megan got a beautiful little vine shaped like a tree:

It’s so cute!

This time of year, we can all appreciate light(s) in the darkness.

A YEAR AGO: Things were much more sparkly.

FIVE YEARS AGO: Using lights to banish darkness.

TEN YEARS AGO: Trying (unsuccessfully) to get some celebrity dirt. Unsuccessfully. I did manage to finally get country-appropriate footwear, though.

The local message boards have been having fun lately. It all started with a message with “Today’s Date Is?” in the subject line, with nothing in the body of the message. That set off some pretty creative and amusing replies:

1. Today’s date is Medjool.

Medjool is a large, sweet cultivated variety of date (Phoenix
dactylifera) from the Tafilalt region of Morocco, also grown in the
United States, Israel, Iran, Saudi Arabia, South Africa, Jordan, Palestine.

The variety is planted both for harvesting and for landscaping. The
Medjool is a distinct landrace, described as producing “large soft
fruit, with orange-yellowish flesh, and a mildly rich and pleasing flavor.”

Israel, with its advanced wastewater recycling technologies, currently
owns more than 60 percent of the global Medjool market share, making it
the largest exporter of Medjool dates in the world.

You’re welcome.

2. Medjool dates grow in Dateland Arizona. It’s in Yuma county. I drove thru there on the way to New Mexico from San Diego.

3. It is grown in Mexico too. Especially around Mulege in Baja California

4. By way of our old and dear departed friend Yogi Berra.
Somebody once asked Yogi what time it was. He looked back at the fellow and without skipping a beat replied: “You mean right now?”

5. Time is….of the essence! So I suppose it’s one of those new perfumes at $38 per ounce?

6. Right on schedule!

FIVE YEARS AGO: The heartbreaking loss of Clyde’s brother, the inimitable Roscoe. I will never get over it.

TEN YEARS AGO: Trying to capture sunlight and shadow.

I’m no plumbing expert, or, as you know, even remotely handy, but it was obvious even to me that having a merry little stream rippling out from your kitchen tap was not a good idea.

Rather than try to explain the little brook that had suddenly sprung up, I took a little video of Suzy’s Creek in action and texted it to my landlord, who until she got my text was enjoying a relaxing (and crowd-free) rest at her Hawaiian home.

Being a five hour plane ride away from here did not hinder Danielle’s remarkable efficiency. The next day, she had someone come and inspect it. It was his considered opinion that it needed to be replaced, and when I came home from work the day after that, he was almost done replacing the old with the new.

Being Danielle, the replacement was much nicer than the original. It is now a lovely brushed metal, with matching sprayer.

A pleasant side effect of the upgrade is not having a leak under the sink. The old, leaking tap spilled over behind the sink and then trickled into the cabinet below, making everything wet and probably, at some point, leading to mold and mildew and other undesirable roommates.

Danielle’s fixer guy is planning to come by soon to seal the new tap and sprayer with silicone, and will also seal around the edge of the sink to make sure that is sealed up, too.

I feel really lucky that Danielle is such a great landlord and takes care of things so quickly and efficiently, even when she is more than 2,000 miles away. Sometimes I still can’t believe I live in such a beautiful house.

A YEAR AGO: The ever-amusing local message boards.

TEN YEARS AGO: My beloved Clyde and his brother, the late, lamented Roscoe, turned 6 months old. Five years after losing Roscoe, it still hurts.

FIFTEEN YEARS AGO: Feeling festive. The picture links still work in this post!

I usually put up the Christmas tree the first Saturday in December, and take it down on Twelfth Night, aka the Saddest Day of the Year. One’s house looks so sad and empty once the holiday cheer has been removed, in the midst of the midwinter darkness, to (snow/rain) boot. I do this because it’s the way my parents did it, so I guess that makes it family tradition, even if I am the only one in our rapidly declining family to maintain the tradition.

This year, there was no Thanksgiving*, and the lack of company caused a lack of enthusiasm on my part for cooking anything Thanksgiving-like, even while feeling obligated to do so. I decided to make it minimal, just getting a turkey breast and making a couple of sides. I was unable to locate a turkey breast, other than a boneless frozen one. I had my suspicions, but went ahead with it anyway. It cooked from frozen in a bag and was as delicious as you would expect. In my usual capacity as an Awful Warning, I will tell you all to run like the wind if you ever see a Frankenturkey like that. Get a real turkey, or forget the whole thing. At least my mashed potatoes and glazed carrots were fabulous. I didn’t bother with the traditional cranberry bourbon relish, just making plain cranberries with a dash of orange zest.

Much as I never want to eat Thanksgiving dinner after cooking it – the fun for me is seeing everyone else enjoy it – I didn’t bother making it until the Saturday after Thanksgiving, and I didn’t eat any of it until the Tuesday after Thanksgiving.

My lack of enthusiasm for the Thanksgiving that wasn’t didn’t dampen my desire for Christmas sparkle, though, and on the Saturday morning after what should have been Thanksgiving, I found myself eagerly hauling out the little tree my coworker gave me last year, twining it with lights and adding the snowflakes and glass icicles, as well as the beautiful mercury glass ornament from my friend Erin, my favorite adornment:

It makes me smile to look at it.

I also planted a couple of amaryllis bulbs:

which will hopefully give me some much-needed color in the winter darkness. We shall see.

I’m thinking about getting a wreath for the front door, though it’s hard to hang one up when your front door is glass. Maybe I will find some way to put up lights on the front porch, too. The more sparkle, the better, I always say.

*I really shouldn’t complain, even though it IS one of my super powers. Megan of course worked the Thanksgiving night shift in the ER, which she described as a “shitshow”. Apparently Thanksgiving and the Fourth of July are the worst ER shifts for alcohol and stupidity related incidents.

A YEAR AGO: A happy, if belated, Thanksgiving.

FIVE YEARS AGO: The fabulous Festival of Lights.

TEN YEARS AGO: Dinner with the family.

FIFTEEN YEARS AGO: Christmas in the City.

The Battlefield

I kept hearing about how weighted blankets are comforting and help one to sleep better. Who doesn’t need more comfort and better sleep? So I decided to get one.

Blanket One weighed 15 pounds. It felt pretty heavy just wrestling it from the PO box to the car and from the car to the house. Not to mention up the stairs. I was a bit disconcerted to discover that it was much smaller than expected, barely covering my queen size bed when the blanket was placed sideways. Hm.

Once under the covers, it felt a little heavier than I expected. I wondered if I just had to get used to it. Later, I felt too warm and pushed it off, even though it was supposedly “cooling” as well as weighted. I ended up sleeping under just the comforter. I tried it a few more nights, and it was still too warm and too heavy. So I returned it to sender and exchanged it for…

Blanket Two, which weighed a slightly more svelte 10 pounds, and upon being unfolded from its case, was much more size-appropriate. It was nice that it was less heavy, but it was still warmer than I found comfortable. Let’s just say that I dragged out the fan I thought I had put away for the winter. I wanted to try to get the feeling of being hugged and the better sleep. But as you know, we are a family of bad sleepers, and I didn’t get the magic of a much better night’s sleep, as reported by most people. Also, I am bad at relationships, so maybe the hugged all night thing isn’t for me, either. In my single days, I always went to the guy’s house so I could escape. Also, they would not know where I lived and turn up at unexpected and inconvenient times hoping for a rematch. Presumably those who enjoyed the all night hugging feeling planned things to facilitate more hugging rather than less.

Long ago when I moved to California, I was mystified by why no one believed in insulation or window screens. It gets cold (and hot) here, and there are bugs. At the old house, it was basically like sleeping in a tent, and was around 10 degrees warmer than the outside temperature overnight in the winter. It was pretty common to see my breath when I woke up on winter mornings, especially since I was too cheap to have the heat on overnight after Henry Etta died. But at the new house, it is so well insulated that I can hardly hear the rain even when it’s storming out, and the house does a pretty good job of keeping the heat in during the winter and the heat out during the summer. Imagine!

There are even screens in the windows, but they are not Dodge-proof, like the metal screen door on the balcony at the old house. So no opening the windows to cool down the room and facilitate the great weighted blanket experiment. Even when it was 32F/0C outside overnight, it was too hot and I kept pushing the weighted blanket off, even the 10 pound one. I looked into getting a 5 pound one, but they only come in kids’/twin bed size, so that’s out. At that point, I gave up on the weighted blanket concept and moved on to Blanket Three, the cooling bamboo blanket.

It appears that the third time is the charm, since the cooling bamboo blanket with my lightweight comforter is just about perfect. I feel like Goldilocks (Suzilocks?) and the three blankets. This one’s too heavy. This one’s too hot. This one’s just right. At least the bear (or bears) in my story stay outside the house.

A YEAR AGO: A fun and silly Girl Night with my sister (and extremely tolerant brother-in-law).

FIVE YEARS AGO: A crazy, happy Thanksgiving.

TEN YEARS AGO: Working on Christmas cards. Which I am also doing now.

I love my birthday, but I have never liked my name. Susan Jean is about as dull as you can get. I have always felt that I deserved something more glamorous, though I don’t know what that would be.

My much-loved maternal grandfather, HoHo (named for his distinctive laugh), used to call me Suzy. When he died, I was only 15 and I was crushed. I didn’t want anyone calling me by his special name for me. But after a couple of years, I missed it, and my family and close friends started calling me Suzy. At work, I’m Susan, but here and in my real life, I’m Suzy. A little more sparkly than Susan, who sounds so dull and responsible. Both the Susan in the Narnia books and the one in the Swallows and Amazons books certainly were. Even the Divine Jane’s Lady Susan was pretty obnoxious.

My mother, whose enjoyment of the sparkly I inherited, wanted to name me Amy Victoria. My paternal grandfather’s middle name was Victor, for the Queen (both of my grandfathers were named Ernest), so it would be a compliment to him as well as the Old Queen*. Despite that, my English father vetoed the idea, and they somehow settled on Susan Jean, the Jean for Dad’s only sibling Jeanne. I would like it better if I, too, had the French spelling, but what can you do?

Mom didn’t give up on Amy Victoria, though, and when she was expecting the next baby after me, Dad agreed that this one could be Amy Victoria. He even gave Mom a little pin:

The baby turned out to be Jonathan David.

By the time the last baby came along, many years later, the AV idea was forgotten, and it was decided that the new baby would be called Colin if he was a boy and Megan if she was a girl. The baby turned out to be the Megan Fairbanks (Mom’s maiden name) we all know and love.

Sometimes I wonder what my life would have been like if I were Amy Victoria. Would Amy still live in San Francisco? Or maybe she would have stayed in New York state. Maybe she’d be better at relationships and marriage than I am. Maybe she’d have children. Or maybe, just maybe, she’d be just like me. Maybe a Suzy by any other name is still a Suzy.

* Queen Victoria fascinated me from a young age. And I have to admit, I love the Royal Family. My English father could not care less about them, but I do. I made him take me to see the open State Rooms at Buckingham Palace once. He enjoyed it much more than he expected.

**I have always loved this Elton John song. It is from Honky Chateau, which Mom played a lot and is one of the first albums I can remember.

A YEAR AGO: A wonderful afternoon at the Symphony.

FIVE YEARS AGO: Getting ready for Thanksgiving.

TEN YEARS AGO: Skipping Thanksgiving. I did that this year, too.

What makes a Monday Mondayer? Getting a crown installed!

Faithful readers may recall that I had a sudden and inexplicable hole appear in my tooth last month, revealing its ancient silver filling. Fortunately, it did not hurt. Unfortunately, it required a crown, bringing my personal collection up to three. Crown One: a filling fell out right before a) a national holiday; and 2) a trip to Detroit to testify in front of the Grand Jury. Spoiler alert: the crown was the fun part.

Crown Two: following the first (and I hope, last) root canal of my life, so expensive and upsetting that I cried afterwards. Again, the crown was the fun part, but to be fair, almost anything is fun compared to getting (and paying for) a root canal. I also learned that getting a crown is the inevitable result of getting a root canal.

Crown Three: this one. As I have learned the hard way over the years, I never really seem to get numb. I always feel part of whatever they are doing to me. I followed Dr. Megan’s prescription of taking an omeprazole every day for a week before the procedure, but I still felt the poking around and post installation like I did last time. I flinched and made a noise of discomfort, and the dentist genially said, “It must be waking up!” Dentists are masters of understatement. When I used to get my braces tightened, the dentist would tell me that it would “be a little tender” by dinner time. Translation: it will hurt like hell before school ends, and if you’re lucky, you might be able to eat Jell-O for a week.

But the post’n’poke was a total joy compared to a new sensation called a “heart race”. Have you ever had or heard of one of these lovely things? The dentist accidentally got a vein with one of the four shots of anesthetic, and told me that it was perfectly normal to feel the way I did. Which was like I was having a bad panic attack. My hands were shaking, I was freezing, and I was freaking out. I tried to calm myself by watching the bees in their hive through the operatory window and breathing deeply. Eventually it passed, but man, it was horrible.

So far, the third time has been the worst, rather than the charm.

On the bright side, the technology was great. Instead of making me gag by jamming countless containers of glop into my mouth, they took about a million pictures in there with some kind of space age looking thing. This was translated to a sort of 3-D mill that shaped the crown. On the screen, I could see the progress (just 12 minutes!) and it was very accurate. It just needed a little tweaking to fit perfectly. The dentist said that crowns made like this were much more accurate than the old, gloppy way.

He put the crown into a kiln to be baked and hardened, again showing the progress on the screen (15 minutes!) and then cemented it in. No temporary crown or extra visit. I was back at work in less than two hours. So maybe the third time did have some charm after all.

TEN YEARS AGO: Coming home from San Francisco.

FIFTEEN YEARS AGO: How to get nowhere.

Willow and her Babies

The kittens have been growing and changing, and it’s been really fun to watch the evolution along with John. I know he always envied me for having seen Buddy born and then grow up, so now it’s finally his chance to have that life-changing experience.

He’s been sending me photos and videos nearly every day since they were born in late September, and they have cheered me through some dark and stressful days and nights, I can tell you that. Another good reason for being on good terms with your ex-husband.

Here are a few recent milestones.

Peach started eating solid food before Daisy, though they were both still nursing at that time.

One of the charming stories John told me was how Peach was determined to use her mother Willow’s grown up litterbox rather than the baby litterbox. She could get into it, but had a hard time getting out of it. So Willow would go and lie next to the litterbox so Peach could climb onto her and then to the ground. John said this happened many times and it must have been something to see. Willow is a really good mother. I suspect that this is not her first rodeo, though I’m thankful it’s her last.

Here they are enjoying a heated bed which used to belong to a wonderful, very old cat named Abraham. Like me with Henry Etta, John rescued Abraham from the streets at an advanced age and was able to give him a peaceful and loving last couple of years. None of John’s other cats liked the bed, but the kittens give it two paws up:

Apparently Willow does not like to be caught playing with the kittens, as if it’s beneath her or something. So John was pretty excited to catch this video of them all playing together one morning.

Here’s Peach trying to escape the kitten room:

I wonder how long it will be before they blend into the family. At this point, I think they are already home.

A YEAR AGO: Hula classes!

FIVE YEARS AGO: The joys of Benedict Cumberbatch in “Hamlet”, followed by an excellent dinner.

TEN YEARS AGO: Buying sneakers can be harder than you’d think.

FIFTEEN YEARS AGO: I still think pretty much anything can be or is an Olympic sport. Also that the Olympics are on constantly, instead of every four years.

I am excited to announce that Megan is working for none other than the extremely prestigious Stanford University!

While not one of the Ivy League schools, it is very highly regarded worldwide and counts among its alumni one US President (Herbert Hoover, for the curiously inclined), 74 living billionaires, and 17 astronauts. 85 Nobel Laureates have been students, teachers, or staff there. So she is in good company.

Megan works part time at the clinic where I work full time (and sometimes more), and one of the nurses who also works there thought Meg might be interested in working on a project related to health outcomes for local diabetic patients. As you know, Megan’s husband of nearly 30 years is a Type One diabetic, and through that and many years of working in emergency medicine, Megan knows a thing or two about diabetes. It is something she really cares about as well.

So Megan applied for the job, went through some Zoom interviews and email exchanges, and voila! She was hired, at an hourly rate significantly higher than any of her other jobs, to work on this project.

Stanford is a couple of hundred miles away, and the focus is on patients in our community, so she will be working from home. This means that she needs much better and more reliable internet at home than she currently has. The same folks who valiantly installed the internet at my new-ish house are due to investigate the family estate soon, with an eye to installing it there as well. I am hopeful, because they also managed to somehow install internet at my old house, about a quarter of a mile way and in obviously similar terrain. I think Mark did something creative with repeater boxes and other things I don’t understand to make it happen, but hopefully this can also be done at Megan’s house.

Despite the technical difficulties to be solved, I am really excited for Megan. It’s interesting and valuable work, and it will look great on her resume, too. I am hoping it might lead to more work like this for her as well. I am even prouder of her than usual!

A YEAR AGO: Recovering from the PGE-inflicted power outage and septic system-inflicted grossness.

FIVE YEARS AGO: The pleasures of First Friday in our small town.

TEN YEARS AGO: Walking the dogs at Big River.

FIFTEEN YEARS AGO: Some sporty musings.

The only source of heat in – I guess I shouldn’t call it the new house after more than a year and a half of living here, but I lived in the old one for a decade, so the new one still feels, well, new – my current abode is a heater impersonating a wood stove. It has faux logs and is powered by the ever-expensive propane. It also needs electricity to work, just like the cooking stove, rendering it completely useless during the inevitable power outages. You may recall that I pretty much froze my butt off during the extended outage inflicted on us with apparent impunity by the dictators at PG&E.

When I first moved in, it was late May, but there were a couple of chilly days. I could not get the heater to light, and since Rob is now 20 minutes instead of 2 minutes away, I had to resort to asking my landlord for help. To be fair, I did count on Rob for help with things that my actual landlord should have handled, but Rob tended to be more responsive and have better solutions to my problems. So in my relatively Rob-less, relatively new house, I have to call on Danielle.

She came by, and before investigating the situation, asked, “You aren’t very handy, are you?” This was before she used about a hundred matches trying to light it and finally contacted the repair guy. Of course, it was the Memorial Day weekend, so he wasn’t immediately available. I think she was a bit embarrassed. While it’s true that I’m not handy, this was not really proof of that fact, since she also could not get the heater to light, and when the repair guy appeared, he couldn’t, either. He had to order a part and then come and install it. After that, it worked fine all winter.

Our seemingly endless summer has seemingly ended, and with a hard frost warning and cold winds blowing around the house, it was time to turn on the heater. But it refused, sitting there dark and cold and stubborn. I had failed to notice that the pilot light was out on the heater until I wanted to actually use it. I should have noticed, since the pilot light keeps the top of the heater pretty toasty, and it’s Dodge’s favorite place to hang out unless it’s very hot outside. He hadn’t been lying there lately, now that I thought of it, so the pilot light had probably been out for months without my realizing it.

Another call to Danielle. Despite her handiness – she milled the wood for the house and built it – she could not get the heater to light, though this time she refrained from editorializing on my (quite genuine) lack of handitude. Once again, she had to call a repair guy. This repair guy talked to himself as a sort of running commentary, so I never knew if he was talking to me or not. He basically dismantled the whole thing and was doing a lot of clangy things. When he took the top of the heater off, there was a mat of Dodge hair, like dryer lint. My contribution to the repair process was to remove the mat and dispose of it.

Eventually, he had it going again. He did say that if it continued to go on strike, Danielle was planning to buy a new heater, which would have to be located against an outside wall. This was a little alarming to me, since it would have to be placed to one side or the other of the back door, this ruining the room’s symmetry, though another option would be next to Rob’s bookcase, below Saffron’s glorious paintings:

which would look better, but would be less efficient, since it would be in a corner. The current heater is about 25 years old and apparently heater technology has improved during that time. But I’m hoping we can just keep it going for now, especially since winter is here.

A YEAR AGO: The horror of the PSPS. I hope that never happens again.

FIVE YEARS AGO: A foggy Halloween.

TEN YEARS AGO: A beautiful way to remember lost loved ones.

FIFTEEN YEARS AGO: What to do with that pesky leftover wedding jewelry.

It was a perfect sunny day – the perfect day for a mini road trip. The sky was a cloudless, deep blue (I always think California skies have a certain depth and strength to their blueness that is special to the Golden State), with that clear, golden light of fall.

As I left the house, I noticed that Mr. Bear has a new technique:

He gets extra credit for creativity, but it’s less effective than his usual method. At least it left most of the trash in the can, instead of spread out everywhere. On the other hand (or paw), there is a bear-induced hole in the garbage can. I really thought he would have moved on by now, but some guys seem to find it hard to let go.

Putting ursine thoughts and destruction behind me, I made my way to the beautiful Valley through the ancient redwood trees. Sunlight filtered through the branches far above as I wended my way to wine country, where the vines were turning red, orange, and yellow, our version of fall color:

This time, I finally stopped to take a photo of this sign, which I have admired for years:

I don’t know who Art is or was, but I love his sign, which I consider to be art.

I headed to the General Store in Boonville, where I ordered a chicken salad sandwich and a lemonade and repaired to one of the wooden picnic tables overlooking the main drag:

I watched cars, people, and dogs go by in the balmy sunshine. It was probably around 80 degrees, a beautiful day to enjoy the warmth of a late fall day.

On my way home, I stopped in at Gowan’s farmstand:

It was brimming with pumpkins, apples, squashes, and other autumn produce:

I picked up some fresh walnuts, almonds, and sweet apple cider to take home with me and remind me of a perfect day in the beautiful Valley.

FIVE YEARS AGO: Oh, Roscoe. You were such a little rascal. I miss you every day.

There’s finally a nip in the air, and I no longer have the fan on in the bedroom at night. In fact, there was a frost warning for the coast and a hard freeze warning inland overnight. The warnings didn’t stop there. Our frenemies at PG&E once again announced that they were planning to cut off power again, just like they did around this time last year.

This time, just like the last time, there wasn’t a breath of wind on the coast and it was chilly, despite the forecast “wind event” and “extremely high temperatures”. At least this time, they only shut off some of the high risk inland areas instead of plunging our entire county into darkness. Even though we only have about 90,000 people, our county is the size of Delaware and Rhode Island combined, a large area. And the inland part is very different from the coast in weather and terrain. Fire risk is much higher inland, with its routine triple digit temperatures in the summer versus the coast’s typical 60-65 degrees.

With power at my disposal* over the weekend, I did some project cooking, which was like a little armchair (or ovenside) trip to distant and cosmopolitan Montreal. I made a tourti?re, using a recipe our beloved Ben (born and raised in Montreal) sent me:

And a batch of Montreal-style bagels. They look pretty convincing to me, despite hailing from 3,000 miles away, the wrong country, and not having a wood-fired brick oven:

My boss loves them, so it was nice to bring her some when I headed back to work.

I had originally planned to take a mini trip to Anderson Valley since the weather had finally cooled off, but when the time came, I found I really just wanted to enjoy the small pleasures at home, like sleeping in until it’s light out, drinking coffee in bed with all three cats, and doing some cooking. It was so fun that I’m planning to take this Friday off, too.

*Although it’s a gas oven, powered by platinum propane, it needs electricity to start. The same goes for the only source of heat for the house. See a theme (and a problem) here, in a place where it’s “when” not “if” the power will go out?

FIVE YEARS AGO: The Food Fairy stopped by, bearing a wide array of canned goods.

TEN YEARS AGO: Cold and rainy.

FIFTEEN YEARS AGO: Interesting times in the building I lived in back then, a suitably seasonal Victorian coffin factory.

Willow and her babies

Dear Reader,

I realize that I have been holding out on you. I have access to nearly unparalleled kitten cuteness, but yet have not shared it. I hope you can forgive this shocking oversight.

You may remember that when John and I were married, we disagreed slightly on the correct amount of cats for our household. My number was around the 2 range, and his was more like 8 is almost enough. We compromised at 4. Now that we have our own households, we have stayed true to our individual beliefs. I have three*, and he has…well, I’m not exactly sure, but I think it’s around the 6-8 mark. He takes excellent care of them and they are well and happy.

He also looks after the neighborhood strays, trapping them to get them spayed and neutered and finding homes (other than his) where possible, in addition to supplying food, water, and home-made shelters for the strays who live in a colony near the Home Depot in his city.

He recently came across a pregnant young cat, and earned her trust enough to catch her and take her home. She was examined by John’s vet, who opined that the babies would come along soon. John was always a bit envious that I was there when Buddy was born, saw his first breath (and his last – the whole wonderful journey), so he was pretty excited about seeing the kittens arrive, which two did in due course.

He was concerned about the mom cat, who he had named Willow, and correctly so, since Willow had two babies still inside her which hadn’t made it and had to be surgically removed. They spayed Willow while they were at it, and that tough little lady nursed her two beautiful little kittens despite her surgical scars, as you can see here. She is a good mother, and the vet estimates her to be about two years old, so this is likely not her first litter, though thankfully it is her last.

John decided to keep Willow, though he claims he is going to get the babies adopted when they are old enough. I named the dark, stripy one Daisy, and she seems to be the bolder of the two, and he named Peach, who is lighter in color and more playful. I pointed out that the names have a botanical theme, and that the kittens’ names are old-fashioned slang for cute and/or awesome.

So without further ado, here are some kitten movies and pictures to make your day.

John says Willow turns into “super protective demon Mom” when he changes the towels in the nest and is a formidable opponent:

Here’s Peach, playing for the first time.

And here’s Daisy sleeping while Peach plays. Daisy sleeping is quite possibly the cutest thing on earth.

*Can you blame me? You’ve seen how irresistible Dodge is!

A YEAR AGO: Marking a decade in Hooterville.

FIVE YEARS AGO: A BBQ with an old friend and up close and personal with my old friend the Moon.

TEN YEARS AGO: A less than stellar day.

Endless summer continues. I guess that’s what endless things do, and its key to endlessness that you keep on keeping on. It’s still around 70 at the ocean, 10-15 degrees warmer than it should be, and in the 80s at Chez Suzy, where I personally would prefer that it never went above 70, or 75 at the outside limit of endurance.

I realize this probably sounds pretty good to those of you who are already bundling up and staring down the barrel of six months or more of winter. You might be both surprised and envious that I had the air conditioning on in the car on the way home from work this week. It does cool off in the evenings and at night. It’s probably around 50 degrees when I head to the car to go to work, checking for signs of the Bear’s having paid me a secret overnight visit (and glad when he hasn’t, since those visits tend to be messy and more enjoyable for my ursine caller than for me). When I walk to the car in the mornings, everything is still but the crickets and sometimes a neighboring rooster. The stars and planets are blazing in the clear, dark, sky, and I have to stop and enjoy the stillness and the glory before getting on with my day.

One day last week included a visit to the dentist. It seems that a piece of my tooth came off – without my noticing – and an ancient silver filling was now exposed. Happily, it didn’t hurt, but unhappily, I am facing yet another coronation. One was enough for the Queen, but apparently three time’s the charm for me. I hope this is the last time I have to face this expensive and unenjoyable procedure. At least I don’t need a root canal this time (as far as I know). Apparently, they now put in the permanent crown the first time, instead of making you get a temporary and then come back for another appointment to get the permanent one. The downside of this is that the appointment will take an hour and a half, which I think we can all agree is a long time to sit in a place no-one ever wants to be.

That hour and a half will cost me around $700, even though I have insurance. I will be able to pay it off in three installments instead of all at once, which is a big help. I was so taken aback by the crown diagnosis that I forgot to ask them for what my stepmother used to refer to as “tablets”, her term for Valium and its soothing cousins. Last time after the root canal débâcle, I took a tablet before I went for the crown, but it had the unpleasant effect of making my brain (or its two remaining cells) foggy while my body remained super nervous. So I’m not sure if I really want to try that again, or if it will be much worse without it. I have a month to figure it out, since the fateful day is November 23, unless my injured tooth starts complaining.

In the meantime, I’ll do some complaining: Why can’t I have a tiara instead of a crown?

A YEAR AGO: Even buying a couch cushion can be a thrilling adventure if I’m involved.

FIVE YEARS AGO: Vertigo, and not the fun, Hitchcock kind, either.

TEN YEARS AGO: I was super helpful.

FIFTEEN YEARS AGO: Wildlife, even in the heart of the city.

One good thing about seemingly endless summer – not, I hasten to add, the upcoming forecast* – and keep in mind, these are coastal temperatures, so add 15 degrees for my house:

– is that it does make it possible to sit outside, even with only two months of the year left and the current month being well past the autumn solstice. Trees are not bursting into color here, though the vines that escaped the fires are, and apples are ripe in the family orchard. That woodsmoke smell is more likely to be wildfires than keeping the home fires burning. We aren’t embracing the woolen wear and pumpkin spice that much of the country is. I personally am dreading yet another heat wave, with ominous threats of record-breaking heat. “Sweater weather” has a whole different meaning here.

But the unseasonable temperatures do mean that I could join my friend for a drink at her lovely little house. I hadn’t been there since she first moved in, so we were overdue for a visit. It is a charming home, probably built in the 1920s, with a sort of Craftsman cottage feel. It is likely all redwood, and old redwood at that, though much of it is painted, making everything lighter and brighter. The dining room still has the redwood paneling and built ins. There is an actual mud room, something that is common back east (like window screens and insulation), but not so common here in California. It makes sense to take off our muddy boots in the winter, especially when, as at my friend’s house, the washer and dryer are right there.

No boots or mud were to be seen that day. My friend M is an excellent hostess, bringing a tray of nibbles along with a bottle of chilled rosé out to her porch, where we spent a delightful couple of hours together. She lives in the Big Town, so there was the novelty of sidewalks, people walking down the street, and even street lights. Imagine!

On the way home. I stopped in at Luna Trattoria, where I was greeted by a very friendly young cat:

He was soft and even allowed me to pick him up after twining himself around my legs. He clearly lives nearby, since he looks quite healthy and well cared for.

I got some of their wonderful penne alla vodka to take home. I have tried unsuccessfully to reproduce it at home. I think part of this is due to the high quality, chunky pancetta and some of it because they make their own pasta. Sometimes it’s good to just stand back and let the experts take over.

All in all, it was a lovely evening, and one I hope to repeat soon.

*There seems to be as little accountability as a weather prognosticator as there is in the highest office in the land. When I was a kid, I thought the weather reporters ordered the weather, like food off a menu. “I’ll have some partly sunny skies with a side of early morning fog”. Maybe I was right about that, after all. And while I note that they are often incorrect when calling for rain, they are never, ever wrong when calling for excessive heat. Why is that?

A YEAR AGO: Adventures at the gas station. I’m sorry to say that the Bear is still around and making his/her presence known in a most unsanitary fashion.

FIVE YEARS AGO: Spending an evening in town.

TEN YEARS AGO: The elusive Audrey.

FIFTEEN YEARS AGO: More songs about buildings and boobs.

Summer has been holding on longer than I would like, even into October, when others are flaunting their sweater weather and flaming leaves, and here it’s still sweating weather and flaming forest fires. Even at the Coast, it’s been close to 10 degrees warmer than it should be, even on days that start out with heavy fog. Looking into the long-range forecast, I was disheartened to note an 80 degree forecast for later this week, which, let’s be clear, is the middle of October.

What better way to deal with unseasonable and unreasonable temperatures than a drink with your sister at your favorite seaside bar, where there’s always a breeze and it’s always civilized?

I may have had more than one as we sat on the deck and caught up with each other’s news.

Eventually, we went back to Megan and Rob’s place, where we had wine from her friend’s vineyard:

Appropriately enough, the wine was called Gemini, being a mix of Semillon, not commonly seen here, and sauvignon blanc. It was a smooth, slightly floral blend, and enjoyable to drink. The friend has been evacuated twice during the recent fires, and Megan and another friend made a flying visit to see her, bringing food and hugs. It’s good to have friends.

We sat under the shade sails, quite possibly one of the best investments Megan ever made:

as the sunset gave way to moonrise:

Maybe an endless summer isn’t so bad after all.

A YEAR AGO: My adult impersonation now includes giving speeches.

FIVE YEARS AGO: Hanging out with Lichen.

TEN YEARS AGO: A mini adventure for little Clyde.

Rob hard at work*

Decanting things from the Closet of Doom has led to the “just moved in” look for my living room, and you know how I love that.

Ignoring the chaos, Rob installed the shelving supports:

And then the shelves themselves:

I can now easily reach the light switch. Rob is planning to install some kind of light switch cover that will work with the new shelving concept, and also one more support for the slope-adjacent shelf.

Here’s a look back toward the awkward part of the closet:

I think I will still store the Christmas ornaments, my Dad’s letters, and my travel journals there, since they do not require frequent access. I have already put out the pumpkins a little early:

Now all I have to do is somehow vanquish the chaos and get everything neatly organized on the shelves. My inner laziness is battling my chaos hatred.

*Dodge is supervising from his favorite spot on the propane heater that looks like a wood stove.

A YEAR AGO: Wildlife invasions, from foxes to bears. Country living! The bear is back at my house.

FIVE YEARS AGO: A weird day, all the way around.

I’m pleased to announce that Wednesday and I have been reunited.

I picked up a new battery at the car parts store – well, the nice man at the car parts store picked it up and carefully placed it in the loaner car – and a new headlight, and headed home.

Rob came by and replaced the headlight pretty easily. While the new battery had a handle, facilitating getting its extreme heaviness out of one car and into the other, it was also a bit smaller than the old, handle-less one. Rob looked around and found some wood to hold it firmly in place, and so far, so good.

His quest to make my life better continued a few days later. Rob arrived one Sunday afternoon, armed with tools and shelves for the Closet of Doom. I had kind of thought it would be a few weeks before anything happened. I wasn’t expecting an instant installation.

Here it is in all its Doomish glory:

As you can see, it’s a really awkward space, with one side the slope-y part under the stairs, cut off by the propane heater vent pipe, which makes it impossible to walk back into the slope-y part:

The other side is mostly occupied with the washer and dryer:

The washer takes about 5,000 years to wash anything, and the dryer only allows one to choose between low and lowest, so each load of laundry takes at least three tries to dry. When I moved in, Danielle made it clear that she was not responsible for the quirks of the washer and dryer, so there you (and I) have it. At least I don’t have to trek 25 miles each way to the closest laundromat*.

Rob and I removed all the things and stuff from the closet, and then the existing shelf, which also blocked the light switch so I had to reach behind it to turn the light on and off. Why it’s not conventionally located by the door, I don’t know. All part of the Doom experience!

Up next: After!

*Long ago when I was young and living in the big city, my bijou apartment did not have laundry facilities, so I used to drag my laundry a couple of blocks to the laundromat. Sometimes, I’d go to a nearby strip club to wait for the wash cycle to be finished, since each dance took about the same amount of time.

A YEAR AGO: Car problems were making Wednesday and me a little less than happy.

FIVE YEARS AGO: My last day of working at the jobette. I’d still be doing it if I could. So much has changed.

TEN YEARS AGO: New tile in Megan’s bathroom and new carpet for my sleeping loft.

FIFTEEN YEARS AGO: Bettie Page on the TV and a naked man on the fire scape watching a fire on the building’s roof. You know, the usual.

One dark morning, I slid into the seat of my car, deciding what music to listen to on my way to work as I turned the key in the ignition. Wednesday must have disapproved of my early morning selection of Tom Petty’s Mojo, since she refused to start. There was an ominous clicking sound, all the zillions of warning lights on the dashboard flashed, but Wednesday’s battery appeared to be taking the Big Sleep.

I called in the cavalry in the form of Jonathan and Rob, and they arrived, wielding tools. Their considered opinion was that the battery was out for the count. They also observed that one of the headlights was out, which was news to me, though perhaps not surprising, considering how much time I spend driving in the dark.

The boys called the auto parts store for me and ordered the battery and headlight replacement. I helped by giving them my credit card to pay for it. The parts would not be in until the following week, and then I’d have to wait for my unpaid mechanics to install them, and in the meantime, I had a loaner car to drive.

The loaner car is a nice Toyota, a couple of years younger than Wednesday, but I’m always uncomfortable driving unfamiliar cars. I spent a few minutes figuring out where the lights, wipers, etc. were located, and drove more slowly than usual. It didn’t help that it was both foggy and smoky on my maiden voyage, and that visibility was terrible. I was following the lines on the middle of the road and hoping that I I didn’t meet an unexpected deer on my way to work.

The car measures speed by kilometers, so I never know how fast I’m going. If I get pulled over, that’s my story, and I’m sticking to it.

A YEAR AGO: More delights at the County Fair.

FIVE YEARS AGO: Driving (not dancing) in the dark.

TEN YEARS AGO: A look around the Village.

For months, my MacBook was acting up in the manner of a surly teenager, refusing to do things when asked and dragging its feet when forced to fulfill my eminently reasonable requests. I spent a lot of time with the spinning ball, and despite its multi-colored festiveness, this did not endear it to me. Doing anything, even writing these simple missives and editing the visual aids to go with them, took an inordinate amount of time.

Patience is not, as you, one of my few virtues (what ARE those, anyway?), but my impatience was locked in a battle of wills with my innate reluctance to ever upgrade anything or buy a new anything until the previous anything died, usually of old age. Faithful readers may recall that my sister’s inability to deal with the limitations of my old phone drove her to replace it at her own expense earlier this year. Also that it took time (three long visits to the unenjoyable Verizon store) and money (nearly $22 hard-earned dollars!) to get things (allegedly) transferred to the new phone. I never did get all my contacts, and what I have is mostly outdated. Bet you’ll be amazed to hear that I have done exactly nothing about this.

Eventually, my hand was forced by the MacBook going behind my back and upgrading its operating system, thus rendering Word and Excel inoperable. They had a ghostly X over them. So my battered old computer with its shiny new operating system finally went for a visit to the computer repair folks, whose office is in the historic building that used to be the lumber company’s store back in the 19th century.

I should not have been surprised that it took longer than the promised two days to get my MacBook back. Even after all these years, I: a) believed them; and 2) completely ignored the Mendo Factor™. It took more like a week, and in the lengthy interim, I found having to write emails and do internet searches on my phone about as efficient and enjoyable as the spinning ball era on the computer. Like five days of the power shut off last fall, the computerlessness seemed to go on forever.

Eventually, it was ready, and of course I was notified when the shop was five minutes from closing. I raced over there from work. They had replaced the hard drive, transferred everything, reinstalled Word, Excel, and PowerPoint, and relieved me of $309. The computer looked cleaner than it had in months, or possibly years.

When I got it home, I discovered that there was an issue with the trackpad, where the cursor wouldn’t move or got stuck. I managed to increase the speed in the preferences, and it worked well sometimes and not others. The computer guy said to clean the trackpad with rubbing alcohol and see if that did the trick. I didn’t point out that it was cleaner than it had been since it was new, and tried the rubbing alcohol anyway. There was no discernible difference, but I was reluctant to part with the computer yet again, so I just put up with it. Eventually, it started working fine, I know not why. I just know I’m glad it works. For now.

A YEAR AGO: The many joys of the County Fair, Part 1.

FIVE YEARS AGO: The Fair was beautiful and glamorous, two of my favorite things.