Suzy Says

Finally found where the little dandelion painting had gotten to. It was placed sideways on top of the shelves which hold our [frighteningly huge collection of] videos & DVD’s, beside my maternal grandparents’ wedding picture. Shows how often I really look at my surroundings. Just have to find a nail and put the painting back up where it belongs!

The movie was great. Really stylish and surprisingly low on gore, but then one’s imagination is almost always better/worse than having it spelled out for you on film (this applies to sex scenes, too). Johnny Depp looks so great in period costume (as he did in the equally stylish, though far more gory Sleepy Hollow) that I wonder if he’ll ever get another role in modern clothes. His lower-class London accent was so impeccable that the movie was halfway over before it occurred to me that he was doing a flawless accent. While it did mess with history in a few places, and none of the Ripper’s real-life victims were remotely as attractive as those in the film, it was still a blast. I don’t have a problem with artistic license or suspending disbelief when I’m at the movies. It’s supposed to be entertaining, and that’s what it was. Reality is overrated anyway.

After the movie (which zipped by in spite of being over two hours long), we walked over to our favorite little hole-in-the-wall Italian restaurant, Victor’s, home of the best pizza in the city, and also one of its best-kept secrets. It’s cozy and welcoming, with its booths, battered linoleum floor, and hanging grape shaped lights. The staff has been the same for the decade we have been going there: Voice Guy, who answers the phone; the delivery guy who fell in love with our Jo when she was a kitten, asking if there were any more like her (never has been, never will be) and who is now a waiter; and our usual waiter. Our waiter has always seen the movie we have just seen, so we had an animated discussion about “From Hell” before ordering our excEt and cheap dinner. Hey Brian: guess where you’re going for dinner next Friday?!

On our way home, we passed by the new French lingerie shop that just opened. I have to go and check it out while the 10% off opening sale is still on. The husband of the lingerie shop owner had just pulled up to pick her up after work. He was accompanied by his two little girls, whom he was admonishing to put on their coats in French. One was blonde and the other a redhead, both looking like angels with clouds of curls. I’m telling you, they’re going to break a bunch of hearts in the future. They have probably already cut a swathe through their first or second grade classes. That guy better buy a gun.

And finally: it was an amazing blue moon. It looked exactly like the painting in that link. It was gorgeous.

OK, I couldn’t handle the Babar suit a minute longer, so I came home to change before the movie. And voil?! Candi had done a fabulous redesign for me! You rock, girl!

So I wore an outfit today which I haven’t worn for a while. I really like it, but I find that since I wore it last, I have gotten so much thinner that the outfit (black velvet top and black pants with 4 inches of embroidery and beading at the hem) is no longer cute on me. I feel like Babar in his giant green suit, or possibly Celeste, though she always wore a dress (and the same one, too, like Wilma and Betty. Cartoon girls are often sartorially underprivileged). I wore it on purpose because we’re finally going to see “From Hell” after work today and then going out to dinner, and I wanted to look cute. I guess it would helped if I noticed this before I left the house this morning, but trust me, you don’t notice much at 5 am. Getting dressed at all should be enough of an achievement at that hour. Not to mention contact lenses.

I seem to be congenitally incapable of working today, possibly due to clothing trauma but probably due to terminal laziness. Shopping always makes me feel better, so I went in my Babar suit to Victoria’s Secret, where I got a see-through purple bra with silver sequins, and then I got “The House of Mirth” on DVD. But I still feel like Babar.

PS I realize I shouldn’t bitch about being thinner, but it just goes to show that I can find the black lining to any silver cloud. And it makes absolutely no sense, because ever since I got deprived of dessert last Friday, I have been eating Baci every day.

The cleaning lady managed to move our (100+ year old, cast iron) bathtub, thereby unhooking one of the pipes. So I noticed after running bath water for about 5 minutes that the bathroom floor was flooded. Yikes! Rufus is mopping it like mad with bath towels. Guess this means I’m doing laundry this weekend.

And in other news, a small oil painting that used to hang above my desk has vanished completely, including its nail. Hmm.

The cleaning lady came today, which means that everything smells like Mexican cleaning products with names like “Fabuloso”. It also means that the cats are all gathered on the bed, which is what they do when things have been weird. This can mean anything from going to the vet to the vacuum cleaner. It’s nice that they are their own little family. No-one can make cats hang out together if they don’t want to.

Happy Halloween, kiddies! And happy 40th birthday to my brother-in-law Harry (how scary is that?!) and happy 8th birthday to our little black cat, Cleo. It was good luck when she crossed our paths. Actually, black cats crossing your path is considered good luck in England, though bad luck in the US. Think I’ll lean to my English side on this one. Happy birthday, you two, and happy Halloween to all!

The fact is, I’m never going to wake up today. It’s a) Monday; and 2) scheduled to rain, so why bother? It’s after 1:00 pm, so clearly I should give in gracefully and just stay in the haze until bedtime. Even though the clocks went back an hour on Sunday morning (more time for having fun or more time for doing chores — you decide!), it didn’t help me to get up this morning or wake up at all. Yet I rarely, if ever, suffer from jet lag. Wherever I am, I more or less keep on the same schedule.

Now, Rufus, on the other hand, stays up *really* late on Friday and Saturday nights, and then has to readjust to our normal, *really* early weekday schedule on Sunday. But he gets terrible jet lag whenever we go anywhere with any kind of time change. He claims it’s because I won’t let him nap on arrival, but experts everywhere (including me) agree that napping is completely fatal when trying to adjust to a new time zone. Next time we go to Europe, he can nap and then we’ll just see.

Happy birthday to the one and only Candi! Hope you’re having a fabulous day, girl!

Sometimes, you know, it really is the company rather than the actual event. I know I keep saying this (especially on Sundays, which seems to be my day for getting morbid), but I really miss my Dad. The Ansel Adams exhibit at MOMA was wonderful, and I wish he had been there with me instead of my aunt. Dad really saw pictures and responded to them both intellectually and emotionally. He always had an insight to share, an idea, a thought, an emotion. Alice basically ditched me when we were in the first room and breezed through the exhibit, so I had no-one to say, “Isn’t that beautiful” or “How on earth did he get that shot?” to. And yet, she studies art and photography all the time. The thing is, this is what she usually does, and I never seem to learn. I always think it’s going to be different — the triumph of optimism over experience.

The exhibit was set up chronologically, showing what other artists and photographers were doing at the time Adams began his long career (in the 1920’s), putting his beginnings in context. The following rooms showed his evolution as an artist, from the sweeping photos showing the majesty of Yosemite and Alaska and the Grand Canyon through to moodier, more abstract works. You could see the artist honing his craft, learning. One of my favorites showed a desert town in New Mexico at night, an ancient graveyard in the foreground and the small adobe houses behind. A lone horse grazes in the moonlight, and the moon looks so close to the earth that you feel you could reach up and put your arms around it. Another wonderful photo showed how the spiky needles of a grove of pine trees was echoed in the starry grasses at its feet.

About the only thing we were both amazed by was an indescribable sculpture by Sara Sze, called “Things Fall Apart”. I can tell you that it was essentially a deconstructed red Jeep Cherokee in five parts, swooping up and up from the atrium of the museum, but that can’t even begin to give an idea of what a powerful, moving piece it is — both literally and metaphorically, since it includes electric fans that move various items of urban detritus within the sculpture.

We were rather late in meeting Rufus for dinner at Le Petit Robert. It was our first time there, and it won’t be the last. It’s a charming, simply decorated space, and the food is excEt. As in the adjacent bakery, the staff is French and both know and appreciate the food they are serving. Alice and Rufus had beer, but I had a perfect kir royale (champagne with black currant liqueur), which had the added fillip of a lemon twist on top. There were radishes with coarse salt already on the table, and a basket of the wonderful bread from the next door bakery. Alice had the traditional French onion soup, and two separate small plates: one of creamy potatoes baked with garlic and cr?me fra&icircche, and one of fried artichokes sliced very thinly. Rufus had roast chicken with matchstick thin frites, just like Paris. I had a salad of roasted baby beets with ch?vre, toasted hazelnuts, and tarragon, followed by mussels steamed with wine, saffron, and sweet onions. I had a glass of 1994 Sterling chardonnay with it. Again, I wished Dad had been there to read the menu and the wine list with me. We always had such a good time choosing the wine and the food to go with it (not the other way around), and figuring out what was in each dish and tasting each other’s. Sometimes we would reproduce dishes we really liked at home. There really is no-one I would rather cook with, drink a glass of wine with, or see an art exhibit with.

The desserts looked fantastic: coffee cr?me caramel; bittersweet chocolate mousse with an orange-caramel snap; canel? de Bordeaux with Bing cherries and custard sauce. But Alice had decided it was now too noisy and she wanted to go, so no dessert for Suzy (and I still want some!). Next time, I’m going to go there and order all three desserts and have them for dinner. You can do that when you’re a grown-up (or just look like one). It’s some compensation for having to go to work every day and pay taxes.

What with all the gloom and doom in the news these days, I have fallen seriously behind on celebrity gossip. The two weirdest stories to me both involve Lisa Maries — one being the curvacious actress of “Sleepy Hollow” and “Ed Wood” and the other the deeply strange daughter of The King.

Lisa Marie One, long-time girlfriend and inspiration of Tim Burton, has been summarily dumped by him in favor of Helena Bonham Carter. According to this article, they are celebrating their 3 week anniversary. Newsflash: anniversary means a year, not three weeks (or even a month). What an odd little couple they make.

And speaking of odd: Lisa Marie Two, Elvis’ little girl, is apparently now set to marry Nicolas Cage by the end of the year. You may recall that Lisa Marie was married to Michael Jackson at one point, and that Cage has a pretty flaky romantic past himself, though nothing as odd as being married to a gay black guy who is trying desperately to look both white and exactly like Diana Ross at the same time. At MOMA yesterday I saw Jeff Koon’s white and gold porcelain sculpture of Jackson and his chimp, Bubbles, and it was *very* life-like.

And speaking of denial, Anne Heche says she was never gay. Guess she was faking it all those years with E. That must be some kind of world record for faking of any kind. And finally, Kate Winslet says her divorce was caused by the pressures of her career, which is pretty surprising considering it’s all been downhill for Winslet since “Titanic” (insert joke here).

To paraphrase the divine Jane Austen, it is a truth universally acknowledged, that the minds of girls are completely mysterious to most men. If you’re a guy in search of answers, my good friend Richard is the answer guy. Yup, he is the total guru of how to talk to girls. Got a question? Just ask!

HBO, one of my favorite TV stations, has made a movie of “Shot in the Heart”, one of my favorite books (and if you follow this link, it’s worth the time to read the excerpt). The book was written by Mikal Gilmore, Gary Gilmore’s little brother. More than an examination of the crimes that led to Gary’s execution in January, 1977, it’s the story of a tragic and deeply flawed family. It must have taken considerable courage for Mikal Gilmore to research generations of his family’s history, sifting through the secrets and lies to face the painful truths that lay beneath. In reading Gilmore’s brilliant book, I felt as if I were watching a Greek tragedy unfold before my eyes, the events of generations of lives all leading inevitably to that cold January morning. It’s a deeply moving and troubling book, and one which isn’t easily forgotten.

My first reaction when I heard about the film was to be glad it was HBO, but I couldn’t see how the book could be translated to film, since there is so much family history and background in it — it’s not just about Gary’s crime and punishment. The answer is that it couldn’t. Unfortunately, the film jumps back and forth and goes for an arty feel and look rather than telling the story. If I hadn’t read the book, I wouldn’t have known what was going on most of the time, and we had to keep pausing the film so I could explain to Rufus wat was going on or who these people were. That said, Elias Koteas gave an outstanding performance. Not only did he look like Gary, he was able to convey the conflicted emotions of this complex man. I guess it’s always hard for a movie made of a book one loves to live up to such high expectations. So check it out and make up your own mind. But read the book.

OK, my watch is in the adorable embroidered handbag I bought in London in August (proving definitively that I am never too depressed to shop), waiting for me to bring it to Charles after work today to be repaired. In case you’re wondering what it looks like, here are a couple of pictures: an overview and a close-up. Hope the pictures aren’t too teeny! And y’all are right — better to repair the original as best I can. Same approach I take to my 1966 Mustang, come to think of it. Encouraging thought: maybe older really is more stylish!

I never know what to do with myself now on Sunday mornings when Rufus and the cats are sleeping. I used to look forward to this time every week, because I always wrote to my father and always found an email from him waiting for me on Sunday mornings. He wrote to me at the end of the day, when he had changed for dinner and had dinner on its way. Then he’d go up to his study with a glass of wine from his collection and write to me, overlooking the garden. I would write to him on Sunday morning, quiet but for church bells and fog horns, the day before me. I have to say I have much less interest in my email now I know I will never again see one with the subject “Letter from Pooh” (our nickname for Dad since we were kids and he would tell us Pooh stories), but a part of me keeps on hoping I will.

So far, the day is not going exactly well, despite the fact that it’s a) Friday; and 2) a beautiful, sunny day. I had to take our cat Sophie to the vet this morning, for what will certainly be a hugely expensive teeth cleaning, in spite of having the healthcare plan. When you have four cats, insuring at least one of them per year is an economic necessity, since it makes things like hugely expensive teeth cleaning half price, or just expensive. So we usually pick whoever needs the most treatment or the most expensive treatment. Knowing that Sophie needed teeth cleaning, we chose her for this year. Last year it was Jack, with her 8 million kitten appointments.

Rufus put together the cardboard cat carrier yesterday, but didn’t notice that the handles were broken. So imagine my surprise when, after capturing the very large and very shy Sophie and stuffing her in the carrier, that I couldn’t actually carry her in it. Looked in the closet for another carrier, put it together, opened the first one, and Sophie catapulted out of it (no pun intended). I barely managed to grab her and my first attempt to get her in the second carrier was not a success. She booted it across the hall while I was still holding her, so I had to go and get it while holding on a struggling 12 pound muscular cat. And did I mention she’s a redhead? Finally managed to wrestle her into the carrier. It was like fighting a bear cub. She’s very sweet and very shy, but when you make her mad, look the fuck out.

By this time, it was too late to walk to the vet’s as planned, so I ended up calling a cab. When I got to the vet it was dark inside, but I could see people moving around, so I pounded on the door until they opened. They were all grumpy and snotty even though it was 10 minutes past their stated opening time. So I bid Sophie a hasty good-bye and went to work, where there was a flurry of vague and bizarre voicemails and “must be handled right now” emails. Notice I just got right on it. Procrastination should be my middle name.

So work was the fun part of the day today. This afternoon I went to the dentist for a cleaning, even though it seemed like I had just been there (it turns out it was in April, though). As the song says, life roars by you in a blur*.

I really like my dentist and have been going to him for almost a decade. He has great magazines in the waiting room (like the newest Architectural Digest) and a great receptionist but plays horrible muzak radio all over the office. Also I always seem to get a different hygienist. Today, oddly, I got his partner, Dr. Sun, and it was a really gruesome experience. Maybe it’s like how nurses are so much better at taking blood and giving shots than doctors, but damn. She split my lip with the ultrasonic watery cleaning thing, which was also her weapon of choice for removing my makeup. She was unclear on the concept of the extractor thing, so it was a pretty gagacious ride. My mouth now tastes like gritty blood. Mmmmm!

Our cat Sophie is having her teeth cleaned on Friday. I’ll drop her off first thing in the morning and we can pick her up after work. At least they’ll knock her out before they start their evil dental machinations.

I’m going to have a hot bath, drink cold white wine bought on our trip up north, and read “Harry Potter”. That should cheer me up!

*Repo Man by Iggy Pop, for those of you too un-Dennis Millerish to catch that particular arcane reference.

Rufus and I went to visit my brother and sister this weekend. They live near the little town of Albion, about 150 miles north of San Francisco. Their houses are a little on the rustic side for Rufus’ taste (bet you thought I’d be the picky one here, didn’t you?), so we stayed at the lovely Fensalden Inn in this pretty room. The inn was a stage coach stop in the 1860’s, and you can still see gunshot holes in the redwood ceiling of the old tavern, now a spacious living and dining room. From this room’s windows there is a spectacular view of the ocean and a garden visited all day long by hummingbirds. Other than the ocean, all you can hear is the wind in the trees and the birds singing. And since it’s about 7 miles from where my brother and sister live, it was the perfect place to stay.

It was a beautiful drive up, not a cloud in the deep blue sky. Across the Bridge into Marin and then into Sonoma County, where things really start getting pretty. Fields were full of glowing pumpkins, the vineyards turning gold and red, their grapes harvested. I love the golden brown of the hills with the live oaks making pools of dark green and much-needed shade, and the tall redwoods that line parts of Highway 128.

The weather was perfect all weekend, clear and in the 80’s during the day, cool and starry at night. On Saturday, we looked around the charming little village of Mendocino. Mendocino was built in the 1800’s and has retained its charm by burying power lines and having any alteration to existing buildings, or proposal to build a new one, approved by its very strict Historical Society (known locally as the “Hysterical Society”). There are no cell phone towers or fast food restaurants, either — nothing to mar the old village’s tranquil beauty, perched on cliffs overlooking the Pacific.

We did some shopping, had lunch at the deli, and walked my brother Jonathan’s dog Jed on the headlands. Walking Jed always involves throwing the ball, which is why my sister Megan keeps a supply of balls (also a towel, thermos of water, and plastic bowl — her “Jed kit”) in the car, and we had a heart-stopping moment when the ball flew over the cliff. We all yelled “No!” at once and Jed stopped. I don’t think she would really have gone over the cliff in pursuit of the ball, but we certainly weren’t going to risk it!

We had a barbecue at Jonathan’s on Saturday night, accompanied with corn we had bought at Gowan’s on the way up, and potatoes from Megan’s garden. Gowan’s has had a produce stand outside Philo for generations. The eldest Gowan, now in his 80’s, still helps to pick apples every Fall, and the family steadfastly refuses to sell their extremely valuable land, in the prime grape-growing area of Anderson Valley, to the wineries.

All the “firsts” are hard, and I’m glad I had Rufus with me for this one. My father loved Albion, and he is everywhere up there. But it was good to be with my family, be happy, and start to build new memories together.

Seldom is doing good as enjoyable as it was on the evening of October 11. Rufus and I had a splendid dinner at the always fabulous Millennium, which was participating in the worldwide Windows of Hope campaign. Restaurants all over the world pledged to donate a percentage of the night’s sales to the September 11 relief fund, and were hoping to make $1 million.

I made quite a stir as we entered the already bustling restaurant. I sat on the edge of the tablecloth of the (fortunately empty) table next to ours, knocking off the bread plate, which smashed loudly on the floor. Despite this faux pas, the waiter tidied up the plate remains smoothly and quickly and never made me feel like the idiot I was. That’s one thing I have noticed about Millennium since the first time I went there: the service is perfect and the servers attitude-free.

Rufus and I are off to spend a long weekend with my brother and sister in the country. Can’t wait!

My thoughts are with Anathea, who lost her beloved father on Tuesday. Anathea, I’m so very sorry. Sending you hugs and wishing you peace and courage. Remember: it only hurts so bad because you loved each other so much.

There has just been too much death and sadness lately, as Candi (whose mother’s husband’s father — correction there, and an apology for any undue horror! — passed away last night) has remarked. In addition to my father, this makes six deaths of people I am somehow connected to in the past two months. Not counting the September 11 disasters. Too much death, too much sadness in such a short period of time. Things have got to get better soon.