Suzy Says

Those in the know know that every April 15 is Jessica’s birthday. Far more important (and enjoyable) than filing income taxes is finding the right gift.

Despite the fact that Jessica is the least material of children – when Megan asked her what she wanted for Christmas last year, Jessica replied, “a candy cane” – I spent some time and thought on what to get her.

I ended up with this (allegedly) child’s ruffled scarf, which was actually big enough to tempt me into keeping it. Yes, I tried it on. It’s an angora blend from Benetton, and it’s pink (“you know, the kind of pink that I like”):

Later, I realized that Jessica had given me a scarf for Christmas, so maybe that and the fact that I wear the Jessica scarf fairly often made me think of giving her one, too.

On Etsy, I found the perfect card:

I even managed to wrap it fairly decently (while forgetting to photograph it for posterity) and mail it on time. Yay, Me! When I called Jessica on her birthday, she was absolutely delighted with everything. Even if I hadn’t sent her anything, her birthday would have been completely awesome, thanks to Erica.

Erica took Jessica to get her ears pierced. I asked Jessica if it hurt, and she said, “Oh, yeah!” When I asked her if she watched, she said, “Suzy, my eyes aren’t on the side of my head,” which was a good point.

In addition to the new earrings, Erica gave Jessica “The Three Musketeers” and “The Hobbit”, which was perfect since I had also sent her a little bookmark which matched her birthday card. Jessica said, “I miss my aunt-ourage. And my uncle-tourage.”

Jessica’s birthday cake was chocolate, layered with fresh strawberries and buttercream frosting with coconut and chopped almonds, decorated with candied violets. Just another Erica masterpiece.

As if that wasn’t enough, they went to Cirque du Soleil that evening, where the performers showered Jessica with butterfly-shaped confetti.

All in all, a good birthday*.

*Jessica asked me when mine was, and I told her. She was charmed by the fact that it’s the day before her mother’s. She asked me how old I would be this year, and I told her. She was quiet for a moment, and then said, “You’ll be half a century old!” as if her mind was completely blown, which I know mine is. I agreed, and she said, “But you seem like a kid.” Pause. “Maybe a teenager.”

Well, my last day in the City did not go exactly as planned.

I packed my bags and the car and otherwise managed to kill a couple of post conference call hours in the early morning. Around 9:30, I set off for Swan Oyster Depot, knowing that they open early. What did not know is they don’t start counter service until 10:30, a new and unwelcome scheduling change.

I walked back to the modest motel, stopping in at Bob’s doughnuts on my way:

I checked out, packed the final few things in the car, and headed back to Swan’s, parking the car in a garage around the corner. It was about 10:45 at this point, so I was kind of shocked by the length of the line at Swan’s. It used to be that if you got there before 11, you’d be OK, but apparently that has gone the way of early morning counter service.

Figuring on a half hour’s wait, I was wrong – it was closer to an hour, but by then, I’d invested so much time, there was no way I was going to leave. Eventually, I perched on a tiny, uncomfortable stool, elbow to elbow with total strangers, and ordered a half cracked crab, which comes with sourdough* and butter and a smile.

It was sparkling fresh, as always, and I enjoyed the ballet behind the counter, as the brothers cracked crabs, shucked oysters, poured wine, and rang up bills – one of the charming things about eating there is telling your server what you had, which he rings up on an old cash register – in the narrow space.

After that, I picked up some extreme take-out from Victor’s:

and headed to the Legion of Honor to the Cult of Beauty exhibit:

where the views of the Bridge:

and the City:

and Sutro Tower:

were lovely.

Inside, not so much. Another line to buy a ticket, much like an airport check in line, where those ahead of me took forever and I took about 30 seconds. How can it take so long to buy a ticket? Arriving at the exhibit, another line to get in, and then I was awash in hordes of tweens, chasing each other around, screaming, giggling, texting – anything but actually looking at the priceless works of art. Not for the first time, I congratulated myself on steadfastly refusing to reproduce.

Despite the tweenage horrors, the exhibit was full of lovely things. My favorites were a chair designed by Sir Lawrence Alta-Tadema (who knew he designed furniture as well as being a painter) in 1884, much more fabulous than any photo could capture:

A remarkably modern tea set made by the gifted Christopher Dresser in 1879:

And of course, Whistler’s Battersea Bridge Nocturne.

By the time I got on the Bridge, the Giants’ home opener was already in progress, and I listened to Matt Cain pitch a one hit shutout, 5-0, against the PIttsburgh Pirates as I headed back to Hooterville.

The sun vanished when I was a few miles over the County line, and there were some showers before I arrived home and greeted the kitties. They definitely missed me. Yesterday, the boys chose sitting with me over playing in the sun, and Audrey, never the most demonstrative of cats, sat on my lap all evening instead of going outside. I’m officially more fun than the Great Outdoors!

*It’s from Boudin’s Bakery, but they bake it longer for Swan’s, so the crust is dark and crispy. I highly recommend it. And remember: you pronounce it Bo-DEENS.

Storm clouds on Polk Street

Well, here I am, ending my trip as I started it, with a pre-dawn conference call. I’m drinking reheated coffee from the French bakery, which I bought just for this purpose, figuring that it would be better than the dreaded in-room coffee. So far, I’m right, though I managed to incur a small, cigarette-type burn on the lower part of the cup while yet leaving the coffee tepid.

Go Me.

I think you need coffee before you make it. Or re-heat it.

Yesterday was mostly a blur of meetings, though I made time at the end of it to meander aimlessly around boutiques in my old ‘hood, buy a birthday card for Megan, and get my nails done at the cheap and cheerful nail salon. I was surprised on this occasion that there were two men there, and they could not have been more different. One was the metrosexual poster child, who also got his eyebrows waxed (clearly copying Me), and the other was the rare to near extinction Gentleman, who wore a hat and carried a cane and not a single white hair was out of place.

In the evening, I gorged on delivery Thai food and hockey playoffs, which are getting unprecedented coverage on TV this year. I checked in with Megan, who told me that the kitties were fine, and that there had been a thunderstorm, garnished with lightning and hail. A couple of hours later, the storm showed up to my party. The thunder was so loud that it kept setting off car alarms. It’s a lot easier to hide from the storm in the modest motel than in the fishbowl of my hippie hovel.

[Update: It wasn’t just my imagination: it was a hell of a storm. 750 lightning strikes in four hours, and nearly an inch and a half of rain. It’s sunny now, though – hopefully a good omen for the Giants home opener on Friday the 13th.]

The real dilemma for today is what to do after the early morning call. There are three or four hours to kill before museums and Victor’s opens. What’s a girl to do? Stay tuned…

Conference day dawned cloudy, but not rainy, as predicted. I disguised myself as a responsible adult and hailed a cab. Other than the driver, the whole thing was computerized, with a disembodied voice informing me how to exit safely, and a printed out receipt which said “Happy Cabbing” on it.

Is there any other kind?

This particular shindig is always held in the swellegant Four Seasons in San Francisco. Every year, I wonder why it was built on such an iffy block of Market Street, especially when I pass the private lobby of the “Residences”. If you’re wealthy enough to stay or live there, I would think you’d prefer a more delightful neighborhood. Also, the doorman probably spends a lot more time shooing away desirables than greeting desirables. Still, it is just a few blocks from Sephora.

The doorman at the Four Seasons always makes me feel cherished, sweeping open the door and bowing with a smile as he ushers me into the marble hush of the foyer.

Once labeled and equipped with a very nice padfolio, I went into the conference room, where the view was not quite as lovely as the one from the deck:

The dress code in the invitation said “business casual”, which is the dress code no-one really understands, even the people who set it. When I worked at Nameless Corporation years ago, the Powers that Be instituted Business Casual on Fridays, but no-one, even the Human Resources people, could explain exactly what it was. Like pornography, they’d know it when they saw it.

My interpretation was velvet pants, a velvet-trimmed top (I guess I think velvet goes well with chandeliers), and heels high enough to be cute, but not too high to preclude walking to Sephora. I also brought my diamonds out for an airing. Other conference attendees wore: suits with and without ties; khakis and shirts; a couple of Hawaiian shirts; and sky-high heels with bare legs, which I think is an “only in California” look.

As conferences go, it was pretty good. I met some interesting and potentially useful people, as well as some I already knew. And I learned a lot.

Feeling virtuous, I headed out of the elegant enclave and strolled to Sephora among the businessmen, tourists, and crazy people, marveling once again at the length of the line waiting to board the Powell Street cablecar. Note to tourists: get on a block or two later, and there won’t be a line.

Being in Sephora is almost as good as being in the Four Seasons. They have cute girl greeters instead of a doorman, and some truly fabulous faux eyelashes:

Life in Hooterville doesn’t require false eyelashes, but it does require lipliner and eyebrow pencil, which were duly bought and put into a little black and white striped bag. I happily made my way to the St. Francis, where the last doorman of my day ushered me into a taxi.

Days that begin and end with taxis are always good.

Well, it’s been a long day.

It started at 5:30 am, when my Moonbeam alarm clock kindly flashed its rays over my sleeping face. I almost sobbed as I turned it off in the rainy darkness. Roscoe didn’t bother moving.

I was sufficiently caffeinated to hold up my end of a 6:00 am conference call. Following its conclusion, I got ready for the jobette, packed up the car, said goodbye to the completely unmoved kitties, and headed off.

After working at the jobette all day, I set off for San Francisco in the rain and fog. I lost track of how many times it poured and subsided, poured and subsided. All I know is, I’m sick of other cars’ splashy wakes and I cannot understand why rear window windshield wipers aren’t standard on all cars.

As I drove across the Golden Gate Bridge, the City looked like a pale mirage, washed by the rain and bathed in fog. The towers of the Bridge were swathed modestly in cloud, and the rain-swept gloom had robbed them of their brightness.

Still, my heart lifted as always at the sight of my loved one, no matter how inclement and inconvenient the weather.

I texted Megan to tell her I was here, and then ordered Indian food on the interwebs. I could even pay for the tip and save the receipt for my expense report. Now all I have to do is relax with an adult beverage or two and wait for it to arrive. Sometimes I love technology.

I always love food I don’t have cook. Or shop for. Or plan. Or clean up.

Sadly, my room does not have a bathtub, which kiboshed my Lush dreams of soaking luxuriously, but so far the bathroom seems to be bug and spider free, which is an improvement.

Other than the magic delivery of Indian food, there won’t be a whole lot of fun going on during this trip. Tomorrow I’m spending all day in a conference, then part of Thursday, followed by meetings. On Friday, I have yet another 6 am conference call, followed by the long drive home to Hooterville. I’m still hoping to squeeze in some fun, though, in the shape of this exhibit. And maybe a stop in at Sephora…

It seems kind of unfair that you don’t get Easter baskets as a grown-up, which is when you need it most. I’d love to wake up to a basket full of chocolates and cuteness and then test my ability to eat the chocolate before noon. You can skip the marshmallow Peeps and substitute a mimosa. Dinner would be optional.

Instead of eating candy all day, I messed around in the garden a bit before the rain, which is promised to visit us all week, began. I snipped the dead and rangy looking stragglers off the hanging plants, and gave them fertilizer, discovering that the bag of fertilizer mysteriously has a hole placed (in)conveniently near the bottom of the bag.

I finally re-potted the calla lilies Jim gave me (mumble) weeks ago. One of them is looking a little peaked, and I wonder if it was damaged in the hailstorm we had a week or two ago. I propped it up and am hoping for the best:

Speaking of damage: the flower spike on one of my orchids got broken off somehow. I was surprisingly upset to find it lying on the gravel this morning. I put it in water, but I’m pretty sure it will never bloom. After all that work of bringing them inside to keep them from getting frost-bitten, and out again to catch the rain…

Despite this setback, I planted some nasturtium seeds. I have never grown anything from a seed, so we’ll see how that works out. The concept I had for them – they are vine-y ones, and my idea was to put the planter on top of the window Mark made in the studio, so they’d tumble brightly down the side – may or may not work out. A strong wind might blow the planter off the window, and then there’s watering something that’s a few feet above my head:

Practicality is not one of my strong suits.

Rob brought by a planter which looks to my untrained eye to be made of felt:

It had a tree in it before, which is now over on the family property, and he thought it would make a good home for the tree by the propane tank which keeps getting knocked over by the wind. During the last storm, I just let it lie there sadly for days at a time, knowing that if I picked it up, it would just get knocked down again, a sort of anti-Weeble. So I’m hoping that the new container will be heavy enough with dirt to keep it an upstanding citizen.

Today would have been my mother’s 80th birthday. She lost her long, valiant battle against cancer seven years ago this summer. She was a fighter, and fought until the end. Her ability to withstand pain and not complain about it was astounding. Sometimes I wonder whether she would have been diagnosed sooner and maybe had a better outcome if she had complained more and earlier about the pain she was in, but that kind of speculation is pointless.

Though it’s hard not be a little concerned about the dwindling life expectancies of our rapidly dwindling family. My great-grandparents lived well into their 90s (my father’s maternal grandfather dying in style while doing a complicated math problem – come to think of it, maybe that’s what caused it); my grandparents well into their 80s (Dad’s father dying in style on Christmas Eve in his special armchair while his beloved wife of more than 50 years made him a cup of tea) and my parents barely making it to 70 (Dad lived 5 months after his 70th birthday; Mom made it to 73). So if I’m lucky, I might have another 10 or 15 years. Shouldn’t I be working less and having more fun?

Speaking of working: an unexpected side of effect of the jobette is that it’s brought me closer to Mom, proving once and for all that it’s never too late to work on your relationship.

The jobette requires driving to and from the Big Town three times a week, about 40 minutes each way. Mom loved to drive, and drove rapidly and skillfully, whereas I am not a big fan. To make the experience more bearable*, I always have music in the car, like Mom did, and for safety reasons, I have my Mouse**, which has never failed me yet. And most days, I wear the hand-forged silver bracelets that Mom always wore.

Listening to the radio so much inspired me to start a Song of the Day playlist on my iPod. It started out as the song that made me happiest when I was driving that day, but I have to admit that some days, there was more than one song.

The songs were a revelation of sorts. Though there’s a fair amount of new stuff, I definitely seem to enjoy the songs of my youth, songs that date back to when Mom was driving the car and I was the passenger, instead of the other way around, as it is now. Apparently, I like disco (who knew?) and never met a Steve Miller song I didn’t like. Go figure.

Megan’s gift from Mom was Schatzi, and mine was the love of music.

Mom inspired the playlist and I know she would love it, and have one too. When a song comes on the radio or the iPod which she really liked, I feel like she’s right there with me. In retrospect, she really had great taste in pop music. And when I finally pull into my rocky, potholed, muddy (or dusty) driveway, I always say “Thank you, Mom” as I take off my seatbelt and lurch toward my house.

Thank you, Mom. And happy birthday***.

*I do realize that complaining about a 40 minute commute beside the Pacific and through groves of ancient redwoods is very non Mom, and also annoying to the rest of you who have real commutes. Or wish you had one.

***There was a breathtakingly beautiful full rainbow over the ocean this morning. I thought of you.

Apparently, March did not get the whole “in like a lion, out like a lamb” memo. It both came in and went out like a particularly rambunctious and attention deprived feline. Or, you know, an Audrey.

I woke on Saturday night to rain and wind battering my hippie hovel. I checked all the doors to make sure they were closed tightly against the wind, and discovered a couple of new roof leaks in the kitchen by stepping in the puddles in bare feet. That will teach me not to wear my slippers, which were snickering quietly by the side of the bed when I went back upstairs, flashlght in hand, Just In Case.

Or not.

As I listened to the roar of the storm and tried to quell my fears by reading the latest in Lisa Lutz’s always entertaining Spellman series (about a family of private eyes in San Francisco), I thought how lucky it was that Megan and Rob had ventured to the city the day before to buy a car. By the time Saturday was over, there had been four hailstorms, heavy rain, a thunderstorm or two, and the highway to civilzation was closed due to the river overflowing its banks. Again.

But Megan and Rob didn’t have to care about all that as they sat with their dogs by the cozy fire. Safe in their driveway was a BRAND NEW CAR!

At least, to us.

So far, they are the only ones in our family to actually own a car made in this millennium (or century, for that matter), this one being a 2004 Hyundai Elantra:

On Friday, they went all the way to the wilds of the unknown East Bay, with Miss Scarlett and Miss Star (leaving me to give Schatzi that unforgettable midday pill) to buy a car. A couple of the other cars they had been looking at online had been snapped up in the meantime, but fortunately, this one remained.

Not only did we conclude the Great Car Share of 2011-1012, we learned why used cars are so #%^$#*%^ expensive. When this car shopping odyssey began, I foolishly assumed that with the economy so bad and the unemployment rate so high, there would be plenty of used cars for sale by desperate people.

I was wrong about this, as with so many other things, both recently and not so recently. It turns out that people are desperately hanging onto their crappy old cars and driving them until they no longer go, like Megan did, since they can’t afford to upgrade. There is a serious shortage of decent used cars for sale, at least in Northern California (Megan searched as far away as Sacramento and San Jose), and when one does come up, there is a bidding war for it between used car dealerships.

As I said before, the new normal is not a pretty one.

So for around $7,500, Megan and Rob got a car with a mere 45,000 miles and 8 years on it, but with no floor mats or extras of any kind, unless you count the slight ding in the windshield. Still, it drives well and has good pickup and good handling around the curves and good gas mileage, which is pretty much all we care about.

As Hootervillians, it has come to my attention that our concerns when making big purchases are not the same as Civilizationites. With cell phones, it’s durability and receptiveness, given the lack of cell towers in our big, but underpopulated County, not how many apps and games and movies you can get on it or how cool or pretty it is. With cars, it’s how safe it is, along with its ability to grip the serpentine, rough roads and enough get up and go to pass those losers who refuse to pull over as soon as you have the chance. Oh, and good gas mileage if you can get it. We do not care about coolness, color, moon roofs, or leather-wrapped steering wheels. We really don’t.

Anyway…I’m happy that they once again have a safe, reliable vehicle (already test-driven by our brother) and that once again, all’s well that ends (or starts) well.

Nothing cheers up a girl after a hard week of screwing up like an unexpected gift from a wonderful friend.

Imagine my delight in discovering in my mailbox, along with a jury duty summons and a car insurance bill, an interestingly rattling box. When I got home and opened it, I discovered that it was a whole set of chalkboard mason jar tags for my oh-so-disorganized pantry, handmade by the fabulous Amber:

As if that weren’t enough, she had tucked into the package a little Scrabble tile to which she had decoupaged a miniature of the first edition cover of my best-loved book, The Box of Delights. I wasted no time attaching it to my keychain*, so I will have it with me every day:

Inside my Louis Vuitton Monogram Groom keychain (one of the few remaining vestiges of my once-glamorous life) are little notes from my family, including my father and sister, so this little book, which our father read to us so often as children, is the perfect addition. I like feeling like their love is always with me.

Amber makes amazing things: three beautiful children (or, as she affectionately calls them, The Rottens), and countless handcrafted goodies. You can have a peek at some of her handiwork here. Be prepared to be delighted.

Oh, and when she’d not doing all that, she’s also a wife and engineer and blogger. And not at all a screwup.

I wasted no time in trying on one of these clever labels. I can’t wait to get a whole bunch of matching jars to fancy up my pantry. And I’m so lucky to have such wonderful friends.

*They are the keys to the kingdom, my friend. With them, you can start up Miss Scarlett, check my mailbox and my siblings’, and open my brother’s gate and front door. My doors don’t have keys. Or locks, for that matter.

Maybe I need a reminding sculpture. Or a whole pad of neon Post Its. Or a personal assistant. Or a brain transplant! If Dick Cheyney can get a heart transplant, it just goes to show that you don’t have to have the original organ to get it replaced…

Lately, my brain has not been functioning at peak capacity. Or maybe this is peak capacity, and I’ll have to get used to it. The new normal: not fun.

This week has been less than fabulous. It’s been pouring, for one thing – I fully expect the Ridge to be flooded tonight or tomorrow – which is always depressing. And for another, I seem to be making one mistake after another.

I locked the keys in the car when I was at the jobette, far from home. This was mitigated by the fact that I knew I’d do something like that, so I already had an extra key sitting in my desk drawer, but still.

I bought the kitties a fifteen pound bag of cat food instead of a five pound bag, to minimize time and gas spent on going to the feed store. I bought a different flavor since I thought they’d be bored of the old one. Well, they seem to hate it. Even Clyde the Food Monster sniffed at it (in all three bowls) and walked away this morning, an unprecedented feat of disdain on his part. I’ll see if they have eaten any when I get home from work tonight. If they still hate it, I’ll buy the original flavor and sell the rejected bag to Megan, whose kitties are less picky than mine.

I was supposed to join a conference call today, and discovered that my cell phone battery was dead, so I couldn’t. My boss was not happy, and neither was I.

Worst of all, I worked all weekend on a proposal to provide services on behalf of my real job, only to discover that I had mistaken the due date. By the time my boss alerted me to the fact that the due date was Monday, not Tuesday, it was Monday night and officially too late.

I realize that he should have noticed the due date as well, but still…I feel pretty stupid right about now.

Megan’s Boss

We all have little tricks for helping us remember things. Post-Its on the mirror so we are reminded of mundanities like picking up milk while applying our DiorShow mascara. The classic string tied around the finger (though I’d probably forget why I tied the string there in the first place, and then I’d want to add a tassel and maybe some beading, and….I can see why I’ve never tried that one). Mnemonics like HOMES for the Great Lakes.

Rob, of course, does it in his own inimitable style.

Little Miss Schatzi is on a strict regimen to keep her at her happiest and healthiest. Seeing her prance through my garden, as she frequently does, or jump for joy when she sees me, you’d never know that her bones look like Swiss cheese under her elegant brindle coat (and cuddly sweater, since it’s still winter in Hooterville, no matter what the calendar and reclusive East Coast rodents say). This is almost entirely due to Megan and Rob’s care and feeding of their aging princess.

Schatzi gets pain medication and anti-inflammatories three times a day. Megan usually takes care of Round One when she gets home from work in the morning, and Round Three when she heads out to work, but Rob has to remember the middle of the day pilling. This can be a challenge if he is out of the house or not feeling well himself or if he just plain forgets.

Instead of the string or Post-It, though, he went the Rob Route:

He created a sculpture out of found items around the property (I can practically hear James’ ghost saying, “See? That’s why I kept all that stuff!”) and fastened it to the mirror, which is also conveniently located to the most frequently frequented area in their little cottage: the coffee pot. He painted it with the words “PILL THE DOG” to remind him of why it’s there.

Notice that there’s an arrow pointing to a picture of a dog for extra reminding help.

Oh, and the little cup on the top left-hand side of the sculpture holds the actual pills (in a delicious Pill Pocket, which is meat-flavored Play Doh beloved by all of the canine persuasion). So you have form and function. How often can you say that?

We had a brief break from the seemingly endless rain today (though it’s supposed to make a return engagement for another week starting tomorrow. It’s like Barbra Streisand’s farewell concert), so I emptied out the rain gauge (two and a half inches) and took a look around the rain-swept garden.

Come and look at what I found:

The tulips are blooming, just a couple of days after the vernal equinox. I think they look like they are singing:

A plant I bought last year because it had really cool silvery-green foliage, like olive trees, has burst into vivid blue flowers. I had no idea it even flowered. But flower it does:

Right behind the mystery flowering plant were volunteer white daffodils, lurking under the huckleberry bushes and pine trees. I wasted no time in getting the trowel, digging them up, and transplanting them to the slow-growing jasmine* which will eventually, one day, cover the lattice and shield my delicate eyes from the sight of the garbage and recycling bins:

They look nice, no?

Clyde supervised me, much as he supervised Rob’s cement repair. In order to get the best view, he hopped on top of the decaying chimera:

Then he got all crazy and chased his brother Roscoe off into the woods.

Speaking of Roscoe: this morning, he emerged from underneath the couch with a mouse in his mouth. I opened the door for him to go outside and got back to work (today was Spend the Day in Your PJs Day, a step further than Casual Friday, though I was the only one who got the memo). After a while, it occurred to me that my transformation from City Glamazon to Country Bumpkin is now complete. I can’t hear on a cell phone in the city; the last time I put my hand on a spider in the shower I apologized to Charlotte’s cousin without a shudder; and the sight of my cat with a mouse in his mouth didn’t make me scream or shriek. Or even think about it.

I hope overalls aren’t next.

*Perversely, the purple honeysuckle on the side of the house and the potato vine beside the shed are total overachievers, when they aren’t supposed to hide anything. Maybe my expectations of the jasmine are too high. Or too fast.

Well, it’s been storming up a storm out there. There’s another two inches of rain in the gauge – maybe more – and the frogs are peeping up a storm. Frogs rejoicing in the joy of rain is usually a winter sound around here, like chainsaws (for clearing trees and branches fallen in storms) and robins (they spend the winter here), so it’s a little strange to hear the frog chorus this late and this loud in the year.

But it’s really been the recent work swampage (and more to come) that has kept me from seeing my family much lately. That, and our busy schedules. So last week, I decided it was high time to make a Date with My Family.

If you haven’t seen the hilarious “Mystery Science Theater 3000” satire of it (and have civilization-level internet), click on this link to watch it. Made in 1950 and narrated by the inimitable Hugh “Ward Cleaver” Beaumont, it’s a creepy little public service announcement which basically tells people to repress their emotions and act nice at the dinner table, no matter what.

No-one wants to know how you really think or feel!

So when I delivered this week’s Thursday dinner (Mexican chicken casserole with charred tomato salsa), I asked Jonathan if he could go for a drive with me and make sure all is well with Miss Scarlett. After all that front end work and belt melt last fall, I am now hyper-aware of any unusual noises or smells, and I was sure the engine was growling too much and the car was vibrating too much at 60 and above.

So we set off in the rain and wind. Jonathan said that the brakes are in great shape, the car handles really well, and drives true (he tested this by taking his hands off the wheel and noting that the car didn’t drift at all). We drove over 65 and he could see what I meant about the vibration, but doesn’t think it’s anything serious. All in all, he said, he’d be delighted if his car felt as good as mine.

Which made me feel good.

After we hugged good-bye and he set off to his fire department meeting, I went over to Megan’s for a belated celebration of the arrival of Rob’s money. We were going to watch “I Capture the Castle”, a movie made from one of my favorite books, but alas, it didn’t play on her DVD player, so we watched “Five Children and It” instead. Nothing like the also beloved book, but still fun. Especially with Cosmos in hand.

Today would have been my father’s 81st birthday. He never cared that much about his birthday – though he went along with how much I care(d) about mine; our plans for my 40th birthday were to go to Pompeii together, so I could be around things that were older than Me – and he would almost certainly dislike the way I cannot help but commemorate both his birthdays and his deathdays.

Indeed, Megan and I were talking about Dad’s birthday on Wednesday morning, when she brought the car back. Her co-worker asked her to switch shifts with him, which means that she will work Saturday and Sunday, then Wednesday and Thursday. So she’ll be working St. Patrick’s Day night. Any night of a drinking holiday like St. Patrick’s Day or New Year’s is not a good one in the ER. But Meg said, “The whole world is throwing Dad a party!”

As it should.

Here are some things you need to know about my father.

• He was my best friend. He knew the worst things about me, and still loved me. Also? vice-versa. He never judged me. Indeed, he admired my brother’s free-spirited, full-bore approach to life, though his own was the opposite. He never made me feel bad for anything I felt, thought, or did. This is not a small thing.
• When he was a small boy, his scientific gifts soon became obvious in a very practical way. Everything was rationed in England during (and after) World War II, including the coal that heated the house. Coal, as you may or may not know, tends to create dust, which was usually swept up and thrown away. Dad, at the age of eight, decided to see how much cement he could mix with the coal dust which would still produce a viable briquette to burn and warm the family house. It was fun! And useful. Even then, he couldn’t stand to waste anything.
• He used to walk five miles to school and back every day. When he first retired back to his native land, I made him go on a sentimental journey to the house he grew up in – a whole 12 miles away from his home – and was kind of shocked by how far it would be for a young boy to walk every day. Or, you know, a grown-up.

  One day when walking these miles home from school, there was an air raid near the train station. My father, about ten years old, buried himself under bodies to stay alive. His terrified mother, knowing he was walking home, stood in the front garden, watching for him. Nothing would induce her to go inside the house or into the bomb shelter. When Dad made his way home, bloodied and exhausted, nothing could express her joy.

  He had nightmares for the rest of his life.

• He was an amazing cook. His mother was a very good, even excellent Victorian cook, one who made a roast on Sunday and made the leftovers into shepherd’s pie on Monday and baked once a week. I don’t think a clove of garlic ever appeared in her kitchen. But Dad loved the garlic, and made food that would have appalled his mother.

  Yet…I remember when Tesco made its unwelcome appearance in the village where my father grew up and his parents lived all their married lives until their deaths in their 80s, my grandmother was appalled, and not without reason. She continued to shop every day, at the butcher’s, who knew what she liked, and the Lincoln sisters’ greengrocers (the five unmarried sisters had inherited the business from their father), where they knew that Daddy’s Daddy liked bananas and Grammie did not, and where they would cut a hothouse cucumber in half and keep the best peaches for you.

  There are so many things I do in the kitchen that I do because of him: hot pan, cold oil; when making an omelette, put in half an eggshell of milk; roll a lemon or lime hard on the counter before cutting it to get the most juice; the less done to good fish the better.

• His parents never said to their only, over-achieving son, “I love you.” That was understood. But he never stinted his own children in saying that. One of my earliest memories is waiting for him to come home from work, and when he did, he rolled around on the floor with us in a very un-English manner.

  When we went to Maine in the summer, I would swim in the cold, cold Atlantic until my lips were blue and chattering, and I would emerge from the frigid waves and go and lie on my father’s sun-warmed back, where he was lying reading either the “New York Times” or the “International Herald Tribune”. I’d pull my towel over my back, and snuggle my wet, cold head into his neck. He never flinched or complained. It’s still one of my best memories.

• The last thing he ever said to me was “I love you lots”

As the year slides forward into spring (don’t get me started about the clocks going forward an hour, plunging the kitties and me back into the hated morning darkness), it seems to be slipping back into winter. All the rain we didn’t get in January and February seems to be descending on us now.

One of Hooterville’s oldest residents (and a sixth generation Hootervillian) says that we will get a good six inches of rain this week. Given the two inches of rain I found in the gauge after Storm One, I think he’s probably right.

So far the power has stayed on, probably because Rob has the generator all set up now. But looking at the ocean this morning, grey and wild, it looks like there’s more weather coming our way.

As I drove to the Big Town yesterday, a young deer darted across the rainy, wind-swept Ridge. I waited, knowing that, as with mice, there’s Never Just One deer. Sure enough, another one made its graceful way across the road. Then another. Then another. And another. There were six or seven of them all told. I waited a little while after the final fawn, just in case.

And as I entered the outskirts of the Big Town, a wild turkey strolled across the highway, far less concerned about cars than the deer. He looked around curiously as he made his way across the road and cars braked madly.

Country living!

Being swamped with work from both the Job and the Jobette has made me too sleep and time deprived lately to give you the lowdown on what’s been happening around here. Amazingly, things other than work and more work have occurred. Such as…

My neighbor Jim stopped by, bearing gifts. This is my very favorite kind of visit. We have been Facebook friends and email buddies for years, and he reads my blog (as all fabulous people do), as well as actual neighbors – he lives about three miles away from me – yet we had never met before in real life.

So it was definitely about time.

Jim arrived bearing a couple of calla lilies to add to the garden:

I will have to re-pot them, but apparently, they grow like weeds. I’m looking forward to their first elegant blooms.

He also brought me a fabulous outdoor candelabra, which might need a cup of Rob to repair it a bit, but it’s certainly a worthy addition to my ever-growing outdoor lighting collection:

I had a great time hanging out with Jim and I hope we get to spend more time together soon.

Megan woke up one day to find several thousands of dollars in her bank account. This what you call a nice surprise. I have heard of them, but seldom, if ever, experienced one in real life.

It was most of the back payments for Rob’s permanent disability. Apparently they give you some of it (after neatly removing the lawyer’s fees off the top) and then give you more six months later, for some reason. But what’s six months when you’ve already had to wait four years?

Now there are decisions and purchases to be made, notably a car for Megan, so we can stop sharing, and some kind of shelter for her and Rob on the family property, so they can stop paying for two places.

It’s happy and exciting news, but I haven’t found time to celebrate with her yet. One of these days…

The splendid pool closed last month. They ran out of money to operate it, despite cranking the water temperature down to 77 (from 85), and I sure felt every single one of those degrees. They also saw fit to keep the exercise rooms open while keeping the locker rooms closed. So – you could go to Zumba or spinning class, but you couldn’t shower afterwards. So that’s out. Basically I am exercise-free until I a) find some time; and 2) find somewhere to do it and get cleaned up afterwards.

On the bright side, Measure A passed last week. It ups the sales tax by half a penny, and apparently the half pennies will add up enough to reopen the wonderful pool and keep it open forever. At least, that’s the story. However, it will take until at least July for enough pennies to accumulate to reopen the pool, so it’s kind of a good news/bad news scenario. I will definitely have to come up with a Plan B if I ever find the time.

The hospital where Megan works is also having financial difficulties. Like pretty much every other company or corporation in America, it’s the worker bees who have to bear the brunt of it. At first, they actually considered closing the Emergency Room at night – yes, the dark hours when babies are born and car accidents and heart attacks tend to happen – but they soon realized the error of their ways.

Unfortunately, their Plan B is for Megan to work three 10 hour shifts one week, and four 10 hour shifts the next, instead of three 12 hour shifts in a row. So it’s more inconvenient; for several hours she will be the only person to answer phones and admit patients and deal with paperwork and transfers. Oh, and she gets less money because she’s not working 12 hour shifts. Pretty much a lose/lose.

On the other hand…we are lucky that we are employed at all in this day and age. As my boss says, this is the new normal.

One thing about being sick is that it gives you time to notice how your house is slowly descending into chaos around you. Dishes and laundry remained undone; dust and spiderwebs accrued at an alarming rate; gravel and pine needles drifted unchecked across the battered wooden floors.

I’d notice all this, and then just go back to bed and watch more mindless TV – surely the best thing about being sick.

Even though I was well enough to go to the jobette – and I worked four days this week, instead of my usual three – I still haven’t really addressed the Housework Situation. Maybe if I ignore it long enough, it will go away.

While the house was undoing its thing, other things happened.

I ordered and received a new coffeemaker. Online shopping is another activity that is suitable for the bedridden. In my weakened condition, it was even more annoying than usual to deal with the French press and its endless, messy grounds. So it was a necessity:

So was replacing my favorite lipgloss from Sephora, since the first day back at the jobette, I was shocked to discover that the tube was basically empty.

I’m never too sick to shop.

While I was shopping, Rob was fixing a hole (or two) in the laundry room/pantry/cat dining room (multi-purpose room?).

The one under the door (being inspected by Clyde):

And the one that was so useful during the great Booze Breakage of 2010:

The repaired door:

And the repaired drain:

We had a storm after the holes were repaired. I set the battery-powered alarm clock and made coffee the night before, just in case, but the power stayed on. In the morning, I realized that if the power had gone out, I couldn’t have used the generator. I used to thread the extension cord from the generator through the hole under the door and into the house, but now the hole (and its draftiness) are a thing of the past.

I mentioned this to Rob, and he is going to drill a hole in the wall near the generator for the extension cord. I’m hoping that we are past power outage season (I’m watching the first Spring Training baseball game between the Evil Empire and the Phillies, so the year has turned a corner), but we should still deal with it before storm season rolls around again.

Well, Le Bug has finally begun to loosen its Vulcan death grip. Sure, I cough myself awake a couple of times a night, and am still the major Kleenex consumer on the west coast, but I was well enough to go back to the jobette this week.

It was a week that reminded me just how petite this town really is. On Monday, I saw my brother and one of his charges emerging from the health food store across the street. I called out to him, but he didn’t hear me through the wind and traffic. By time I could get across the street, he was gone.

The next day, I was just starting up the steps of the office when I heard a horn honking. It was the lovely Monica, waving good morning as she drove past on her way to her store, two blocks away. Daisy, of course, was smiling from the passenger seat.

On Wednesday, I was getting in my car when I noticed a dog across the street who looked a lot like Star. A closer look revealed that it was in fact Star, whose excitement when she saw me too could barely be contained. I honestly think that no-one on earth is as happy to see me as Star is.

It turned out that Rob was walking her while he waited for a new tire to be applied to his trusty truck. When you start seeing metal poking through the treads, it’s time to invest in a new one. We hugged goodbye, and he and Star trotted off to pick up the new and improved truck.

It’s a good thing that I’m feeling better, because my house turned into Grand Central Station last night. Rob stopped by to work on a couple of projects, and Mark called. He needed to borrow a cup of internet, so I told him to come on over with his computer.

It turns out that Mark has a YouTube video of Lucky the deer and Luna the dog which is so popular that he gets little checks from them every couple of months. Who knew? Also, he’s going to New Jersey on Friday to start a huge project: overseeing the dismantling of a L’Oreal factory and moving it to its new home in Mexico.

I missed a lot while I was sick.

Then Mark’s wife (and Rose’s older daughter) Citlali came over to check her email on Mark’s computer. Citlali said that it’s still a little strange for her being in her mother’s house, even though it’s been nearly three years since her death. “But,” she said looking around, “you have really made it your own. Everything is so beautiful.”

It really was: friends and family together in my little house, with the rain falling outside in the darkness and love and laughter within.

Wow – it’s a chilly one this morning, both inside (44F) and out (29F). Good thing I left the tap dripping – to the kitties’ delight – and brought the orchids inside. Still, I shouldn’t complain, considering that a year ago today, I woke up to a blanket of snow.

One thing I will complain about is how Le Bug has managed to totally de-rail my so-called life.

I had to take an entire week off from the jobette, and in my case, no work means no pay, which also means no play. I can’t afford to take more time off this week to go to the City and see the Cult of Beauty exhibit at the Legion of Honor and the Walker Evans exhibit at Stanford. Hopefully I can still go before the exhibits end. I’m really feeling the need for a dose of civilization lately.

Last week was one of surprising phone calls. There was the Rob surprise – the biggest of all – and the next day, a call from my neighbor Catrin (who is Rose’s younger daughter) to say that she and her boyfriend Zach were getting married. On Wednesday.

I figured this gave me at least two shopping days while in town at the jobette, but alas – I was too sick to shop, or drive, or work, or do anything other than drink ginger ale and cough. (I’m still coughing (or barking) and blowing my nose, by the way. I’m going to feel like Typhoid Mary at the jobette tomorrow.)

The wedding day dawned bright and sunny, and was in the 60s in the Hooterville and about 80 at the County seat, which is inland and also where the ceremony took place. The wedding party arrived at Mark and Citlali’s for the wedding party early in the evening, and I dragged my formerly fabulous self out of bed to go and congratulate the happy couple.

It occurred to me how lucky it was that they could have an outdoor party on a February evening, especially considering that it was snowy about a year before. But Catrin thought the date of 2/22/12 was a lucky one, especially since her mother’s birthday was the 22nd (of October), and I guess she was right.

Here are some pictures from the party:

Just married!

Balloons and streamers.

The table, with fresh-picked daffodils and votive candles.

The bouquet.

The bride and groom.

Well, Le Bug is making its majestic (and satanic) progress.

The chills and fever have abated, but the deep, wracking cough refuses to leave. Every time I breathe, the ripping lace sound and feeling is still there, and it’s been added to and amplified by a Philip Glass symphony of weird sounds. They are as annoying and hard to ignore as a particularly bad-tempered two year old, making it equally hard to sleep and sleep in.

The coughing is the worst part, though. My stomach is killing me from coughing so much. I feel like I’ve done a million crunches (I wonder if coughing is good for one’s abs?), and I wouldn’t be surprised if I re-broke the ribs I broke when they broke my fall a couple of years ago, or if I have broken capillaries in the whites of my eyes like a strangulation victim.

I sound like the sea lions at Pier 39. I used to be able to hear them from my first San Francisco apartment on Jackson Street, a few miles away. Now, they can probably hear me.

Frankly, all this coughing is way too much work.

Maybe it’s the coughing and its aftermath, or just Le Bug in general, but ever since it struck a week ago, I have had a complete and uncharacteristic lack of interest in both food and adult beverages. It’s been gallons of ginger ale and Oliver Twist-sized portions of canned soup, and that’s it. How sad is that?

Also? There appears to be no limit to the number of times you can blow your nose in one day. Just ask the red, raw, Sephora-defying remains of mine. If I’d known, I’d have bought stock* in Kleenex, Canada Dry, and Progresso before this thing started. I’d be rich enough to go and recover at the Golden Door.

*I recently learned that the average length of time a stock is held is now…24 SECONDS.