Suzy Says

A misty morning at Woodhaven

~Yawn~

Audrey’s been pretty good about her nightly imprisonment. She generally comes in on her own before dark, settling on the bed for her beauty sleep while I watch old movies to escape the present. She usually doesn’t wake me up before dawn, though today she was determined to go out at 5:45 am, whereas I was determined to stay asleep.

Guess who won.

It’s very foggy this morning, so we compromised by letting her out at 6:05, when it was essentially light out, but the fog created a sort of faux-darkness. I even had the light on while I made coffee, as well as a sweater. It was 58 degrees in the house this morning, and as I waited for the coffee to brew, I pondered the fact that if it were winter, I’d put the heat on, instead of leaving the door open a crack to let Princess Audrey in and out.

Go figure.

Yesterday, I did three loads of laundry (light, dark, and Megan). I virtuously hung out my laundry and put Megan’s in the slightly scary dryer. About 3:00, the fog rolled in to the point where it was making the laundry wetter, not dryer, to be outside, so I ended up putting it all in the dryer, propane bill be damned.

So much for being green-ish.

While I was doing laundry, Megan and Rob were winding their way up and down the curvaceous challenges of Highway 20, on their way to visit the surgeon who operated on Meg a week ago. He took out the stitches, some of which were quite recalcitrant, and said she was doing well. She’ll see him again in late August, when he’ll give her a final check before letting her go back to work, nearly four months after the original injury, half of that spent dealing with bureaucracy and fighting to get the surgery done.

Our spokesmodel is sporting a pink and white toile hat with wired brim made by her mother

Jessica stopped by Megan’s house of gimpiness yesterday (of the house’s residents, only Ramona the cat and Star the foster dog are not sidelined by some kind of injury) to bring a little sunshine and cuteness to our lives.

She’s getting taller – now “higher than my heart” – and is about the easiest kid to deal with you could ever imagine. She amused herself most of the time, picking blueberries and strawberries from the garden, reading, and playing a Mom-approved computer game with the greatest focus:

Of course, she did this while wearing a head ornament, “because it’s pretty”, which is always a good reason. She also patiently explained the game to me, possibly the only person in the entire US of A who has never played a computer game or X-Box or anything like that.

While Jessica was busy killing zombies, I was preoccupied with making yet another unnecessarily elaborate dinner dish: Poulet au Beaujolais. I used to make it for my Dad, and once I started the lengthy process, I suddenly remembered why I hadn’t made it in ten years. It might be another ten before I make it again. French food is not for the lazy Susan.

While making it, I tried an alternate method of removing the skin from pearl onions. Instead of peeling them raw, I blanched them. This did make it easier, but a couple of layers of onion went along with the skin, so I think that when I make it again in 2020, I’ll just peel them the usual way.

Jessica is over her dislike of onions. I always found it funny that she didn’t like them, since she’d eat (and critique) anything from oysters to lamb tagine to eel sushi. I used to tell her I’d make her onion sandwiches for lunch and she’d run around yelling “No!” Now she’s decided they’re OK, as long as they’re cooked and there aren’t too many of them. But I didn’t make her peel the pearl onions or eat an onion sandwich. I’m not (quite) that mean, no matter what they say.

Elizabeth Taylor wearing the diamond and ruby suite I admired at the Cartier exhibit last year

I seem to be an unintentional Elizabeth Taylor fan.

Last year, I read the extremely enjoyable “How to Be a Movie Star: Elizabeth Taylor in Hollywood”. Recently, I devoured the gorgeous “My Life in Jewelry” by La Taylor (one of the Suzy-est things ever), and waiting for me at the library – if I can ever get there when it’s actually open – is “Furious Love: Elizabeth Taylor, Richard Burton, and the Marriage of the Century”. I read about in the latest Vanity Fair and it sounds like a fun read.

Yesterday, Megan and I immersed ourselves in the spectacle of “Cleopatra”, merrily commenting on the costumes, sets, and make-up, comparing the events* to the Memoirs of Cleopatra and sighing over Liz’s beauty.

Today, we have a special guest star of our own. Jessica is making a cameo appearance while her mother visits the dentist. I think I know which of us is going to have more fun today!

*Was Mark Antony really such a loser?

Audrey sitting in the shower window

You can see that I’m not kidding about the window actually being in the shower, allowing for more opportunities for flashing meter readers than the average house.

In this picture, I have managed to completely avoid showing you any of this past week’s painting endeavors, though I swear I have painted the shower window white, and also the piece of wood crossing the window.

The door to the left leads to the back porch and the outdoor shower.

Today, I peeled the tape off the now-painted many-pained window on the outside and taped the inside. Still to go: the many-pained front door and the electric lime-green floor, plus et ceteras. It’s true that once you start painting, it’s hard to stop. It also makes sense that “pain” is part of “painting”.

I do have the perfect excuse for not painting, though: taking care of Megan as she recovers from her long-awaited knee surgery. This mostly entails the occasional pillow fluff or juice pouring, along with eating junk food and watching “Harry Potter” movies. Sometimes I make dinner and do the dishes. Exhausting.

Yesterday, I did make an express trip to the farmers’ market, which is open for all of two hours one day a week. With Megan’s list in hand, I zipped through the stalls in record time, mentally cursing the idiots who stand in the middle of the aisle in order to converse while taking up the maximum space possible and their buddies who meander across Main Street without bothering to look for cars or other people.

I selected nectarines, plums, blueberries, and goji berries from the controversial fruit people, off in their little corner past the pointed sign saying “Thanks for shopping LOCAL”. I’m sorry, but fruit like that doesn’t grow well on the foggy coast. And if these people, who grew it and picked it themselves, want to bring it here, I’m happy to buy it. They’re really nice people, too.

Next up was local lettuce, onions, our favorite soap from Lovers Lane Farm, a loaf of bread, and I was out of there! I also picked up some corn and tomatoes for me.

I was parked near the new hardware store beside Mendosa’s, so I popped in and asked about floor paint. The friendly and knowledgeable clerk gave me good advice and a great deal on some light grey paint. On my way back home, I stopped in at the local store. Lu had kindly dropped off an industrial ice pack for Megan. I asked the clerk about it, and she called across the store, “Hey – can you get Meg’s ice pack out of the walk-in?” Armed with an ice pack, I resumed my nursing duties and once more marveled at the marvels of small town life.

I’m sorry to say that my first thought when I saw the sun this morning was that the coat of paint I put on the flash heater yesterday wouldn’t be streaky from fog. I actually went out and checked before I had coffee.

Sad, no?

Before I give you the Megan Report, I’d like to wish my friend and fellow blogger Mike the happiest of birthdays. My present to him is not telling y’all how long I’ve known him. Note to Mike: we met in kindergarten, right?

Yesterday, I spent the morning – yeah, you guessed it – painting and cleaning the bathroom. Still can’t tell you which is worse, really. As I stepped out of my hard-earned and (temporarily) spider-free shower, the phone rang. It was my brother, telling me that Megan was out of surgery and they were on their way home.

My morning, however paint- and chore-filled, was a complete joy compared to my siblings’. Jonathan picked Megan up at 4:30 in the morning for the two hour drive to the hospital. His ability to leap out of bed at any time and fight fires both wild and domestic makes him ideally suited for early morning chauffeur duty.

Though Meg was asked to arrive at the hospital at 6:30 am, the surgery didn’t start until 9:00 or so. They gave her what they call “conscious sedation”, but all she remembers is her arms being strapped to the table and then waking up with her knee already wrapped and ready to go. Before the surgery, the anesthesiologist told her that he could sedate her less, so she could watch the operation on a TV screen.

She refused, and he said, “It’s not gory at all.”

“Look, I’ve had brains in my hair. Blood and guts don’t bother me. If it was your knee, I’d watch all day. But I don’t want to watch mine.”

Pause.

“Fair enough.”

Her first words on waking up were “Have you told my brother I’m OK?” He was waiting for her in the recovery room, where he called me while Megan launched her successful campaign to go home ASAP. She has an amazing ability to snap out of sedation and medication. Also, they did some kind of deep numbing of the knee, which was supposed to wear off “sometime in the evening”, but in practice wore off before 3:00 in the afternoon.

While the surgeon was in there, he took out that pesky piece of cartilage which was lodged under her kneecap and started all the trouble in the first place, six long weeks ago, and also a little cyst, some charmingly named osteophytes, some bone, some more cartilage, and a bunch of fluid.

Jonathan dropped Meg off around 1:00 in the afternoon, then with a hug and a kiss was on his way in his usual super-hero manner. I fussed with Megan’s pillows and ice packs, and made turkey chili with cornmeal muffins (thank you, Jiffy corn muffin mix! Every pantry should have some) for dinner. I checked in on her again yesterday evening, and she was doing fine.

It’s still early by our standards, but I’ll call over there soon and get an update. Thanks for all the love and hugs and good wishes, everyone. It means a lot to all of us.

It seems like the more I paint, the more painting there is to do…

Today I anticipate putting the final coat of paint on the hallway bathroom door and then cleaning up in there (also known as “worse than actually painting”). I still have to paint the many-paned front door and its many-paned side window, both inside and out. Maybe “many-pained” would be a better spelling.

The silvery fog sprites anointed my freshly-painted flash heater with freshly-made fog, so now it’s streaky and has to be repainted when we have a couple of sunny days. Today has started out that way, and we’re probably due for a sunny spell, so I think I can expect to have my brush in hand yet again. So far, this is the fifth day of painting in a row. It’s getting to be a bad habit.

It’s also lacking in the usual feeling of achievement, partly because of the terrible paint jobs of the past leaving daubs and splotches everywhere, which I haven’t added to but which still remain, and partly because of the ongoing problem of the electric lime green floor.

The electric lime green floor (ELGF for short), stretches from the foyer (a somewhat grandiose name for an area which is 42 inches wide and 35 inches deep) through the office nook and into the bathroom, where there used to be livid red doors for it to clash with. It’s plywood, dented, and nailed on unevenly, so it’s pretty much impossible to cover with stick-on tiles, and other flooring options would be too expensive. I’d also have to leave whatever I put there if I move, and I don’t like spending a bunch of money on a house I’m just renting.

Yet my aesthetic sensibility is wounded every day by the hideousness of the ELGF, which is also nearly impossible to clean due to all the flaws in the wood. And it shows the dirt, in a house that’s surrounded by…dirt. Or mud, depending on the season.

It looks like I’m going to have to paint it, too, some neutral shade which will hopefully look less crappy with the “distressed” (i.e. in desperate need of refinishing) wood floor in the living room. At least it’s not plywood.

In non-painting news, I’m awaiting the call from our fabulous brother telling me that our beloved sister’s knee surgery is over. I’m on hold to be her lady-in-waiting today. When she gets home, I’ll be there to fetch and carry and watch Harry Potter movies with her as she recovers.

Vogue and Vanity Fair are my two luxuries. At $12 a year each, they’re affordable luxuries, even for me. However, my luxuries have been letting me down lately. First there was the Vanity Fair cover with the oily soccer guys in terrifying Speedos; then the Vogue with Oprah and Lady Gaga (a hailstorm of mediocrity – and surely one of the silliest celebrity names ever); now Vanity Fair has Angelina Jolie, the most boring celebrity ever, with her incontinent child collecting and tedious personal life; and Vogue has Gwyneth Paltrow, the former It Girl who once said “I’d rather die than let my kid eat Cup-A-Soup”. Now, there’s a girl with her priorities in the right place.

After yet another hard day of painting, my luxuries may have let me down and my patience may have run out, but there are always the consolations of a cocktail, that never-fail attitude adjustor, and petting little Audrey, seen here having a nap in a box in the yard, recently used for spray painting the flash heater’s chimney flat black:

There is nothing Audrey likes better than a good box. Unless it’s a good nap.

Finally, after three days of labor, the outside wall is finished! As a reminder, here’s the “before” picture again:

And here’s the finished product, with the chimney painted, yellow electrical cord hidden, flash heater painted, and masking tape removed:

I think I achieved my goal of “slightly less crappy looking”, don’t you?

If only

I enjoy painting about as much as I’m good at it, but I seem to be on some kind of roll.

Today I painted the border around the window in my office nook, which is conveniently located between the bathroom and the front door. I’m going to put up a matchstick blind there, since the window faces south and tends to be blinding in the afternoon. Otherwise, there’s no need for window treatments, unless you worry about the trees peeking in at you.

In the bathroom, I painted the window inside the shower, and applied primer to the red door which leads to the back porch. Thankfully, the other side of the door is plain wood. I’m planning to paint the bathroom doors and the front door a soft blue. I tried not to despair over the terrible painting jobs of the past while trying not to add to them.

When that was done, I primered the red side of the other bathroom door (the hallway side is blue) and the doorway around it. I was slightly hampered in this by Star’s unexpected cameo, slapping her tail against the paint and bouncing all over the painter. I brought her back to Megan, who was cleaning out her car in preparation for the Jelly Bean Mechanic’s ministrations today. When you have 205,000 miles on your car, it needs a little attention.

When I came back from the dog delivery, I finished off the day’s painting chores and cleaned the brushes. At that point, I realized that I couldn’t take a shower, since the paint on the shower window is still wet. Good thing I have an alternative nearby.

Before

It’s a lovely, sunny Saturday. It seemed like a good day to paint the wall. You know, the one with the flash heater outside and strange, convoluted piping. I should have known better than to start any project during the reign of terror of the comma*, when I tend to be at my crabbiest and least patient – I should have spent the day lying on the couch, watching Marilyn movies, eating PopTarts, bemoaning the utter uselessness of ibuprophen and wondering why everyone acts as if it’s the answer to everything – but I am a) a slow learner; and b) not all that smart. Though I’m apparently the queen of lengthy sentences.

I assembled my appropriately named quart of paint, a brush, a piece of cardboard, painter’s tape, and a small step stool. I figured it would just take an hour or two, easy. In this, as in many things, I was wrong. Fortunately, Rob stopped by to point out the error of my painting ways, such as:

• Don’t wear sandals.
• Use a real ladder, not a step stool.
• Don’t hold the can of paint while you’re painting. Pour some of it into something smaller, in case you Calamity Suzy it.
• It’s a good idea to measure the wall before you buy the paint. That way you’ll actually have enough. Imagine.
• I should have primed the wall first. Oh, well.
• Clean off the spider webs and dirt before applying painter’s tape.
• Yes, it is gross.

  And I thought I’d done so well in picking out a nice color and telling the guy it was for an exterior. I’m convinced that this, among many other things, is in that grown-up manual I never got.

  It soon became apparent that a quart would not be enough, especially when painting this weird chipboard stuff, which lived up to its name by chipping and peeling at every opportunity. It’s also thirstier than F. Scott Fitzgerald after a particularly grueling day of screenwriting.

  While I was swearing and daubing, Rob removed the bright aluminum thing from the top of the flash heater and is spray painting it for me. He also removed the decaying lattice over the bathroom window and rerouted and hid whatever that yellow cord was on the wood part of the wall.

  While we were doing that, Star was escaping from Rob’s backyard, bounding into the middle of the proceedings, annoying Audrey and making her puff up to about six times her size. She clawed and hissed at Star until Rob tied Star up. Audrey sat just out of range, giving Star the stinkiest stink eye you’ve ever seen. Audrey has become much more territorial in this post-June world, and now growls and claws at any dog she sees.

  I’ve used up all the paint, so I can’t post an “after” picture until I go to town and get more paint (don’t hold your breath). But here’s a “during” photo:

  

  *I’m not calling it a period anymore, because that suggests an end to something. Whereas a comma suggests a series of things, possibly even an unending series of things, which is the way things seem to be going.

I’m taking a break from my regularly scheduled fluff to express my profound disappointment with yesterday’s verdict in the Johannes Meserle trial.

For those of you who aren’t familiar with the case, Johannes Meserle killed Oscar Grant, an unarmed man, on the platform of my former BART station last New Year’s Day. Mr. Grant was on his stomach, helpless and handcuffed, when Mr. Meserle, then a BART policeman, shot him in the back.

Mr. Meserle has claimed that he thought he was Tasering Mr. Grant. Mr. Meserle is right-handed, and the gun was holstered on his right, the Taser on the left. And a trained police officer who can’t tell a Taser from a gun, especially when discharging the weapon, should not be on the force.

The whole incident was caught on tape, just like the Rodney King beating almost twenty years ago. And in both cases, the jurors seemed to be unable to come up with a verdict which served justice.

I guess the fact that Mr. Meserle was convicted of anything is a small victory. But it’s too small. He will be sentenced next month to five to fifteen years for “involuntary manslaughter”, though I agree with the District Attorney that his actions were nothing less than second degree murder. I find it especially heinous that it was an officer of the law committing this crime, and I also believe that there was a racial element at play, Mr. Meserle being white and Mr. Grant being African American. Racial epithets were used and caught on tape, as well as heard by eyewitnesses.

There were no African American jurors.

The justice system, like many things, mystifies me. How could Aaron Vargas, of whom I wrote recently in another break from fluffiness, been handed a sentence of nine years in San Quentin for killing the man who had sexually and emotionally abused and terrorized him since he was a young boy, while Mr. Meserle may serve as little as three years? It’s pretty clear which of these two men is a menace to society.

Dad was never that interested in the Royal Family. I was the one who dragged him to Buckingham Palace when some of the rooms were open to the public (he really enjoyed it, though), and I was on my own when it came to visiting Althorp, Princess Diana’s ancestral home.

Though he didn’t care about their scandals or public engagements, he didn’t want them ousted, either. But he also felt that the Queen could get by just fine without any of his money.

To keep Her Majesty’s regal paws off his dinero, he kept most of it in an offshore account. And to make sure that she didn’t get any after he was gone, the account was in both our names. That way, the money passed directly to me, neatly avoiding the taxman in the process. Because nothing adds to grief like subtracting nearly half of your inheritance.

After handing over my siblings’ portions, I kept mine there, where it steadily declined over many years, which is what happens when you withdraw a lot and never deposit. And then there’s currency fluctuation. I was hoping that the currency exchange would become more favorable over time, so I left it there.

About a month ago, I received a letter from them, saying that I had to provide them with a notarized copy of my passport and proof of income. Even though none of my income (which has such a brief stay in my local bank account that if you blink, you miss it) is there or ever has been, and the amount in the account is minuscule and has been there for many years.

As far as I was concerned, if they thought I was going to allow them to invade my privacy like that, not to mention the inconvenience of going all the way to town to copy the documents and have them notarized at my expense and then mailing them registered overseas, again at my expense, they were crazy as well as nosy.

I told them as much, and they told me that if they didn’t receive a written letter from me requesting that they close my account – no fax or email allowed – by the end of June, they’d put a block on my account so I’d have to submit all the documentation before receiving my money.

Nice.

I sent them an express mail letter which cost nearly $30, but couldn’t get them to confirm that they had received it. The USPS site said “received abroad, June 16, 6:11 pm” for days, without saying where and who had signed for it.

Finally, I realized that I could just transfer it on line. Not the sharpest knife in the drawer, true, but it’s hard to think when you’re traumatized by bank bullshit. And only have two brain cells.

There’s about a dollar left in that account. I hope they enjoy it.

As I write, the Amerigas truck is outside, filling the tank with gas and the house with a hideous smell. It’s supposed to smell like garlic, but it doesn’t smell like any garlic I’ve ever experienced, raw or cooked. Thankfully.

Audrey ate less than half of the tiny can of repulsive wet food I bought for her birthday. So much for celebrating. She did, however, manage to knock chunks of it on the floor while eating it, so I could have the fun of picking it up as well as putting it on the plate. The gift that keeps on giving…

Megan didn’t have a very romantic anniversary, either. We did the three hour tour during the power outage, and after we got home and decanted our respective groceries, I brought some wine over and we drank it in the garden. So there was some celebrating. They really liked the card, too.

Megan started her anniversary early with a trip to the store for coffee and the local paper, which featured my story about Star on page two. Page Two! I was very excited. You can’t see it on line, unfortunately, but I bought a couple of extra copies on our way to town. Let’s hope that Star finds a great home soon.

The mail was good to me, too: I got a postcard from Quince’s mother, who was visiting her native Scotland, and there was the Motel 6 voucher. Now I can stay for free at any Motel 6 in the country, though it’s most likely that I’ll stay at the one in a seedy part of San Francisco. At least I won’t have to drive a couple of miles to get coffee there.

And finally, my library haul was oh so Suzy, including “The Carrie Diaries”, the prequel to “Sex and the City”, and Elizabeth Taylor’s “My Love Affair with Jewelry.”

Audrey, Quince, and June, July 16, 2007

More celebrating is in order today.

My beautiful niece and my little cat share a birthday today! It couldn’t happen to more adorable beings.

I remember that my niece took her time arriving in this world, possibly because she knew what an unlovely place it is, but more likely because she was putting on the finishing touches before making her beauteous debut. She was just about the prettiest baby I have ever seen, and set an impossibly high standard for those that followed. I have spent the rest of my days being slightly horrified by the appearance of other babies.

Happy birthday, Petal!

As for June and Audrey (above), you can see that they were pretty much the nieces of the cat world. In that picture, they are about two weeks old. Notice that they are together, as they always were.

Audrey is celebrating her birthday by chasing two very loud and argumentative Steller’s Jays in the garden, and she’ll get her very own tiny tin of repulsive wet food tonight, the cat equivalent of birthday cake.

Happy birthday, precious girl!

Megan and Rob on their wedding day, July 1, 1991

I’m taking advantage of the remaining Hour of Power (well, half hour) before it goes out for the rest of the day. Now that Mark has nearly finished the Great Water Project, PG&E has decided to celebrate Megan and Rob’s anniversary by putting up a new pole on the Ridge, leaving us all powerless all day.

Suddenly, it seems like a good time to go to town and meander some errands!

Power or no power, I hope we can celebrate Megan and Rob’s anniversary. I’ll get a bottle of something, my entire liquor supply having been demolished in the Great Crash of ’10, and if Megan can actually chew actual food, maybe we can have something nice for dinner. Doesn’t that sound like the kind of party we should be having another 19 years down the road?!

I do have a quite fabulous card for them, anyway. Given Megan’s fascination with all things medical and Rob’s with horror movies, what could be better than this? Also I know he’ll adore the scratch-off part. I had the fun of writing on the black envelope and back of the card in gold ink, too.

I really admire Megan and Rob, both individually and as a couple. They have weathered tremendous storms together over the years, things that break many couples up, but when things get bad, my sister says, they “hold each other’s hands and walk through it together.” Happy anniversary, you two. I love you so much.

One procedure down, so many to go…

Dentist B recommended a specialist in lovely Healdsburg, the heart of Sonoma County’s wine region. I’m sure it would have been fun to go there for shopping or wine tasting instead of a root canal, as Megan did yesterday.

As it was, the specialist’s office was very fancy (vanilla water to rinse with, anyone?) and more like a spa than a dentist’s office. The pain was minimal to unnoticeable, at least by my sister’s stoic standards. Thank goodness for excellent dental insurance, which covers all but around $80 of the pricy procedure.

It was news to me that root canals are done in three part disharmony. Fortunately, Parts Two and Three can be handled by local Dentist B, so dental-related road trips are over for now.

Today, she’s heading to Willits to get her pre-operative EKG and blood tests done. There was some debate about the length of time she needed to have between the root canal and the knee surgery, and the date of July 15 was settled on for the knee surgery, which will also take place in Willits.

Just for fun, Part Two of the root canal will be two days before the surgery.

One thing about living so far out in the boonies is that simple to simple-ish things become much more complicated and time-consuming. Instead of just hopping in a cab and doing your shopping or seeing the dentist, it’s an all-day affair. It took at least four hours of driving to get the root canal, and it will be close to that for the tests today. Even going to the Safeway is what we call “the three hour tour”.

But It will be good to get it all done, and hopefully she’ll be able to enjoy some of the summer and eat something other than mashed potatoes and pudding at the Fourth of July barbecue at Lu’s house.

Audrey’s new hangout

1. I followed my sister’s advice and complained to the Motel 6 manager. He apologized and is going to mail me a gift certificate good at any Motel 6 in the entire US of A. I said thanks, but privately wondered why companies whose products have disappointed you offer you more of the same disappointing product to make up for it. “Sure, we lost your luggage and nearly killed you, but hey, why not try it again for free?”

   I kept that thought to myself, though.

2. Rob did fix the cat door of death. It’s sealed at all times, though I guess I could take the cover off during the day. It seems unnecessary with all the other doors being open, some of them in a so far vain attempt to get rid of the booze’n’condiment smell in the pantry.
3. It looks like we’ll have to come up with a Plan B for Star the foster dog if/when Meg has her knee surgery done. Star is just one of those dogs who like to chase anything that crosses her path, from quail to kitties, and the thought of her chasing my remaining kitty makes me quail, so she can’t stay here post-op as originally planned. Hopefully our collective ingenuity will come up with an alternative which will stop Star from bouncing on Megan in her Tigger-like fashion while keeping the local cats un-chased.
4. Speaking of cats, Harriet got sick of being an invalid yesterday and took off all day. [Update: she’s back!] I’m hoping this means that her leg is feeling better, though still dislocated, and also that she is back home by now (it’s too early to call and find out). Megan is much more philosophic about these things than her paranoid big sister. She says, “She’s lived here all her life, and if she doesn’t come home, it’s because she doesn’t want to.” Whereas I have already called Audrey with treats because it’s 8:00 and I haven’t seen her since I let her out two hours ago. She came, ate the treats, and left.

You can see in the picture that she has a new place to hang out. It’s to the left of the sliding glass doors and to the right of the bathroom door leading to the porch (the surprisingly useful one). I’m not sure why this part of the house is open like that, but I’m planning to put potted plants in there one of these days.

That’s one of my vague home improvement plans, like painting parts of the exterior, finishing the de-hippifying and clean-up of the garden, and doing something about that godawful lime green floor in the foyer and bathroom that may or may not ever happen. However, Mark has promised to buy me new carpet for the sleeping loft, so once that’s installed, maybe it will spur me to get going on the other projects.

Or not.

Drinking bottled water really makes the recycling pile up, my friend. I notified Rob a couple of days ago that one of the recycling bins was full, even by his exacting standards (you would not believe how much stuff he can jam into one bin). The dump is only open on Wednesdays, Saturdays, and Sundays, so notification is essential.

I was washing the dishes in hose water when I heard a mighty crash. I thought it might be Rob hard at work, but it turned out to be gravity. One of the shelves in the pantry had given way, depositing full bottles of brandy (it’s medicinal!), wine, beer, and partly full jars of peanut butter (organic!) and soy sauce (“low” sodium!).

You can imagine the smell.

I stood there for a little while in my silly sandals, contemplating the mess and how to clean it up. After a period of reflection, I went and put on my trusty sneakers, got the mop, filled the bucket in the shower, and went to work. First, I swept up the glass, trying not to breathe too deeply, and put it in a paper bag, which then went in the not full recycling bin.

Then I mopped the floor, and since there’s a drain in the floor, I figured I could use the hose to rinse it. Alas, the hose was not there. While wondering where the hose had gone (is there a lively hose nightclub scene in Hooterville which I don’t know about?), I decided that this was probably the perfect opportunity to face reality and put away June’s dish after I washed the glass and booze out of it.

I called Mark, and it turned out that he had repo’d the hose. He said he’d bring it back.

While waiting for the hose’s return, Rob came by to really take the recycling. He pointed out the serious design flaw that led to the crash, and also pointed out that it could have been worse. After all, Audrey could have been eating in the direct path of the bottles. And two bottles of beer survived.

You have to look at the bright side.

When Mark brought the hose, Rob quite correctly assessed my hose skills and took over the rinsing job himself. He also took the recycling and went off to make me a new shelf.

What would I do without him? I hope I never find out.

Update: I just sprayed Nature’s Miracle on it. I’m not sure it’s quite that miraculous, though. Is anything?

Further Update: I heard water running, and discovered water pouring into the pantry. Hey, it’s thoroughly rinsed now. It still smells like….nothing I’ve ever smelled.

Mark ran over and fixed it. Nothing like Dial-A-Boy when you really need it.

Stand back!

On Wednesday, there was hazy sunshine, so I decided to use my newish-to-me washer to do the laundry and hang it outside to dry, thus saving propane and the planet with one easy stroke.

But the sunshine was even lazier and less effective than the local spiders, and soon vanished, presumably to go and hang out by someone’s pool and drink their free booze. The clothes still weren’t dry after dinner. So I brought the drying rack into the pantry and left it there overnight, thinking I’d try again on Thursday. But Thursday was so foggy that the air was wet and coiffure destroying (if I actually had a coiffure). I went to town to meander some errands, and when I came back, everything was still veiled in fog, so I just gave in and tossed the damp clothes into the dryer, with its propane-revealing hole burning away merrily (see above).

It’s not easy being green. Or even green-ish. If I were really green, I’d wash everything by hand and hang it on the line no matter what the weather, like my English grandmother did. Though she wasn’t subject to June Gloom*. I recently heard that term for the cold, foggy days and soul-deadening white skies around here, and my heart kind of sank when I realized it was a thing and not a fluke. You don’t name a fluke.

While on my way to town, I was simultaneously delighted and inconvenienced by repairs being made to the Ridge near the store. Hot asphalt (or tar?), big rolly things to press it down, the works. I asked one of the flag men how far they were planning to go down the road and he didn’t know, so I told him my address and suggested that it go at least that far, maybe a little further. He said he’d get right on it.

He may have been kidding.

Near Big River, there was more traffic-stopping road work. This time, I could watch the steel grey sea and reflect on how there probably is no other town in America that looks quite like Mendocino. It seems that here there are two seasons, too: winter and construction.

*Apparently, June Gloom is frequently preceded by May Gray. Yay.

Mike’s most recent post reminded me of a long-ago episode in the sitcom of my life, starring Dad, Self, and a cast of thousands. Spiders, that is.

I spent a summer brat-bashing on the French Riviera when I was in my teens. Despite the presence of, you know, children, it was pretty much the best job I ever had. I was paid to hang out on the beach, had a whole tower to myself, and if I had a license then, I would have had access to a white MG to drive à la Grace Kelly up and down the Corniches (though probably with the same results, so maybe it’s just as well).

When I came home, I went to sleep in my room and woke up in the wee hours, as the jet-lagged tend to do. Seeing a spider crawling toward me across my previously unsullied pillow made me scream and wake up simultaneously. I went racing to my parents’ room, where my light-sleeping father was already awake and annoyed.

I gabbled crazily about the spider invasion and the urgency of its immediate removal as he grumped toward my room. He suggested that we make sure the spider wasn’t merely the advance scout for an army of invaders, and pulled my bed away from the wall. There was, as he had predicted, an entire nest of the little monsters, all just waiting for me to go to sleep so they could attack me.

Grinning evilly, he scooped them up in his hand and chased me through the house with them. We all ended up outside on the dark,dew-soaked grass, me screaming, Dad laughing, and the spiders wondering what the hell was going on.

On Dad’s next trip to Sweden, he bought me a silver choker in the shape of a spider in its web. He thought it was hilarious.

He’d probably find it hilarious that one of the major house-keeping challenges (and I am not good at house-keeping of any kind, even in the Zsa Zsa sense) of my hippie hovel is spiders. They are everywhere, as are bugs, and they are constantly festooning everything with cobwebs. While they are slackers in bug catching, they are over-achievers in web spinning. No sooner do you remove one, whether web or spider, than another takes its place. It’s like an arachnid Sorcerer’s Apprentice around here.

A couple of days ago, I brushed every single cobweb from the balcony, a much bigger undertaking than it sounds. The very next morning, there was a giant, outsized spider web in the arch of the balcony, a spider “Screw you”.

Audrey chilling in her clubhouse. No grown-ups allowed!

Not ready for her close-up

The girls have always been good at adapting to whatever circumstances they find themselves in. First, they went from the safety of their mother to the weirdness of my loft, the converted woodworking shop of a Victorian coffin factory, where they shared the space with an elegant German Shepherd, the Lovely Rita.

Then they were taken on an airplane far, far away, then in a car, then in a hotel somewhere. After that, they moved into a little house in a scary city. But they always had each other, and no matter what happened, they could curl up together and forget about it all.

Recently, they were driven a long way to a house in the country, where they shared the space with the stray cat their girl had brought from the scary city for no known reason. But they were too busy exploring the woods and the novelty of going outside to worry about that. And anyway, time took care of that problem.

Now June is gone, and I wonder what Audrey thinks. Is she lonely? Does she miss her sister? They were together before she was born, and the reason I adopted Audrey along with June was that they spent so much time together, even when they were just a few days old.

Audrey is adjusting well to her new regime, as she always has. Above, you see her hanging out in the garden on the table left over from Rose’s funeral fiesta, which is her little club house. I bet she’ll be sorry when Mark gets around to taking it away.

She’s been sleeping more, and spending more time in the house and with me. She hasn’t gone bananas asking to go out at night, maybe because the novelty is gone, or maybe because she knows what happened to June, or maybe because she’s one of the best-adjusted cats around.

When I’m reading in bed at night, she sits on my lap, or climbs onto my chest so she covers my face with her fur (making reading challenging), or, my personal favorite, curls up against my side with her head on my chest, purring. She sleeps on the bed most of the night now, which she never did before.

Before June’s disappearance, I complained to Megan that Audrey was like a college kid, coming home for food and laundry and then going out with her friends all night. Now it’s like she knows I need her. Maybe she needs me, too.