Suzy Says

Well, I’m back in Hooterville.

I couldn’t afford to stay in the city today, or even pick up a pizza on my way to the Golden Gate Bridge, which made me a crabby little crabcake, I can tell you. Especially after discovering that gas is $3.17 there instead of the $3.03 it is up here. Still better than the $3.35 I noticed as I passed the Navarro Store. Yikes.

It was a postcard perfect day as I drove crankily across the bridge. Sailing ships and merchant ships were tootling around on the blue water, the city sparkled in its pastel glory, and Alcatraz looked like an incongruous resort. The city didn’t seem to be at all sorry to see me leave, though I felt the usual pang crossing into Marin, putting San Francisco behind me.

I had the Oakland A’s game on the radio to keep me company. Amazingly, I got reception all the way to Yorkville, when it finally faded at the top of the 8th inning, with Oakland ahead 4-0 (for those who are interested, they won 6-2 to sweep Seattle). By then, I could receive the Coast, which saw me all the way to the local store, where I stopped off to check the mail and get a bottle of wine.

It was so windy at the store that I could barely get the car door open, but bright and sunny.

All was well at my Henry-less hippie hovel. I wish June and Audrey were as excited to see me as I am to see them (Henry Etta was always happy to see me, and ran to the door to be petted). I always miss them when I go away, no matter how short the trip. And this was too short.

Market Street, San Francisco

Yesterday I had a few errands to take care of in town before setting off for San Francisco to attend an annual conference. Since I was already in town, I took Highway 20 instead of 128. I’m not sure if I’ve ever driven it before, but it’s as least as curvaceous as 128, and much hillier. When I arrived at Willits (home of Seabiscuit and not much else), I could see snow-capped mountains. I couldn’t help thinking of the time that Megan had to drive the ambulance, with a patient inside, through blinding snow on Highway 20. No snow tires, either. No wonder my sister is my hero.

It was the first sunny day in nine days. The ditches along the Ridge were actually flooded in places. It was good to have a change of weather and change of scene after the past few traumatic days. I checked into my usual modest motel in my former ‘hood, had Thai food delivered, and relaxed.

This morning, I dressed up, applying perfume and diamonds – a nice change from my usual ensemble of sweaters and sneakers. I enjoyed flagging down a taxi, especially since I can expense it. It was really too warm for a jacket, but it was a key part of my grown-up façade. A girl must keep up appearances. As the cab climbed Nob Hill, I noticed a man walking his teeny toy dog was allowing it to pee on the coat-covered head of a sleeping (or otherwise unconscious) homeless person.

Welcome to San Francisco.

At the Four Seasons, the doorman ushered me into the hushed splendor of the lobby. I felt the usual pang of jealousy at the discreet sign for the Residences. In the conference room, there was a sea of dark suits under heavy crystal chandeliers. I occupied myself with stealing the pen and stationery provided and making notes of conferencespeak. These are actual quotes from today’s session:

• “Inordinately impactful”
• “We sourced and due diligenced it thoroughly”
• Vertically integrated”
  And my personal favorite:

• “Bigger disparancy”

Is that a combo of discrepancy and transparency?

During the break, I enjoyed the view from the outdoor deck, and so can you:

And enjoyed eavesdropping even more:

“It’s not my fault. I was over-served.” (I’m storing that one up for future use.)

“I used to weigh 300 pounds. My Dad died in Redwood City and never saw me thin.” I don’t know what’s sadder, really: dying in Redwood City, or reacting to a parent’s death with utter vanity.

I played a few hands of business card poker and was out of there.

All in all, it was a pretty successful event.

The memorial tree

On Friday morning, I turned off the outside lights and stopped to pet Henry on my way to the kitchen. She was lying on her side, paws relaxed, and fast asleep. The room temperature on the heater read 60, which pleased me, thinking that Henry Etta had been warm all night. Lately I’ve left the heat up higher at night for her comfort.

As soon as I touched her, I knew something was wrong. She was cold and stiff. I felt her nose for breath, put my ear to her side to listen for that brave little heart, but all was silent.

I called Megan and wailed the news into the phone. “I’ll be right over,” she said, and she was. By the time she got there, I was kneeling by Henry Etta’s bed, petting her scruffy fur and sobbing “My little love, my little love” over and over again. June and Audrey were uninterested in the drama, wandering in and out of the house and following their own agendas. I kept asking Meg to check if Henry was really gone, even though it was obvious that my courageous little cat had breathed her last.

It looked like she died in her sleep. That last night, I had her up on the couch with me again, petting her and telling her I loved her. I put her in her bed myself before I went up to bed that night. She looked very peaceful.

We wrapped her in a soft, thick blue towel and drove to the property. Jonathan was on his way to work, but he started digging the grave for us. Like many seemingly simple tasks, there is a technique to this. Pick axe first, then shovel. It was pouring, and the heavy soil clayey and sandy. It took a while to dig deep enough to make sure that no animals would disturb her. By the time we finished, we were wet and filthy.

I took Henry from the car and walked her slowly to the tree, talking to her all the way, telling her about her new neighbors, Jed and Bear, dogs who loved cats, and Luna, a cat almost as small as Henry Etta herself. She’s in good company there. I kissed her goodbye and thanked her for her gift of love, for coming into my life. Megan laid her gently in her resting place, and allowed me to start replacing the soil before joining in to help. She apologized for tamping down the soil, but I preferred to think of it as tucking her in and keeping her safe.

I placed driftwood on her grave before we left, and yesterday I added some yellow daisies from my garden:

We’ll plant something permanent there soon.

On the short drive home, I told Meg that I think there’s something therapeutic about digging the grave, getting dirty, wrapping up your loved one, and laying him or her to their final rest with your own hands, instead of distancing yourself from death the way society generally does. And I’m glad I can visit her.

Oddly, she died on the very day she was to go to the vet. Megan called Dr. Karen, and she said that although she could have given Henry Etta antibiotics for the eye infection, whatever she died of was beyond antibiotics or anything else Dr. Karen could have done. She was, after all, a very old cat, and had fought so long and so bravely. Dr. Karen sent me a kiss and a hug, and called later to check up on me.

I’m glad Henry Etta was spared that last trip to the vet, and that she died peacefully in her sleep, safe and warm, knowing that she was so loved. The hard part is going on without her.

My little love.

I found Henry Etta dead in her little bed by the heater this morning.

She looked so peaceful.

It’s amazing what a huge hole a four and a half pound cat can leave in your house, your life, and your heart.

I can’t write any more now. Thanks to all of you who followed her adventures and cared about her.

Yesterday Mark came by to check something, accompanied by the wet and muddy Luna. Lucky seems to have vanished, hopefully back into the fold, since the alternative would probably be her showing up pregnant, and then what would we do? I imagine herds of tame-ish deer taking over the property, eating every plant and Chico bag they can find.

While he was here, I reminded him about the leak in the pantry/laundry room/cat dining room. I debated telling him that the washer should be replaced, since the agitator tends to get agitated and leap off partway through the wash cycle, creating noisy havoc in the house and holes in the laundry, but I figured it was better to tackle one thing at a time.

He chiseled up some of the cement floor and used a beepy thing to determine what was copper and what was not. The room became floodier as he worked. Eventually, he said the problem was worse than he originally thought, and and he’d have to rent a jackhammer or something like it to break up the cement and get to the root of the problem. I hope he can do it soon, since I now have to pick my way over the puddles when I feed the cats or get something out of the pantry. Since there’s zippo storage space in the kitchen, most food is back there. One of these days, I should count how many trips I make back and forth.

I now notice counter and cupboard space in every movie and TV show. Recently Meg and I were watching “Sex and the City” and all I could think about was how Carrie’s New York kitchen had way more counter and cupboard space than mine. Erica explained this by saying that James basically built a man cave. I mean, the garage is bigger than the house, and the curved walls means there’s at least 6 feet of wasted space in each room. Then there’s the no closets and lack of usable kitchen space thing. Rose must have been far more patient and resourceful than Self.

Later in the day, Megan called to see if she could use my shower, since the propane was running low at her place. Propane: the bane of the country dweller’s existence.

I put on the heater and closed the door, then went to make sure the flash heater hadn’t gone out in the rain and wind. It had, but the other problem was that the water was at a dispiriting trickle and not shower-worthy. I called Mark and he said he’d be right over. While I was waiting for him, I went and re-lit the flash heater (yay Me!). Megan arrived before Mark and I gave her the unwelcome news. Fortunately, he turned up and fixed the water in time for Meg to have a rushed shower, jump into her car with wet hair, and drive off to work in the pouring rain.

Spot the kitty!

It’s almost noon, and my battered thermometer claims it’s barely 40 degrees outside. Some of the hailfall is still clinging to icy existence beside the house, and the house is filled with that eerie white snow light.

Megan stopped by yesterday on her way to work and brought my orchid inside so it will survive the cold snap. It’s now taking up valuable real estate beside the stairs, where I brush past it every time I sidle through the 18 inches of space between the refrigerator and the stairs.

The cold, dark weather this week has inspired me to watch a few films noirs from my favorite decade. Last night’s double feature featured my own true love, the City by the Bay. Henry Etta came up on the couch with me, where she relaxed with her head on a pillow, covered by one of my sweaters (see above) as the rain and hail stormed outside.

First up was “Impact” (1949). Though lacking in my favorite credit (“Gowns By”), it made up for it with “Furs By” and “Jewels By” and an apartment in the illustrious Brocklebank Building, where Kim Novak’s character lived in “Vertigo” and the late, great Herb Caen lived in real life. You can rent a little place there for $9,700 a month if you’d like to join that celebrated company.

Brian Donlevy plays a millionaire industrialist going out of town on a business trip. His lovely wife, played by the seductive Helen Walker, convinces him to bring along a “cousin” of hers, who is, in fact, her lover. The lover attempts to bump off Donlevy, but only succeeds in bumping off himself and a gorgeous cream colored roadster in a spectacular crash.

Dazed and confused, Donlevy ends up in a small Idaho town, where he finds a job and a room with the world’s most attractive and least likely garage owner, played by Ella Raines. But when he discovers that his wife has been arrested for his own “murder”, he returns to San Francisco to set the record straight.

Oddly, Helen Walker, whose character engineered a murderous car crash, endured a career-ending car crash in real life. She picked up some GIs who were hitchhiking, and crashed the car. One soldier died and the other two were severely injured, as was Helen, who was tried for murder. She was acquitted, but her career never recovered, and she died of cancer at the age of 47. Her life was more tragic than any movie she ever starred in.

The second feature was the somewhat misleadingly titled “Woman on the Run” (1950), starring the glamorous Ann Sheridan and a cast of unknowns (at least to me). Ann’s husband is out late one night walking their dog when he accidentally witnesses a murder. When the cops arrive and want to put him in protective custody, he thinks they suspect him and “takes a powder”. The police question his wife, and learn that their marriage is on the rocks. The wife learns that her husband has a secret heart condition, and tries to find him before the cops or the real killer do.

The movie ends with a breathtaking and frightening night time roller coaster ride, predating Hitchcock’s carousel horror in “Strangers on a Train” by a year. It was filmed at Playland at the Beach, an amusement park which perched on the dunes of Ocean Beach for nearly a century before being dismantled and replaced by, God help us, soulless condominium boxes. It was great to see it in all its tacky glory, with the terrifying sounds of Laffing Sal (who can still be seen and heard at the Musée Mécanique, now at Pier 45) providing the perfect backdrop to such a scary scene.

And it was wonderful to see that beautiful city in all its glory. Some things haven’t changed at all in 60 years, and others have changed completely. But one thing never changes: the beauty of San Francisco.

Hail in the garden, 7 am

It was wild and stormy last night. It rained so hard that it woke me up a few times. I lay there listening to the storm rage, wondering why James never cut down the trees which are just a few feet from the house. If one of them gets knocked over by the wind…

Amazingly, the power stayed on and the cats stayed in.

This morning, I was awakened by hail crashing heavily against the roof and skylight. Risking life and limb (well, limb, anyway), I dashed out to take photos for you, dear readers, before the rain melted the evidence. Here you can see the hail on my porch steps and beside the roof/wall:

When Rob dropped by with some mail, I was glad to hear that Megan had escaped the hailstorm on her morning commute. I was also entertained by the three census forms he brought. They all have the same street address, but are differentiated by additional descriptions:

12345 Blank Road
A Frame Cabin (me)

12345 Blank Road
Two Story Cabin (Megan & Rob)

12345 Blank Road
Unknown Unit-A (Jonathan’s former residence, now unoccupied)

I’d love to know how they described Mark’s place and the front house. Apparently the front house has new occupants. I have never met them, but I have waved at them while driving by and noticed that they have done a great job cleaning up the long-neglected garden.

And in other news, I have an appointment with Dr. Karen on Friday afternoon, so my medical advocate (aka my sister Megan) can join me. When I called and gave the receptionist my name, she asked brightly “Is this for Henry Etta?” Celebucat!
Update: Turns out that this morning’s storm was just a preview for the real storm, at 3:00 this afternoon:

The air smelled strongly of pine resin – I guess from the hail battering the trees.

The light in the house immediately took on that strange, white light that it does when it snows.

The temperature dropped to 40 in just a few minutes.

Hard to believe it was 80 degrees here a week ago!

View from the porch today

The forecast this week is for cold and rain, and I have learned the chilly way that temperatures in Hooterville are approximately ten degrees lower than they are in the balmy Bay Area. Henry Etta and I have stayed close to the heater today, she retreating to the depths of her faux sheepskin bed and me in two sweaters.

Her eyes seem less gloppy today, though she is leaving little land mines all over the house, necessitating footwear and cautious foot placement at all times. She mostly stays in bed, except if I crinkle a plastic bag in the kitchen. This happens more often than you’d think, especially since I wash and re-use my Ziploc bags until they no longer zip or loc. She runs into the kitchen and meows loudly for food. She sounds like I slammed the car door on her tail. Oddly, since moving inside, she has become louder and more demanding of food, even though it is available at all times.

On the other hand, the bulimia seems to have stopped.

Megan is stopping in at the vet’s office on her way to work today to get a kitty valium for Henry Etta and to make an appointment. The idea is to give The H some Vitamin V to settle her down enough that Dr. Karen can examine her and take blood without having to sedate her again. We need to make sure that the metacam isn’t affecting her kidneys and liver. And I’d like to get an idea what her lethargy and other symptoms are all about. Hopefully we can get in sometime this rainy week.

I’ll keep you posted.

June and Audrey are getting used to the new cat door upstairs. I had to shove them through it a couple of times before they grasped the concept (even though they’ve had one between the main house and the studio for several months now). It’s great not having to leave the door ajar all night, especially now that the cold and rain are making yet another farewell appearance.

I had a vain hope that they might use the cat flap exclusively, making me obsolete as a doorman, even while knowing it was on the unrealistic side. But I’m slated to go to San Francisco next week, and while I know Megan and Rob will take good care of them while I’m gone, it will be nice to know that the cats can come in and out at will while I’m away. Maybe it will even train them to use the cat flap instead of the doorman. A girl can dream.

Jessica takes afternoon tea

On Friday night, I put Megan’s laundry in the dryer and folded the clothes when they were ready, putting the basket in my living room. I figured it was the least I could do for my busy sister. She reclaimed her laundry early in the morning while I was still sleeping, removing a dead mole from the doorstep on her way.

I guess that makes us even.

Erica and Jessica came by and picked me up on Saturday afternoon. Jessica was dressed as Alice in Wonderland, which was only appropriate, since we were attending the Mad Hatter’s Tea Party at the historic Mendocino Hotel. I was surprised and pleased to find Megan waiting for us – I thought she was still teaching her class.

Meg and Erica headed off to the yarn store to buy knitting needles, while Jessica and I repaired to the Garden Room. There we selected tea cups from a selection of vintage cups, filled them with chamomile tea, and then filled a plate with heart-shaped cookies reading “Eat Me”, chocolate-covered strawberries, and cupcakes.

Jessica had her face painted (a little heart on her cheek) and we entered a raffle for a free ticket to the local production of “Alice In Wonderland” at the same theater where we saw the magic show. By the time the Storyteller started reading us the chapter with the Mad Hatter’s Tea Party, I began to wonder where Megan and Erica were.

“It’s taking your Mama a long time to buy knitting needles,” I observed to Jessica.

“She’s probably distracted by gorgeous yarn, and now she’s debating whether to buy it or not,” she answered.

A few minutes later, Megan and Erica turned up. Erica was holding a bag containing not only knitting needles, but, yes, two skeins of gorgeous yarn. I told Erica about her daughter’s comment, and she said “Does my kid know me, or what?”

In the meantime, the Queen of Everything was drawing the winning ticket. Jessica won! She jumped up and down, saying “I’ve never won a raffle before!”

This drew the attention of a girl of about Jessica’s age.

“Remember me?”

“Are you Lily?”

“Yes!!”

The two girls hugged each other while simultaneously jumping up and down. They caught up for a few minutes, and then Jessica returned to us, saying happily, “It’s so nice to catch up with old friends.”

New cat door!

Rob turned up while I was still sipping my coffee and regaining consciousness. If you ever visit, just walk right in. Don’t bother to knock. The door doesn’t have a lock, anyway, so come on in. Everyone else does.

Of course, if I’ve gone to town (aka the Three Hour Tour), it could be a long wait. Good thing for you there are books, movies, and magazines galore. And cats to let in and out, even though they now have their very own cat door in the door leading to the balcony.

That’s why Rob stopped by, to install the cat door. While I woke up slowly, he installed the door upstairs. It’s very relaxing to watch other people work, I find.

Afterwards, I asked him to put up tiebacks for the curtains in the living room, and he:

• Pointed out that they were made in China, something of which he does not approve for many reasons;
• Pointed out that they have a serious design flaw when it comes to installing them – it’s nearly impossible to get the screwdriver at the appropriate, weird angle (though he did manage it in the end);
• Made fun of the entire tiebacks concept. After all, he is a boy.

They look great, by the way.

When the chores were finished, we watched the news together for a while, and then he went on his way. I made a mental note to buy him some beer to say thanks and was glad yet again to have Rob in my life, even unexpectedly and first thing in the morning.

Megan and her ambulance

My sister Megan is nine years and nine days younger than I am. We always joke that makes us some kind of twins.

Nine years can be a big age difference, especially when one of you is, say, sixteen and the other is seven. Once I was getting ready for a date, and Megan watched me get ready. As I finished putting on make-up, she sighed, “Oh, Suzy, you’re so pretty. But you’re prettier when you’re all colored in.”

Aren’t we all?

As a little kid, she always wanted to tag along, and as older kids, my brother and I never wanted her to. “I’ll catch up one of these days, ” she said. “You’ll see.”

Catch up she did.

She got married six months after I did, and unlike me, she is still married. She became a Montessori teacher, and then an Emergency Medical Technician. She cared for Dad in his final illness and broke the news of his death to everyone, including me. She had Mom living in her house for the last few years of her life, and, yes, was the one to tell me of Mom’s death, too.

All this before the age of 35.

Somehow, the baby of the family has become its matriarch. She is the glue holding the ragged remains of our family together.

She lived with me for her last few years of high school, when Dad retired back to his native England and Mom wasn’t able to take care of Megan. I moved cities and found a place big enough for both of us. I went to her parent-teacher interviews, waited up for her when she went out on dates (all colored in), and enjoyed having her friends visit and sleep over. I wanted to give her a safe and happy place to live, and I think I succeeded.

I’d like to think that I had something to do with helping her become the amazing person she is. Whenever I’m asked in job interviews what my best achievement is, I always think “Megan.”

As I write, she’s out meeting Monica to rescue a pit bull in trouble (details withheld at my request). When she gets home from that, she’s having company for dinner, and tomorrow is teaching a five hour CPR class before joining Jessica, Erica, and me at the Mad Hatter Tea Party in Mendocino. She worked 48 hours this week, in the form of 12 hour shifts, three of them night shifts. After her last night shift, she drove home at 6 am, got up in the afternoon, and drove back for a two hour staff meeting* at 6:30 pm. This was last night, and today she’s already up and out, fighting the good fight. Because that’s the kind of girl she is. That’s my Megan.

*Where her attire of bee boots, Red Rooster Records (a now defunct record store whose logo was a motorcycle riding rooster with the slogan “In Your Ear”) sweatshirt and hair in braids got a ridiculous amount of attention, including one guy who wanted to take her picture for Facebook. I think they’re just jealous of the bee boots. Also that they have never seen her morning ensemble of scrubs, bathrobe, bee boots and sunglasses.

Like girl, like cat: Henry Etta also fell off the sleeping loft, and also landed on her side. I was surprised that she didn’t shatter into a million pieces, since she’s practically made of glass, but she was unharmed and unperturbed.

Unlike Self, the reason for her unorthodox descent from the penthouse was not lack of coordination and Calamity tendencies. It was The Beautiful June Bug.

June is the boss around here, and she’s never been a big Henry fan. When she was trapped on the porch in Oakland and Henry had free stagger of the back yard, she used to glare at her and plot. Now I often have to stop June from being mean to Henry, though surprisingly, neither she nor Audrey has ever tried to take over Henry’s cushy bed, in its primo spot by the only heater.

Earlier on the same day that Henry plummeted from the loft, I had stopped June from sneaking up and pouncing on Henry Etta in the garden. Henry was basking in the sun and had no idea what June was up to. I poked June with a stray tiki torch until she ran off to find other trouble to get into, but I guess she just bided her time. She found Henry unattended and made her move.

This was several days ago, and although Henry Etta didn’t show any negative effects from the fall, I get the feeling she isn’t feeling that great lately. Her walk is limpier and she’s had trouble jumping onto the porch and couch. Also, she just seems kind of blah, although she’s still eating well and loving her Sea Flex. Last night she merrily ate the fish I saved her from my own dinner. But she’s been having litter box issues, and this morning I had to go and get her from the studio to bring her to the heater, a first.

In doing so, I discovered that her tail and derriere were in need of attention, so I did that with a warm, wet cloth, but really, I think she needs a bath. Also, I discovered that my genius idea of wrapping her up in one of my sweaters last night wasn’t so genius after all, and prompted an impromptu load of wash, with an unprecedented use of warm water.

I wonder if it’s just old age – she could be 15 or 20, who knows – or a phase, or if something’s wrong. If only cats’ vocabularies weren’t so limited.

Drinking coffee from my tiny demitasse cup and saucer makes me feel so elegant. Even when I’m wearing one of my oddly assorted morning ensembles*, like flowered pajamas, polka dotted socks, and two unmatching sweaters. You’d never think I had a subscription to “Vogue”.

The other morning, I put a thimble of coffee in the microwave, pressed the button, and turned away to do something else while the coffee was (re)heating. I had barely taken two steps when it turned off. Even though it was a bright and sunny day, my first thought was that the power had gone out. But it hadn’t.

Now, some people will tell you that it’s because reheating yesterday’s coffee is just wrong and this is the universe’s way of telling me to knock it off. But I think it’s due to the eccentric wiring in my hippie hovel. Don’t forget that my lights turn on by turning the switch down so it reads “no”. When I was at my sister’s last weekend, I kept hitting the light switch downward. It took me a while to figure out that I needed to flip it up.

I’m the entertainment wherever I go.

I left a message for Mark, and he appeared later in the day. He won second place in his age class at the Whale Run, and his daughters won second and sixth place in theirs. I was so excited for them I almost forgot that the refrigerator, microwave, front porch, hallway, and bathroom were powerless.

Mark showed me how to fix the breaker switches, which are located outside (like the flash heater and the phone box) by turning them all the way back and then forward. Let there be light!

A couple of days later, he needed a jump start and I was glad to help. It’s only fair to power up a guy’s car after he powers up your house. I think the universe would approve of that, at least.

*As usual, my sister trumps me with this, too. She has been known to appear at my house wearing scrubs, a bathrobe, and bee boots, clutching a cup of coffee and wearing sunglasses.

I got a new cell phone a few days ago. Before the gadget-minded among you get all excited, I hasten to add that it’s supposed to get better reception here in Hooterville, and that’s the only reason for getting it.

Cell phones being the complicated and annoying things they are, the new one has to be programmed and somehow the old info has to be transferred to the new one, and if you do it in the wrong order or just plain wrong, it won’t work. Not only that, our tech person told me that if it isn’t done correctly, we could be charged the whole price for the thing instead of the discounted price.

Despite the fact that she emailed me detailed instructions on how to do this, I was betting on my Calamity Suzy skills and general techtardness to screw it up.

Fortunately, there happens to be a Verizon store in town now, and Megan happened to be stopping by there anyway on her way to work. Supposedly they offer a 25% discount to hospital workers, so she wanted to talk to them about that.

I packed up all the stuff that came with the new phone, plus the old phone and the instructions, thrilled that I’d be spared a trip to town and having to deal with the phone. Yay!

My sister called me a few hours later to tell me that the only cell tower around here had been vandalized, so no programming was possible, at least until it’s fixed (though, in the mysterious way of cell phones, they still work).

I couldn’t stop laughing.

Also, the Verizon employee had never heard of the discount, so he’s supposed to look into that. All in all, not a lot achieved on that particular trip.

My “office” on Friday

It was 80 degrees and sunny on Friday. How could I be expected to deal with work on a day like that?

Actually, I did, in the form of taking cell phone calls by the beach with a friendly Rottweiler winding his leash around my wrist as I tried to act professional. It was hard to hear the market chatter over the crashing surf.

With work dealt with momentarily, Megan, Lu and I walked along the path by the beach with our small (Harlow), medium (Schatzi) and large (Marco) dogs in the bright sunlight. Despite application of SPF 70 sun block before I left the house, I acquired the first sunburn of the year. After about an hour, Lu gave me her baseball hat, saying I was “pink”. So was the hat, bearing the logo of her home state team, the Arizona Diamondbacks.

In Arizona, Lu grew up with temperatures that reached 120 degrees in the summer. But Marco and I feel the heat, and he flopped down in a stream on the beach, where he charmingly bit at the water as he chillaxed.

Chilling is a foreign notion to the pit bulls, who chased each other all over the dunes. Honestly, you’d never know that Harlow was the baby and Schatzi the old lady. The Schatz can outrun almost any dog around, and you’d never know she was 10 years old. People are as amazed by her persistent youthfulness as they are by Dick Clark’s.

As the dogs played, we watched horseback riders on the beach:

There were beautiful colors on the dunes:

And a warning:

Even though the seals were tiny white blobs basking on a distant rock.

The perfect ending to a perfect day was a barbecue at Megan’s, and dinner al fresco in the storm-tossed garden as the sun set.

Parking lot at the local store

I try to avoid buying gas at the local store, since it’s considerably more expensive than the gas in town (especially if you buy it at the Speedex, near the Feed & Pet, instead of at, say, the Chevron in the middle of town) and I am now the most frugal (cheap) hedonist known to girlkind.

But sometimes a girl like I forgets to buy gas, her pretty little head being otherwise occupied with far more important things, like taking Jessica to the Mad Hatter’s Tea Party next Saturday, what to make for dinner, and whether someone will give me that set of Mad Men Barbies for my birthday.

Sometimes I don’t notice this deficiency until the little red light comes on. Once I didn’t notice this until I was at the point on 128 where there’s no gas until Cloverdale, and I ended up coasting down the hills and around corners and praying uphill. There are few atheists when the little red light is on in the car. For the record, I did make it to Cloverdale that time, but I apparently learned nothing, since here I was, with the light on again. In my case, the light is on, but no-one’s home, it seems.

At least this time I only had to go the five and a quarter miles to the store, and after the Cloverdale adventure, I was pretty sure I’d make it.

The gas pumps at the store are the old fashioned kind that don’t take credit cards. You put the gas in your car and then go in and tell them how much it was while catching up on local gossip, such as the clerk’s horse making a surprise appearance in her living room. It’s a longer process than it is in town, but it’s more fun, too.

Here’s one of the gas pumps:

Note explanatory handwritten signs. In case you weren’t sure.

Somehow the heat got turned off last night, and it was 46 fun-filled degrees in the house when I got up at a semi-respectable 7:30 this morning. I varied my usual routine (turn off outside lights, turn on computer, turn up heat, start coffee) by turning on the heat first. Then I looked out the sliding glass doors and saw that the outside temperature was around 38.

Told you it’s like living in a tent. My thimbleful of coffee was cold before I could finish drinking it.

It’s been sunny all week, and clear, starry nights tend to be cold ones with no cloud cover to tuck us in at night and keep us warm. But temperatures have been 60 or more by early afternoon. It still surprises me that temperatures can change so much in one day.

This particular day is my father’s birthday. He would have been 79 today.

To the rest of the world, it’s a day to drink and dye things green, the weirder the better, but for me, it’s a day of sadness and memories. I feel out of step with everyone else.

At my old job, one of my co-workers had her first baby. We all dutifully trooped to the hospital to visit them, and as I held that day-old baby, I felt as if I were watching my colleagues across a divide. All of them still had their parents, and half of them were older than I was. I was the only one who had lost a parent and knew that particular pain. I both envied them for not knowing what it was like, and pitied them, knowing that one day they would, even that newborn baby.

Today the sun is shining and Dad isn’t here to see it. I can’t call him to wish him happy birthday or look forward to an email telling me what he made for his birthday dinner. Nine years after his untimely death, it can still hurt as much as when I first heard the news and my life was divided into “Before” and “After”.

In these After days, I should try and focus on the many happy memories: Dad carrying me on his shoulders; calling the birds in the woods so they answered him; coming home after work in his white lab coat when I was a kid; reading me stories, even when I was grown-up; hugging me across the barrier at Heathrow; walking his beloved dog Jesse on Wimbledon Common; singing tunelessly as he cooked. I know I’m lucky to have had a father who was also my best friend. But sometimes the loss is hard to bear.

Happy birthday, old bear. I will always love you.

I got up at 7 this morning after dreaming I had an apartment right next door to San Quentin. It was 40 degrees this morning, so all around, it was an improvement.

Henry Etta, however, did not seem to find it all that warm. She was nestled so far back in her cozy bed that I could hardly see her. She poked her nose out when I turned the heat on, though, and now she’s basking.

It’s sunny again and supposed to be above 60 again, so maybe spring really is here, a few days ahead of schedule.

Despite the warming trend, the bathroom remains its chilly, uninviting self. I still have to psych myself to face taking a shower, and once I’m in it, I have to psych myself up again to face the cold (and now foggy) room. Only the thought of the pricy propane burning away merrily stops me from postponing the inevitable indefinitely.

I came across a small electric heater the other day and decided to put it to good use in the icy salle de bains. You will be relieved to hear that I placed it carefully on the bureau-esque thing (several shelves but no doors, and the teeny sink is embedded in it) several feet away from the shower. Even if it did fall down, which is highly unlikely, it would only fall on the lime green plywood floor.

Still trying to keep those new year’s resolutions.

Initial experiments have proved successful. I put the heater on, shut both bathroom doors, and let it preheat* for about 10 minutes. By then, the bathroom is warm enough to undress without fear, and same goes for exiting the shower. I was excited to actually be warm after getting dressed, instead of shivering.

Of course, I figured it out now that spring is here, but that’s the Suzy way.

*How can you “preheat” an oven? You turn it on and it heats. That’s it. It’s not heating before it’s heating.

Blurry picture of Henry taken through the sliding glass doors this afternoon

Day Four of getting up at 6 (or earlier). I think this officially qualifies as a bad habit now.

And speaking of bad: the bad habit of Daylight Savings Time means it’s dark and even more depressing at that benighted hour.

As I made coffee, I considered the expression “the early bird gets the worm”. What incentive is that to get up early? “The early girl gets the tiara” would be much more motivating for Self.

It was 34 chilly degrees as I drank my thimbleful of strong dark coffee, while simultaneously checking my emails and petting scruffy old Henry. I wonder if they make sweaters for cats, and if so, would Henry Etta wear one? I’m a little worried that her extreme thinness makes her as uninsulated as the house and I know she really feels the cold.

As I write, it’s around 1 pm, and it’s a sunny 61 degrees now. Henry actually ventured out of the house yesterday (when I put out the recycling, she followed me and then wandered off) and today (I opened the front door to get some air and she went out, seeking a sunny spot – I later saw her basking by the disused hot tub). I think she’s beginning to realize that if she goes outside, she can still come back in. I think that was her concern before, though I could be wrong. I wish she could talk and tell me her story and what she’s thinking.

I think she’ll enjoy the summer!

Well, I still got up at 6 this morning (now the new 7). This is turning into a bad habit.

I went to bed around midnight and woke up at 5 with my heart pounding after a nightmare. I dreamed that I heard a big truck coming down the narrow, rutted dirt driveway. I looked down from my balcony door and it was Rob, driving a bunch of old wood and my brother’s ancient, enormous pick-up truck on a flatbed. I ran downstairs and by the time I got there, the wood had somehow fallen off the truck and pinned Rob to the ground (even though, you know, he had been driving the truck).

My brother and sister warned me away from touching him, and the ambulance appeared like magic. Megan said that they do that for family and friends.

As we waited at the hospital, there was a strong earthquake and everything went black.

I woke up.

I lay there for a while, trying to sort out what was real and what wasn’t. I felt like going over there to see if Rob was OK, though undoubtedly my concern would not have been appreciated at that hour. I got up and checked the official page for earthquakes, and the most recent was in SoCal sometime yesterday. it sure felt real in the dream, though.

It was hard to get back to sleep after that, so even getting up at 6 is something of a personal triumph.

As I lay in bed, I thought about how dear Rob has become to me since I moved up here. He and my sister have been married for 19 years this summer, and he has been our brother’s best friend since they were nine years old, so I’ve known him most of my life. But spending more time with him has made me appreciate him more.

It’s not just that he fixes things for me, or that I come home sometimes to find that he’s taken my trash to the dump or is putting up curtains for me. It’s his kindness and gentleness and loving nature that somehow survived his parents’ complete lack of affection. It’s his courage and refusal to feel sorry for himself, despite his many health problems and constant pain. It’s his intelligence and ready wit and sense of humor.

It’s Rob. My other little brother.