Suzy Says

I do too fit!

Last night, Megan and I had a girls’ night in. Schatzi came, too, sporting a cute new collar* which unfortunately doesn’t really show up in this picture. Also it kind of gives her demon eyes, but it was so funny I had to post it anyway. After a couple of glasses of wine, Megan observed that it really was a girls’ night, since all three cats and the dog in attendance are girls. Coincidentally, Megan’s cats, Ramona (the Pest) and Harriet (the Spy) are sisters, but our brother has only ever had boy cats.

As we binged on “Sex and the City” and junk food, it soon became apparent that Henry Etta likes Schatzi.

Yes, this is the same cat who was so spooked by hearing dogs bark in a movie that she fled the room just a couple of months ago. Now, if Schatzi is curled up next to Megan and not me (dogs are always welcome on my couch), Henry will sit on her lap to be closer to Schatzi. She has sat close enough to touch the dog. If Schatzi is sitting or lying on the floor, Henry approaches her and sniffs her carefully. Schatzi is always polite to cats, so she takes this attention in stride, but I still think it’s funny that my stray cat has a crush on a pit bull.

When Henry went for a snack break, Schatzi seized the opportunity to try on Henry’s bed for size. Being a dainty-sized dog, she sort of fit, and clearly found it as comfortable as Henry Etta does. Though she gracefully gave it up when its owner returned. No wonder Henry has a crush on her!

*Just in time for Fashion Week**. It’s a soft yellow, and patterned with little flowers which might be daisies or might be sunflowers. Either way, it brings out her brindle coloring very nicely.
**Rest in peace, Alexander McQueen. So sad.

For some reason, there are always pine needles in the shower. I have no idea how they get there.

The floor of the shower is painted, so it’s a little slippery. I’m pretty sure that the resolution ending Calamity Suzy episode of all time is going to happen in there, sooner or later. To try and avert the inevitable, the last time I was in the city, I picked up some clear pebble Tub Treadz* and a matching bath mat. I thought the pebbly look was good for the country. And everything in this house is slightly (or extremely) irregular.

I was slightly stymied, as so often happens, by the instructions. “Apply to a clean, dry surface”, it says in a breezy manner, as if that were something easily attained. It’s almost impossible to attain either for me. The shower never drains completely, and there’s always renegade dirt and pine needles in there. I’m not sure how to achieve the requisite cleanliness and dryness, so the Tub Treadz are still cutely in their package for now, and possibly forever.

I have been using the bath mat, but I overlooked the fact that plastic doesn’t absorb either water or the aforementioned detritus of Nature the way fabric bath mats did. Although it’s a little cold and squishy to step onto, it doesn’t show the dirt or add yet another color to the tiny room.

The inside of the doors is red, while the outsides are blue. The floor is lime green. Electric lime green. And it extends into what should be the foyer, which has a blue door. One of these days, I’d like to put black and white tiles down and paint the blue door white. In the meantime, I try to avert my eyes. Though the lime green is somewhat toned down by the mud that is inevitably tracked into the house.

The bathroom itself is unheated, and the walls appear to be made of particle board or plywood mostly, as is the lime green floor. So it’s really not all that far, literally or figuratively, from the outdoor shower, which is on the porch right outside the bathroom. Especially when you factor in the wildlife that likes to congregate in there: spiders and bugs, and I once found a huge black slug in the non-draining shower and a tiny scorpion in the equally tiny sink.

It’s nice and warm when you’re actually in the shower – assuming that the flash heater doesn’t get blown out – and you can enjoy the view of the garden and the non-functioning hot tub as you shampoo. You might even see a passing PG&E meter reader or a deer. When you get out, though, it’s pretty chilly, despite the room being fogged up. But that’s easily solved by opening both doors: the one to the back porch and the one to the foyer.

*They reminded me of the rubber daisies we use to have in the bathtub when I was a kid.

My former neighbor

I recently learned that Gene Clark of the Byrds used to live right here in Hooterville.

Not only right here, but about two miles from where I live. I have to admit to a certain amount of posthumous stalking, driving down his road to look for his house, immortalized on a record cover. Said house was sold to him by none other than the husband of Betty of the famous Betty eggs. He’s something like a sixth generation Hootervillite, and these are extremely rare. I think he’s the only one.

He’s pulled over to say hello to Megan and me when we’ve been walking the Schatz, regaling us with tales of hunting for wild mushrooms (don’t pick the ones with the gills underneath) and elk (no luck this year), and one of these days, I’m going to ask him about Gene Clark.

For some reason, maybe because Gene, at the height of his considerable fame, turned his back on Hollywood to come to this obscure corner of the world – the same corner that has become my refuge – he’s been haunting me. I always look down his road when I pass, and I think how the road almost certainly looks the same that it did forty years ago, when he lived here.

He would have reached the same place on the road to the store where the ocean is first glimpsed through the trees in its many moods and different beauties. He would have driven across the wooden bridge across the river (built during WWII and now the only surviving wooden bridge on Highway 1) on his way to the Little River Inn for his habitual drinks.

When I pass the beautiful Little River Cemetery, of my earlier posts, I wish he was there instead of Missouri (he died young, at the age of 46).

And his songs have been in my head, my soundtrack as I drive the same roads he did: Eight Miles High, No Other, I’ll Feel A Whole Lot Better (covered successfully and almost identically by Tom Petty on the hit CD Full Moon Fever). His haunting voice, the artistic inspiration which I can clearly see and hear came from this rugged, beautiful landscape.

Every morning, I make coffee and then clean up the cat barf. It’s quite the glamorous life.

Maybe part of the reason Henry Etta is so tiny is that she pukes so much. Is bulimia popular among neurotic cats of a certain age?

Feeding the cats has changed quite a bit since we moved. June is still generally the most interested, and often reminds me when feeding time is as close as an hour away, but just as often lies there languidly when I put food in the dishes. June and Audrey used to only eat out of their own dishes, but now it’s a kind of free-for-all. Audrey spends so much time outside now that I rarely see her eat in the house, though I’m sure she does.

Henry has taken up the slack and is almost always the first one there, though she just nibbles a little and then retires to her cushion. Although I’m glad that she’s finally enjoying the cushy bed I bought her almost three years ago, the down side is that she doesn’t sit on my lap as much. However, she does have an uncanny ability to sit with me right before the phone rings or I have to get up for some other reason, and then I feel guilty about moving her fragile little body to deal with whatever I have to deal with.

The Sea Flex and metacam have worked wonders, and Henry Etta can run and jump better than before. But no matter what I do, her fur is always scruffy, her whiskers bent, and she is still less than five pounds.

Audrey the Adventuress has been worrying months off my rapidly diminishing life. As you know, my original plan was to keep the cats in after dinner, but my original plan failed. Plan B was to have everyone in before I went to bed, and that’s been partially successful. June is almost always in at bed time, and busy getting her 18 hours of beauty sleep (which I’m convinced is the secret to her loveliness), and Henry Etta rarely bothers with Nature, but Audrey is usually out and about, even when it’s raining, cold, and completely unappealing to Self.

Those of you who have cats in your lives will know that calling them is futile. Not that it stops me. But I hate going to bed without all the cats safely in the house. A few nights ago, Audrey went out at 8 pm and didn’t come home until 4 am, which I greeted with any parent’s enthusiasm. I was up every hour that night, calling her, and I left all the outside lights on, thinking that it would deter predators, though maybe it would just make it easier for them to see a little brown tabby at night.

The thing is, if I let her out during the night for an hour or so, I just go back to bed. So even for a neurosis, it’s completely irrational. But Megan has had one cat vanish into the woods, and Jonathan has had three over the fifteen years he’s lived here, so the odds may not be all that much in Audrey’s favor.

Still, I think my brother is probably right, and if I could sit Audrey down and explain all the risks to her, she’d still pick the uncertainty of outdoors over the certainty of indoors. And she wouldn’t have become her total Adventurous Audrey self if she’d been kept inside. I guess everything really is a trade-off.

Yesterday, Megan met up with Lu in Mendocino. I was planning to make dinner* at Meg’s house that evening, and she called me from town to see if there were any last-minute ingredients I needed.

She called me from Lu’s phone, though, because her own had decided to jump suicidally into a public toilet.

Lu, in the next stall, heard Meg’s vocal despair and asked what was wrong. When she heard what it was, she said, “You’re on your own, kid.”

You really are in a situation like that.

Meg retrieved it, dried it off, and treated it with hand sanitizer that she always carries with her, just for occasions like this. Lu reminded her to remove the battery.

I’m sorry to say I laughed when my sister called me and told me about her potty phone.

On the bright side, they were able to assist at a car accident until the ambulance came. Nothing gladdens the heart of an off-duty EMT more. And they demoted my brother to traffic duty at the scene, which made it even more fun. When he arrived for dinner, bearing home-made cinnamon rolls, the first thing he said was, “Hey, you bogarted my call!”

I made chicken with cornmeal dumplings, and we had wine and talked. It was great having Lu there. Her schedule makes it really hard to get together, but now she’s convalescing from her ankle injury, we get to see her more often. She had just had a “cold laser” treatment, which magically removed the swelling and made it much easier for her to walk. Amazing.

As I walked home with my bag – when I go to my sister’s house, I pack an extra sweater, and a flashlight, along with any ingredients needed, borrowed books, Tupperware, etc.** – my flashlight spotlit June, who walked me home under the stars.

*We usually decide what to make by comparing the contents of our refrigerators, freezers and pantries and going from there. The dish with the least ingredients to buy and/or the easiest to make is the winner. Though sometimes we try new things. It’s always more fun together.

**My dream is to have one of those Radio Flyer red wagons to carry things in. But they’re surprisingly expensive. And anyway they’d probably flip over on the puddled, rutted dirt driveway. But a girl can dream, especially at night.

High surf, Mendocino

I heard a strange sound.

At first, I thought it was one of the kitties scrabbling around in the pots and pans, but it wasn’t. I went over to investigate, and discovered that my roof/ceiling (it’s hard to tell when your walls curve up to a central beam and it’s kind of like living in a giant, overturned rowboat) was leaking.

It was leaking right onto the paper shade of the hanging lamp in the kitchen. You know, the one that goes on and off at will, making me think there’s a power outage coming.

I thought it was a good idea to leave it off for the time being, as I put out a pot to catch the leak. Before I could stand up, another drop of water hit me in the head. Maybe leaks are like mice, and there’s never just one. In the end, I put out three pots and hoped for the best.

Megan came by and asked me if I were blowing her off.

“??”

“Well, I’ve called you twice today and you haven’t answered the phone, so I figured you were blowing me off.”

In the interests of cheapness, I don’t have caller ID, so it’s a surprise every time I answer the phone (though to be fair, it’s mostly one of my siblings instead of secret admirers). I also don’t have call waiting. Partly because of the frugality thing, and partly because no-one ever hangs up on the other person to talk to me, so I’m kind of against it. So even if I wanted to blow someone off, I’d be hampered by not knowing who it was in the first place.

We checked the phone, and there was a dial tone. We called it, using my little purple cell phone, and it didn’t ring. Hmm. We notified Rob, and he came over to look into it. After a couple of minutes, he peered inside the glass doors and asked me if I knew the phone box was open.

Well, I didn’t even know where the phone box was (or, to be completely honest, that there was one), so I guess someone else opened it or maybe the wind blew it open. Anyway, the wires got wet, and when they are too wet, your phone won’t ring, though you can dial out. Almost an ideal phone situation, really.

But Rob did something, and the second call worked. So if you call me, I won’t blow you off.

Well, the rain has made the leap from faithful companion to stalker. It’s a fine line, but after about a month of rain and gloom, I think it’s safe to say the line has been well and truly crossed. And it’s making me cross.

Megan and I were thinking of going to town to run some errands, but looking at the pouring rain made us change our minds. At least for now. It did, however, inspire me to do the laundry and polish some silver.

I guess you know what it takes to make me domestic.

Given the endless rain and my miserliness at using up the expensive propane supply, I invested in a clothes rack to dry my clothes in the living room. This does not lend a note of elegance to one’s decor, and I’ll have to see how effective it is. In Oakland I could hang the clothes out on the porch and they’d dry in a day or two, but here it’s too rainy and damp. And much colder. So I’m hoping that the clothes rack will work out.

It’s not without its hazards, however. While carrying the clothes from the laundry room/pantry, I tripped and fell flat on my hands and knees, scattering clean clothes everywhere. I also scattered the boxes piled up by the laundry room door, where I had carefully placed them to keep them away from the open flame of the dryer.

As I got up, I thought that I haven’t been doing so well with this resolution thing. Maybe I need to scale it back to something like “no major mishaps” or “Only one minor accident a month”.

Clearly, June knows how to spend a dark, rainy day. Even if her blanket of choice does clash a little with her orange fur.

Here you can see her multi-colored pads, to match her multi-colored fur. One of life’s enduring mysteries is how June can keep her white fur snowy white when our house is surrounded by mud. And I can’t keep the mud out of the house or the car. What’s her secret?

On the last day of the year, I deposited the last paycheck of the year insouciantly.

Three days later, I gave my landlord the rent check. ‘Cause when I get paid, all I really do is put it other places. Rent. Amerigas. AT&T. The liquor bill. You know. It was nice almost knowing you, money!

My landlord returned from the bank (a forty minute drive each way) with a returned check. His bank wouldn’t cash it.

Embarrassed and mystified, I called my bank while he waited. After the requisite amount of pressing this button and that and being transferred hither and yon, I finally talked to an actual person (they do still exist, apparently) who told me that when my bank first presented the check to my boss’ bank, they wouldn’t confirm or deny that the funds were there. To protect their customers’ privacy, they said. So my bank slammed a ten day hold on it.

I explained all this to my landlord, who could not have been nicer about the whole thing. I’m not sure whether this lessened or added to the humiliation, especially in light of the fact that I broke the floor within ten days of moving in here, a scant three months ago. Dream tenant, that’s me.

I called the bank again, pointing out that I’ve had an account there for twenty years and that they could call the issuing bank and confirm that the money was there. They wouldn’t do it. Once it’s on hold, that’s it until the ten days are up.

I asked them what would happen if my boss canceled the check and put cash in my account. Well, in that case, I’d be charged a $35 returned check fee, and they might close my account completely for putting a bad check in. So much for valuing my loyalty and all that crap.

The next day, I got an email from them saying that the check was on hold. You don’t say! Really? I noted that this was several days after the whole mess started, so clearly they only sent me the email to cover their bankly butts after I started asking questions.

I think I need a new category for this kind of thing. Absurdities? Bureaucracy? Suggestions welcome.

Update: I had just answered Amber’s comment on the difficulty of changing her address at the bank when there was a knock at my door. It was my landlord with a letter from the bank. The letter was confirming my address change – and sent to my old/incorrect address. I have already called them three times to change the address, and received an email on January 22 confirming the address change. I think I’m going to go with Alison’s suggestion and file this one under “bullshit”.

Henry Etta gets comfortable

On the Sunday Megan and I wallowed in “Gone with the Wind”, we noticed that all was not well with Henry Etta.

Though she’s always had a stumbling, arthritic walk, this was really bad. Henry dragged her back leg behind her when she walked, and you would be surprised by the noise the lame leg of a four and a half pound cat can make on a wood floor. It was horrifying to watch her drag herself through the cat door.

As I gazed at my sweet girl in horror, Megan swung into action and called Dr. Karen. Yes, we have our vet’s home number and cell number. And she called us right back. I could hear her family in the background as we spoke.

She suggested metacam, which is basically ibuprophen for cats, and treats with glucosamine and chondroitin called Sea Flex, carefully calculating the dosage for the tiny old cat. She said that she’d be in her old office in Fort Bragg on Wednesday and could dispense the meds there. This wasn’t good enough for the EMT in the family. Before Meg went to work on Monday night, she went to the Feed and Pet and picked up the Sea Flex.

She also stopped by Lu’s house, and it turned out that Lu had some metacam on hand from one of her cats’ past illnesses, and being Lu, gave the whole thing to Meg to give to me.

Anxious about Henry Etta, I slept badly that night, and woke when I heard Meg come in early on Tuesday morning – the same day I was leaving for the city. She dosed Henry Etta and said she’d come by each morning to do so while I was away, and that Rob would keep an eye on Henry Etta while I was gone.

Meg called me on Tuesday afternoon before she went to work to tell me that Henry was already better! And on Wednesday morning, Henry Etta actually ran to the door to meet Megan. Just one dose made such a difference!

Before I left, I put the cuddly bed you see above right next to the heater. This is the same bed I bought her years ago and which used to be under the porch in Oakland. She had scorned it since we moved here, but now it’s her place of choice. I’m happy that June and Audrey have left her alone on it and not tried to take it over or harass her.

Now I give her metacam every 72 hours and Sea Flex every day. She seems well and happy. I feel guilty that I didn’t notice it sooner and worry that she was in pain for a long time before I noticed. I’m just glad that we were able to help her. And I love how my sister is an EMT for animals as well as people.

The new vet office

On Sunday, Megan, Jonathan, a still-limping Lu and I met up to attend Dr. Karen’s grand opening of her vet office in Mendocino. It’s the first time she’s had her very own practice, and she put all her heart and resources into it. She renovated the little house you see on the left, so it now has a reception area, waiting room, and two exam rooms.

A boardwalk leads from the office to a barn, converted to a surgery:

The surgery has a digital x-ray machine which Meg says is better than the one the hospital has. The idea of having the surgery separate is that animals coming in for other reasons won’t have to smell the anesthesia and get scared or upset. The practice offers holistic medicine along with more traditional methods of treatment and care. In time, there will be outdoor kennels so patients can take the air when the weather is nice.

As you can see, the grand opening was packed. There were lines to write in the guest book, and you could hardly walk around in there for all the people wanting to congratulate Dr. Karen. I don’t think she has to worry about making it on her own any more than Mary Tyler Moore did.

I had the genius idea of giving her a gift certificate for a massage at a spa conveniently located a block or two from the office. I figured she was stressed as well as excited at striking out on her own and dealing with the reno, and thought this would be more welcome than a bunch of flowers. We all chipped in and I hope she has a wonderful, relaxing time. To me it’s much like having a friend who’s given birth. Everyone gives gifts* to the baby but nothing to the mother (other than flowers), who has been through hell for almost a year. I think Moms should have something special just for her, and I thought Karen should, too.

On our way home, I noticed some signs of approaching spring, including this flowering vine near Karen’s office:

and a lovely cherry tree beginning to blossom:

*From what I hear, people tend to give newborn sized clothes, so after a couple of months, the baby has outgrown most of his/her wardrobe.

Dazzled with glittery splendidness, I headed to 19th Avenue to start the trip home.

As I sped through the retro tunnel on Park Presidio, I tried (and failed) to remember the last time I had approached the Golden Gate Bridge this way. It was fun to take a different route, though it was sad to bid farewell to the beautiful city, gleaming in the pale, watery winter sunshine.

I have to say that it is so much easier and faster to go from Hooterville to San Francisco than it is to Oakland. Going to the East Bay adds anything from half an hour to an hour to the trip. And it’s much less scenic.

I stopped off in Boonville to give Erica and Jessica their long-delayed Christmas stockings and presents. Being Me, I managed forget my own gift for Jessica. Yes, the one I finally did a good wrapping job on. But she hardly noticed in the blizzard of gifts from Megan and Rob, Jonathan, and Lu. I noticed that she opened each one, spent some time looking at it and showing it to her friends who happened to be on hand, and then went on to the next one.

She also asked her mother if she could have a chocolate coin from her stocking, and then shared the remainder with her friends.

Their schedules are so hectic these days that it’s hard for them to visit. Meg and I are planning on going to get Jessica and keep her for a weekend soon.

Hugged and kissed, I went on my way. I noticed that it was not yet dark at 5:00, and that there were daffodils in the grass by the side of the road. The river had definitely receded.

When I got home, I was disappointed at the lack of greeting committee. Henry Etta didn’t bother getting up, and June and Audrey were nowhere to be seen (they didn’t reappear until 10:00 that night). I called Meg to tell her I was home, and of course her greeting and Rob’s made up for the cats’ lack thereof. Humans: picking up cat slack for thousands of years and counting!

We all enjoyed the extreme pizza delivery extremely. I think I’ll try and do that every time I go to the city.

View from the Legion of Honor, January 28

With my trunk full of pizza, I headed west, young lady.

West to the California Palace of the Legion of Honor, to give it its proper (long) name. It’s one of my favorite places in San Francisco, perched in a beautiful setting overlooking the Marin headlands (and the good bridge), and having a small, yet exquisite collection.

But the lure for me that day was the special exhibit Cartier and America, celebrating the jeweler to the stars’ century on these shores. And what a celebration!

The exhibit was arranged chronologically, starting with the fabulous tiaras worn by American heiresses while shopping for titled husbands in England in the early part of the 20th century. An elderly lady saw me admiring an emerald and diamond necklace belonging to Lady Granard (born plain old Beatrice Mills in San Francisco), and asked me if I’d ever wear it. “Absolutely!” I replied, without thinking, and she burst out laughing. I would, too. After all, it might as well have stayed in the ground if it’s never going to see the light of day.

Jewelry was made to be worn. And worn it was. By Gloria Swanson (the diamond bracelets from “Sunset Boulevard”, no less). By Grace Kelly (her elegant, 10.47 carat diamond engagement ring, worn in her final film, “High Society”). By Elizabeth Taylor (a set of diamond and ruby earrings and necklace, given to her by then husband, Mike Todd). By the Duchess of Windsor (her famous panther bracelet, and equally famed flamingo brooch, its first public showing ever). By Vanderbilts, Barbara Hutton, and Marjorie Merriweather Post. There was even a wristwatch belonging to Al Jolson.

I wandered from room to room, gasping at the splendor and occasionally moaning with covetousness. You can see some of the pieces here.

It was the Suziest thing ever. If I can, I’ll go back and see it again before it ends in mid-April.

When I first moved to San Francisco many years ago, I found an apartment in Russian Hill (not coincidentally, the same ‘hood featured in my beloved Tales of the City series). It was in a pre-1906 Quake building, and on the top floor, reached by a spiral staircase. When I think about the clawfoot tub, hardwood floors, formal dining room and wood-burning fireplace all at a now laughably low rent, I feel very lucky to have lived there.

Megan and Rob, who lived on a boat at Pier 39 in those days, helped me to paint the place before John arrived with the furniture and our fabulous cat, Buddy. We were starving by lunchtime, so I headed out to Polk Street in search of food. After a couple of blocks, I smelled something utterly delicious. Following my nose, I found myself at Victor’s Pizza.

I brought the pie back to the apartment, and an addiction was born. I always lived within the Victor’s delivery area when I lived in San Francisco (indeed, the apartment we bought a few years later was only five blocks from that first place on Jackson Street), and back when I used to work 50-60 hour weeks, would often have Victor’s and champagne on a Friday night.

Victor’s is more than just pizza, though. When Dad used to visit, we’d have at least one dinner there, in its dark little dining room with wooden booths, decorated with grape-shaped lamps. The service was always wonderful – Victor’s has career waiters, and delivery boys are often promoted to waiters – and it was a delightfully comfortable atmosphere. Every meal comes with soup or salad and house made rolls, and we always had to get a box to take home the leftovers.

When I lived in Oakland, I’d get Victor’s every chance I got, so this visit to the city was no exception. On my way to the Legion of Honor yesterday morning, I was lucky enough to get a parking space right out front. I went in to collect the order I had phoned in earlier, and as the cashier made out the sales slip – by hand – I told him that the pizza was going all the way to Mendocino.

He put down his pen and gazed at me in amazement. “You’re not serious!” he exclaimed. “Yes, I am,” I told him, handing over the money. I told him how I used to live in the neighborhood and still missed the place. “Don’t they have good pizza up there?” he asked, making change. “Not like yours,” I said, putting it away. “Thank you so much, ” he said, holding the door open for me. “Wait ’til I tell the guys.”

By the time I escaped from the conference, the skies had cleared. Sun! I didn’t even mind taking public transit for the second time that day, even though it’s now $2 each way. Still not as much of a fan as John Waters apparently is (who knew?).

I got off the bus a few stops early so I could stroll down Polk Street. It was fun to see which stores were still there and which weren’t, and I have to admit that I did in fact do a teeny little bit of shopping. Oh, and I got a cheap and fabulous manicure at the still-there Merry Manicures. It did make me merry.

As for shopping: a birthday card and giftlet for my dear friend Patrisha; a stop in at La Boulange de Polk for cannelés de Bordeaux, a treasured indulgence; and a near-set of espresso cups from the wonderful Molte Cose (see above). I’m sorry to say that my beautiful Swedish cup has broken*, as predicted, and I can’t find another one. Good thing there aren’t any cup actuaries.

There are five espresso cups (and saucers!) in the set, one having been stolen, so I got the remaining five and its adorable box for less than half price. So if I break one – and I will – I have four more to go.

Shopping bag in hand, I was heading back to the hotel when I passed a mother holding her son’s hand. He had a halo of blond curls and was looking up at his mother earnestly, saying “Mommy, I love the whole world.”

*Though Rob might be able to glue it back together with special ceramic glue.

Last night, I was sure that my dreams of the city would be washed away in the rain that pounded away at my roof as I prepared for a possible power outage and anxiously scanned the National Weather Service advisories.

When I went to bed, the power was still on, and the rain had stopped.

When I woke up, it still wasn’t raining! I called Caltrans and learned that the road was open. I threw a few things in a bag, did a conference call, and just after noon, I was on my way.

The road was still dotted with yellow FLOODED signs (probably staying nearby to be ready for the next one), and the Navarro river was pretty darn high. The brown, muddy waters reached high up the tree trunks on its banks. But the sun actually peeked out, and traffic was a breeze: I made the trip in three hours.

I have to admit that I enjoyed crossing the good bridge. Also that I feel like much less of a loser coming in from the country than I did from the suburbs. I’m now safely ensconced in a modest motel about a block from my old apartment (is it weird/sad/pathetic that I always stay in my old neighborhood?), enjoying the lightning-fast WiFi, Thai delivery menu at hand.

I called Meg to tell her that the Mouse had done its job and I had arrived safely. This is another of our family traditions, like waving until the departing person is out of sight. If one of us goes to the city, or, rarely, ventures further afield, we always call when we arrive.

Now neither of us has a thing to worry about. When I lived in Oakland, I was always worried about someone breaking in when I was away, in addition to worrying about the kitties. Now Rob is hanging out at my place during the day while Megan is sleeping. He can watch TV, play guitar, and listen to music with no fear of waking his sleeping wife. The cats have company, and so does Schatzi, since she goes with him. It makes me happy to know that Rob can enjoy himself there, since he does so much for me.

Yesterday, Megan, Rob and I braved the wind and rain to attend the Fourth Sunday Breakfast at the Caspar Community Center.

We met up with Lu, still limping from her recent ankle injury at work (she’s an EMT), and her boyfriend Rick. Despite the pain, Lu couldn’t resist the book sale across the hall from the room where breakfast was being served. It was an interesting selection of books, and Megan snared one on spicy sauces and dips, which will have to be toned down for me. I always say that food should be hot, medium, mild, and Suzy.

The breakfast room had long tables covered with bright table cloths. You collect your silverware at the door, find space at one of the tables – a challenge for a party of five – and a server takes your order. We had huevos rancheros made with organic, local ingredients and a basket of “bread”, which was really tiny corn muffins, banana muffins, currant scones, and cranberry scones. I had a thimbleful of local organic apple cider, too.

It was nice to catch up with Rick and Lu, and we stayed talking until the servers started to roll up the table cloths and give us meaningful looks.

In the parking lot, a man was playing with his dog. He bent over with his arms making an “O”, and the dog jumped through! I was so delighted that I asked him to do it again, and he did. We laughed all the way to the car.

On the way home, I noticed that the cherry trees are beginning to blossom.

When we got home, Megan brought her laundry over and got that done while we watched “Gone with the Wind”. It was the perfect thing for a rainy Sunday afternoon. No matter how many times I see it, I get swept up in the epic story, Vivien Leigh’s exquisite beauty, and the tragic romance. I always get choked up at the end, and tried to hide it by going to put on the porch light to light my brother’s way when he came over for dinner that night.

When he did, he arrived with cloverleaf dinner rolls he’d invented and made. Meg and I made macaroni and cheese and a salad of spring greens and curly endive. It was a particularly cozy evening, with the rain pouring down outside and the light and warmth inside.

As I write, the rain is still pouring down, and I’m hoping that the one road which leads to the city won’t be closed again tomorrow. I’m planning to go to San Francisco tomorrow and attend to business on Wednesday. Of course, being me, I’m also planning to take in one of the films at the Noir Festival and the Cartier and America exhibit.

We’ll see!

Yesterday, we had a break from the week of storms. I almost didn’t recognize my old friend the sun when she peeped shyly from the spectacular clouds.

I went over to Megan’s and said, “Quick! Before it rains again!” We bundled Miss Schatzi into the car and took off for Mendocino. Needless to say, the Schatz was thrilled. She’s enjoyed being stuck inside all week even less than we humans have.

We went to a different part of the headlands, at the north part of town. There is a spectacular clearing with trees fallen from long-ago winter storms:

I once came across a wedding there – what a beautiful setting:

Everything is so green from the rain!

Past the clearing and down a narrow path past wind-bent trees, we came upon the ocean:

It was considerably calmer than the 27 foot waves earlier this week, but it was still pretty spectacular:

As my sister says, “A pissed-off ocean is a beautiful thing.”

Schatzi wasn’t ready to leave, but we had run out of paths. She waited patiently in the car as we picked up groceries from Mendosa’s (we made chicken enchiladas for dinner last night). Her patience was rewarded by a second walk, in a place that was new to me.

Across from Gordon Lane is a vast expanse of hilly fields leading to the ocean. This was originally farmland, but is now fallow:

The dreaded Scotch Broom is in bloom now, and the huckleberry bushes have the tiniest of buds. The pine trees are beginning to make new pine cones:

It was encouraging to see some early signs of the spring to come, and to lift our faces to the sunlight. And it gladdened our hearts to watch Schatzi, sniffing gopher holes and the sea air, trotting happily through the fields, looking back at us to make sure her pack was still with her.

Exhibit A

Thursday night is my turn to make dinner.

Megan finishes her three, 12 hour night shifts on Thursday morning, so she’s too tired to dream up or whip up dinner. I have to say I’m really glad to take that small burden from her.

I usually start thinking about what to make on Thursday on Sunday afternoon. I look through my collection of recipes and my Dad’s, and if I don’t find inspiration there, I turn to Sunset and Epicurious. I love Sunset because it’s written for a Western audience and knows what’s in season here. And Epicurious has recipes from many magazines, including Gourmet and Bon Appetit, all in one place.

Yesterday’s inspiration for shrimp chowder came from Epicurious, and you can find the recipe here. I left out the fennel seeds, thinking it would be too much, and added the red pepper flakes. I substituted half and half for the heavy cream. It was a big hit. I served it with a simple salad of curly endive and radicchio (in the newly-rediscovered wooden salad bowl my parents used when I was a kid) along with a salad dressing I made with garlic, seedy mustard, olive oil, red wine vinegar, black pepper, and tarragon. Add in a loaf of ciabatta from Costeaux bakery, and dinner’s ready!

As good as dinner was, it was what happened after dinner that was really wonderful.

Audrey climbed up onto my sister’s lap, put her arms around Megan’s neck, and fell asleep with her face cuddled up to Megan’s. She stayed there for at least an hour. In the meantime, Henry Etta had curled up* next to me and fallen asleep. Audrey slowly drooped down my sister’s arm while she slept, her face eventually coming to rest against Henry’s back. She stayed like that for a while, then got up, stretched, and curled up next to Henry Etta (see above). They were actually touching!

This is a first, and I hope it’s not the last. Henry Etta is always cold, and it would be nice for her fragile old bones to cuddle up to warm, strong Audrey.

And speaking of old cats: you’ll be glad to hear that Gertie has moved in with Rose’s daughter and is doing well.

*This is a big step forward. She used to just huddle anxiously, even in her sleep, ready for takeoff if anything happened. Also I can now pet her in her sleep without getting clawed.

Just as Megan left for work last night, another thunderstorm started. I’ve lost track by now, but I think that makes around 9,000 of them over the past week. I’ve endured more thunderstorms here in the past few days than I ever did in all the years that I lived in the Bay Area. It’s amazing how different the weather is, considering it’s only 150 miles away.

Not that you could drive there now, since the one road that goes there is flooded and closed.

I’m in serious danger of turning into a mushroom. And you know how I feel about mushrooms.

About an hour after Megan left for work, I was cowering through the roar of the thunder, the clatter of the hail, and the battering of the rain when the phone rang.

One of the other unexpected things about the power outage earlier this week is that cordless phones don’t work. Fortunately, Rose left behind a truly hideous brown corded phone. And because it’s corded, I always know where it is, unlike the cordless ones which I leave all over the place and then have to search for when they ring.

I answered the phone, and a weird man’s voice asked for me.

I cautiously admitted it was me, wondering who it was.

It was Rob, and he burst out laughing at the tone of my voice. He called to say that Meg had arrived safely at work, and that if the power went out again, he’d come over and get the generator going for me.

Isn’t that nice? On the other hand, he characterized the storm that was freaking me out as “not that bad”, making me wonder what would be considered bad. Hmmm.

Before I went to bed, I made sure the coffee was ground (so I could use the French press) and filled a couple of pots with water (so I could boil it for coffee) and the dishes done. I have jugs of water and a couple of buckets full for bathroom purposes, and a flashlight by the bed, so I was as prepared as I could be. Fortunately, it turned out that I didn’t need any of it, since the power valiantly stayed on.

As I write, it’s still dark and rainy, and the future looks as gloomy as the present. At least according to the weather forecasters. I think they’re the only ones enjoying this.