Suzy Says

Good morning!

Silence.

I woke up at 5:30 yesterday morning. Not because of the Audrometer, who was adorably cuddled up to her big sister June, but because of the silence. And darkness.

Yes, the depths of the country are pitch-black at night, and almost oppressively silent, but I still sport my Marilyn Monroe sleep mask and ear plugs. The ear plugs are to ward off Audrey’s early morning pleas for escape, and the sleep mask is because the satellite internet doodads are located in the sleeping loft (for now; I’m hoping to persuade the long-suffering Rob to relocate them for me) and their weird blue light bothers me when I’m trying to sleep*.

Taking off the sleep mask, I immediately noticed that it was completely unnecessary, because the power was out. My battery-powered clock informed me that it was 5:30, so I went back to sleep for a while. When I got up, it was still dark. I had thoughtfully provided myself with an LED lamp on my bedside table, but I had neglected to observe where the power switch was, so I ended up creeping carefully downstairs in the dark anyway.

I’m pleased to report that I’m still injury-free!

Letting the girls out, I noticed that the top of a cypress tree had relocated to my front porch, yanking the jerry-rigged (Or is it jury-rigged? Discuss. And while you’re at it, is it “Not by a long shot” or “Not by a long chalk”?) electric line with it (see above).

Inside, I discovered that I couldn’t make coffee (fortunately, I’m sufficiently degenerate to drink yesterday’s coffee cold) and also that you need electricity to make water come out of your tap or shower and to flush the toilet. Who knew?

I plugged the heater into the car battery thingie devised by the boys last month, and turned it on, to Henry’s immense relief. She had been huddling against it, looking at me pleadingly as if to ask where the hell the heat was.

As the chill began to lift (though not from my coffee) and the storm continued to batter the house, I reflected on how people always say how great it is to get away from modern conveniences and rediscover nature, etc. I disagree entirely. Not only am I already surrounded by Nature, but my view is that now we’ve emerged from caves, why go back? While finding cellphones and reality TV deplorable, I don’t want to go back to pounding my laundry on a rock and chopping my own wood. I missed the modern conveniences pretty much instantly.

Fortunately for me, the Super Brothers were on hand to rescue me after just a few hours of darkness and cold. Rob and Jonathan appeared with a generator, which they placed under the little deck outside the laundry room, running the power cord under the door:

and then putting a très expensive extension cord/outlet device in the living room, so I could plug in my laptop (oh, joy!), refrigerator, lights, and other necessities:

Then they flew away to rescue other damsels in distress. Or check on Jonathan’s solar panels. I’m not sure which.

The power came back on after several hours, and it’s nice to know that I have everything ready for the next outage. And that I have the best brothers in the whole wide world.

*Basically I’m the same as my father, who grew up with total blackout conditions during WWII and also had to sleep in total darkness. Oddly, I used to be afraid of the dark until a few years ago, when I slept in a tent in my sister’s garden for a month and finally got over it. Being Me, of course I had to go to the opposite extreme.

It wasn’t the Audrometer that woke me up this morning, though at first I thought it was. It turned out to be rain pounding on the roof. Audrey was innocently asleep on my pillows.

It’s still so dark that I have the light on. I hate having lights on during the daytime. It looks so…sordid, somehow. As I look out of the glass doors in the living room at the pouring rain and trees tossing their heads in the wind, I think: a) Thank Rob the doors are all sealed up; and 2) I just know the power is going to go out this week.

I dread the inevitable power outage with all the fear of a dilettante completely lacking in the pioneer spirit. I mean, how long will my computer battery work? Can I live without blogging and, more importantly, how will you all survive being summarily cut off from my words of wisdom? I shudder just thinking about it. I have to admit that the thought of huddling over an LED light and reading in the dark silence is pretty damn unappealing.

On the other hand, I’d have a great excuse not to work.

San Francisco is slated to get eight inches of rain this week, so that means we’ll get more. If I were a betting girl, I’d wager that 128, the only road out of here, is going to flood this week. And I’d further bet that even though the weather forecasters* are calling for endless supplies of rain for the foreseeable future, everyone will still be wringing their hands and bemoaning the drought.

Personally, I love a good drought. Bring it on, I say!

*I have an irrational hatred of their constant winter refrain of “The storm door is open”. i’d like to slam it shut.

Lately, I’ve been feeling like the house is ganging up on me, with things that either don’t work, or sort of work. Can a gas stove actually gaslight you?

Things that sort of work in my house:

• The porch light. It won’t stay on unless you jam a piece of paper in beside the switch. Problem solved! By the way: almost all of my light switches turn on by flipping them down. When they’re on, they say “NO”.
• The flash heater. It’s mounted outside, so it’s easier for the pilot light to go out and the pipes to freeze during cold snaps. I’m always dreading it going out while I’m in the shower. You know, the one with the window in it and the shower curtain rod fastened across part of the window so the shower curtain is almost long enough. And the one which never quite drains and is nearly impossible to get the pine needles/bugs/dirt out of.
• The stove. Sometimes the burners light, and sometimes they don’t. It’s a new adventure every time! And speaking of adventures, the oven has to be lit with a match, a horrifying ordeal that could be avoided completely if only there was restaurant delivery. So every time I use it, I light a match first, and then turn on the gas. Then I stick the match into the little hole and hope for the best. Often, the match goes out, and then I turn off the gas and wait a bit before trying again, reasoning that if I try again right away the whole house might explode. It can take a few tries. This may be what really happened to Sylvia Plath.
• The toaster. It had a temper tantrum recently, and now the handle won’t stay down, which means that my toast refuses to toast. Sometimes, if I hold the handle down for a while, it stays down, but otherwise, I have to stand there and hold it down. Since the alternative is toasting it in the broiler, requiring the match and gas routine described above, holding it down seems eminently reasonable. Bonus: if the handle does stay down, it doesn’t pop up again by itself, so if I get distracted, my toast gets burned.
• The washer and dryer. The washer has a bad habit of tossing off the agitator (if that’s what you call that thing sticking up in the middle) at some point during some loads of wash. It makes a truly alarming noise as it rackets around in there. Bonus: excellent at making holes in clothes and liberating underwires from bras. The dryer has a hole in the front so you can admire the oh so pricy propane burning away your money. It can also melt your clothes if they are synthetic fibers and you aren’t keeping your eye on things.

On the other hand, Rob is a one man, free home improvement handyman. Yesterday he magically appeared and sealed up the drafty leaks in the pantry door, also installing a draft blocking thingie on the bottom of the door. It will also keep out the rain scheduled for the next TEN DAYS. I feel convinced that this is the one that will take out the power.

He also caulked the loose panes of glass on the balcony door and fixed it so it actually closes and stays closed. It used to blow open in the wind, so I put a bag of clothes (still unpacked) in front of it. But this is better. Also it will make the Audrometer quieter. I hope.

Well, my new year’s resolutions, like so many people’s, didn’t last long.

This morning, I tripped over June, who was milling around under my sleepy feet as I came downstairs. This is June’s way of reminding me that she’s ready for breakfast, even if it’s an hour or more before the appointed hour of 9:00, when breakfast is served.

Fortunately, I was only two steps from the bottom of the stairs, so damage to Self was minimal. I’ll probably have a bruised elbow, but that’s it. In the interests of honesty, though, this probably means I’m back to square one on trying not to damage Self. I went half a month injury-free, though, so yay me!

As I fed the cats, which entails stepping carefully onto a little wooden chest, then onto the studio floor, then up a step into the laundry room/pantry/cat dining room, it occurred to me that this is the first time I’ve lived in a house with stairs since I left my parents’ house. Maybe practice makes perfect and I need more stair experience and less experiments in gravity.

The Audrometer failed to go off this morning.

It was confusing to wake up in daylight, at the civilized hour of 8:30, without the usual 4:30 wake-up call. June followed me downstairs, and Henry Etta was peacefully ensconced in her nest on the couch (until I put up the heat and she abandoned the couch to hug the heater). No sign of Audrey.

I went outside and called her, thinking that somehow she must have escaped her nightly prison and thus not needed to wake up the warden. No answer, though June came with me to help.

No sign of Audrey.

I went back inside to make coffee – yes, I was worried enough about Audrey to look for her before making coffee – and while the coffee was brewing, went to get a sweater to ward off the morning chill. When I opened the drawer, there was Audrey, blinking and surprised, though not as surprised as I was. How had she gotten in there and closed the drawer behind her?

Last night, she burst through the cat door with a mouse in her mouth. I chased her into the bathroom and shut the door, then went out to open the other bathroom door, which opens from the back porch (this has proved to be more useful than I originally thought), so she and her prey could go back outside. No mouse in my house, is my motto.

It was a bad day for vermin yesterday. Henry Etta made one of her rare forays into the equally rare sun, and barely five minutes later was happily lunching on a mouse on the sunny bench. I think she ate the whole thing, since I didn’t find any leftovers. Cat sushi.

On my way back into the house, I noticed a dead mole. They are really weird-looking creatures, and apparently there’s something weird about their fur, too, and cats don’t eat them. So that means I get to add “mole remover” to my duties as cat doorman.

I’m beginning to think that I might as well get a cat door that goes from the outside to the inside, as well as the one going from the studio to the main house. I’ll lock it when I go to bed and hope for the best. As my brother says, rather grandly: “I don’t open doors for cats.”

The other day, I went to unite my compost with my sister’s, and discovered that there’s no room at the inn.

Hmm.

It seems that two’s company, and three’s a crowd when it comes to compost, too. So I’ll have to come up with an alternative arrangement. Like either getting old or dying (incredibly, our only choices), neither is all that appealing.

Possibility One: Get my own compost.

Pros: Closer to my house. Less annoying to Megan and Rob when I put in things that don’t belong there, like citrus peels and eggshells. I’m having a hard time training myself not to put things like that in the compost after years of merrily tossing them into my ginormous green bin in Oakland. You could put bones in there, too, which you can’t do here, for fear of marauding animals.

Cons: Gross. And disgusting. Not sure I could convince Rob to deal with it on my behalf, at least not all the time. Did I mention the ick factor? Also, it would almost certainly attract skunks and raccoons, well-known for their mess-making abilities, and possibly bears.

Not loving this option.

Possibility Two: Just throw it in the trash.

Pros: I won’t have to haul it over to Megan’s. No dealing with the hideous bug life in the compost box or shoveling it around, or hoeing it, whatever it takes to maintain it/make it into compost from a big pile of leftovers and assorted ickiness.

I don’t need compost anyway, since my garden is an all you can eat buffet for Lucky and her friends and I won’t be tending flower beds in a gentlewomanly manner. Also I could barely deal with window boxes when I had them. Why is gardening supposed to be fun, when it’s just manicure-destroying dirt with worms and bugs? Gardening, like housecleaning, is an activity best left to the pros.

Cons: My sister claims it makes the garbage extra stinky, and it’s already stinky enough. And you have to pay to dispose of garbage, so why add to that?

Not loving this stinky option, either.

Any suggestions?

There was a thunderstorm last night.

I hate thunderstorms.

Fortunately, we don’t get them very often, and when we do, they don’t have the verve and ferocity of East Coast storms. I still remember the storms we had during the summers in Maine when I was a kid: lightning smashing a tree in half right outside our cottage (conveniently located on a pond, for extra lightning attraction); lightning crackling out of the outlets in the walls; the house shaking with the might of thunder.

I shook right along with it, but my father and brother would count the time between the thunder and lightning, calculating how far away the storm was and when it was (thankfully) going to bother someone else.

Here in my little house surrounded by trees threatening to blow down in the storm and crush roof, car, or Self, it’s impossible to escape the storm. The living room has big sliding glass doors, a window above them, and from the couch I can also see the glass-paned front door and the skylight in the bedroom. In the bedroom, there’s the shaky balcony door, which blows open in the wind, and the afore-mentioned skylight. Since it’s a loft, I can also see the glass doors and living room window, even when I’m in bed. It’s like living in a fishbowl, especially when you’re trying to avoid the sightning of lightning and the rumbling of thunder.

It’s not a completely unreasonable fear. I mean, people do get struck by lightning. My grandmother once told me the story of a relative who was engaged to a man with a crotchety old mother. Apparently, he couldn’t get married until the old lady had shaken off this mortal coil, and she took her time about it. Eventually he was free to marry, though the parties involved were no longer young. But before they could make it to the altar, she was hit by lightning when crossing a field and died an old maid. The horror! I’m not sure if it’s a true story or an Awful Warning meant to keep silly girls from venturing out in thunder storms, but considering that I still remember it after more than 30 years suggests that it made an impression.

The storm seems to passed during the night, and I was happy to wake up and find that the power hadn’t been knocked out. Every time it’s rainy and windy I worry about that. Megan and Rob have had two trees fall in their garden so far this winter, but both of them fell politely away from the house and damage was avoided. For now.

Whoever set the Audrometer to go off at 4:30 – enough already!

This seems to be her favorite time to get up in the morning, even though it’s pitch black out and makes me really crabby. Now I don’t even bother to put on my glasses. I just lurch out of bed, open the door, and crawl back into bed, swearing. June sleeps through the whole thing (on the bed) and so does Henry Etta (on the duvet on the couch).

This morning, I let Audrey out on time and went back to sleep until 8:00 or so. I went downstairs to make coffee, and while I was in the middle of it, I heard the balcony door rattling and squeaking upstairs as Audrey demanded to be let in. I finished the coffeemaking process and went outside to the porch to call her, hoping that she’d come downstairs instead of my having to go back upstairs (this is why I never make a new year’s resolution to be less slothful. Never going to happen, my friend).

Of course she didn’t, since Audrey’s goal is never to make my life easier. While I was calling her, I felt something cold and damp poke my butt. Turning around in surprise, I looked into Lucky’s huge brown eyes. I moved away quickly before she could start eating my pajamas, remembering how she ate the futon filling with evident enjoyment.

I went back into the house and upstairs to let Audrey in.

I have to admit that I’m getting pretty tired of being a cat doorman. The pay is terrible, and they never tip me, even at Christmas. I’ve been thinking about putting in a cat door to the outside – the one I have is between the house and the cold storage – but then the cats could bring in mice and birds during the day, though I’d lock it at night. I saw June catch a mouse today and spend ages playing with the hapless creature*. Needless to say, I was repulsed by the whole thing, and when I told my sister about it, she trumped me as usual. One of her cats had left a dead and dismembered bird right by the bed.

That’s worse than being woken up by the Audrometer.

*It’s a lot easier to feel sorry for mice when they are outside and behind glass. Or in a Beatrix Potter story, wearing little hats and waistcoats.

In the night garden

On Friday night, Megan made her famous Chicken Makhani (Indian butter chicken) and naan (finally using the pizza stone). If you want Indian food up here, you have to make it yourself, and Megan has it down pat. I helped her as best I could, but I mostly got in the way. I was useful for opening wine, though.

After dinner, we left Rob happily watching the original Star Trek*, undoubtedly enjoying the peace and quiet after the gabbling girls decamped to my garden.

It was still mysteriously warm, so we sat by the chiminea with our glasses of wine under a galaxy of stars. We left the sliding glass doors open so we could listen to music outside. The cats were thrilled to be allowed out – much like little kids staying up late on special occasions – and we had the outside lights on at the back and side of the house. We figured they’d be safe with the fire, lights and music.

When we were ready to go in, I lured them in with treats. It was the first time they’d had them since we moved, and they went nuts, especially Henry Etta. Lately I’ve been letting them out after dinner if they want to, as long as they’re back by bedtime. You know how kids need curfews. I’ve also started letting Audrey out when she wakes me up and then going back to bed. Today it was 4:30 am. She didn’t come back until after 9:00. I have a feeling that I’m not going to see her much once summer comes.

*Having now seen a couple of episodes, I finally understand the appeal for high school nerd boys. There seems to be an endless supply of babes in tight and/or revealing outfits with fabulous hairdos. What’s not to love?

There was an earthquake about half an hour ago. It lasted about half a minute, which seems like a really long time when you’re listening to the characteristic rumble and watching your house shake around you. I have to admit that I have more safety concerns in my hippie hovel than I did in my gracious Pacific Heights apartment, but the house and I are fine.

The cats were completely unperturbed, and both Lucky and Luna wandered by a few minutes afterwards, so no ill effects were felt and nothing seems to have broken or fallen down.

Rob stopped by a few minutes ago and said that they were fine, too. We agreed that it was the strongest we’d felt in a long time. Preliminary reports say that it measured 6.5 on the Richter scale, which is considered “strong”. In comparison, the 1906 quake that destroyed so much of San Francisco was 7.2, but keep in mind that a quake measuring 7.0 is ten times stronger than one measuring 6.0.

Just a little reminder that we’re living on a fault line.
Update: We were lucky here. 18,000 people in Eureka, near the epicenter, lost power and there was damage. Residents also commented on the sharpness as I did.

Schatzi takes the air

Yesterday morning started out with the sudden death of my adorable little coffee cup and skittered rapidly downhill in a landslide of work and financial problems. Note to New Year: if you don’t start getting it together pretty soon, you’re going to be in the same class as 2009, and that’s not somewhere you want to be. Aren’t you better than that?

So I was in a more bitter mood than usual (my mood tending to range from bittersweet to unsweetened) when my sister called and asked if I wanted to walk Schatzi with her. My initial reaction was not to go, since I didn’t want to inflict my bad mood on my sister (my mood having little or no effect on the dog), but in the end, I decided to accompany them.

I’m glad I did, because it turned out to be a mysteriously beautiful day, the clouds clearing to reveal rain-washed skies and the temperature hovering in the 60s. We took Schatzi to a little-known area called Pomo Bluffs. It’s not far from the main street of Fort Bragg, but is somehow off the beaten path, despite its spectacular ocean views:

The bluffs can be crumbly on the edges, hence this sign:

Also known as the international sign for Suzy. You will be glad to hear that I managed not to fall in the ocean, and am resolutely keeping my resolution to be injury free this year. Eight days and counting!

We let Schatzi off the leash in the meadow part of bluffs, where she pranced around and generally enjoyed herself while I admired the scenery:

A turkey vulture sailed overhead, sunlight glinting on his feathers. He hung in the air for a moment, so close I could almost touch him, and then, with a flap of his majestic wings, flew out to sea.

The sky was grey and depressing today. There are a lot more grey days up here, and a lot more rain, and this tends to dampen my spirits along with the ground. Even yesterday’s early violet turned to overcast skies. I think we should invent some kind of festival requiring lights and sparkliness and maybe even fireworks to get us through the gloomy hibernal months after the holidays are over and you can no longer eat candy and drink with impunity any time of the day or night.

My brother dropped by yesterday to borrow a couple of movies, and pointed out that I could have left the Christmas lights up if I wanted to. It hadn’t even occurred to me to do that, since yesterday was Twelfth Night and that’s when we traditionally took down our decorations when I was a child. I still think it’s bad luck to take them down on any other day, and given the family curse, I’m not willing to tempt bad luck. Especially since I’m still injury-free so far this year. I even managed not to burn myself on the oven when I put the scalloped potatoes in for dinner tonight.

I make the potatoes the way my mother’s mother did. I couldn’t tell you what the recipe is or the amounts of the ingredients. Megan was fascinated to watch me put together the layers, always in a certain order, and asked me why. The answer was that it was the way Nana always did it. It’s the same reason that I crimp the edges of pies against my fingers and then cut a design in the crust showing what’s in it, such as an apple. I wish I’d asked Nana why she did it when I did still had the chance, but I’m still part of the tradition that was handed down to her. I love that feeling.

Lavender morning

Sometimes it’s worth having the Audrometer wake me up so early. I took this picture before the sun had finished getting out of bed, yawning, and getting dressed up for the day. Once she was ready, though, she seemed shy and hid behind the sheers, occasionally peeking out at Hooterville and then retreating. Who can blame her?

I wish there was a morning equivalent for “twilight”. This violet time is not dawn, in my opinion. Dawn to me is when the sun comes up, not the magical lavender time right before.

I’ve taken down my Christmas decorations both here and at home. Putting them away is as melancholy as putting them up is festive, so it’s fitting that the violet dawn gave way to a misty, grey day. As I poured the water out of the vase the little tree was in (not one shed needle, by the way), a covey of quail crossed my path, walking like wind-up toys.

Sunny June

Like girl, like cat:

I was doing the dishes when I heard a thud. I turned around and saw that June had fallen off the sleeping loft and landed on the floor with a thud.

Unlike Me, she didn’t break the floor or her ribs. She sat up, looking a little surprised, and had an emergency bath – the kind that’s cat for “I’m really embarrassed and pretending it never happened.” I picked her up and cuddled her, and she purred while patting my face with her little white paw, so she seemed to be fine.

Audrey peered over the edge of the loft and pattered quickly down the stairs, then sniffed June anxiously. After joining in the emergency bath, they both went to the sliding doors and I let them out to play.

Later, when Schatzi and I came back from our walk on the logging road behind the house, June was waiting at the entrance to the road. When she saw the dog, she puffed up hugely. Schatzi looked away, and we sneaked past June, with me next to June so she couldn’t jump on Schatzi, who knows all about cats and their claws, thank you very much.

When I sat down to work again, Henry jumped up on my lap instantly. I used to think the shortest possible length of time was between a traffic light turning green and someone honking their horn, but now I think it’s between me sitting down and Henry jumping onto my lap, purring.

As you can see, I’ve had a hard time getting used to “Henrietta”. I’ve called her “Henry” for two years now, and it’s hard to break the habit. I’ve decided that “Etta” is her middle name, and no-one calls me by my middle name. At least, not anymore (why is it that saying your whole name is the international symbol for “You are in a boatload of trouble?”). So her whole name is now Henry Etta James, though she’ll answer to Henry or Henry Etta or any variable.

Or not.

After all, she is a cat.

Jonathan gave Megan a pizza stone for Christmas. In spite of our usual “no gift” rule, if you see something someone would want/love, it’s OK to get it. No reciprocation needed. It’s all in keeping with our guilt-free Christmas.

I knew the big box was from Williams-Sonoma. I recognized the gift wrapping from the days when I had professionals wrap my gifts, partly because of my innate slothfulness and partly because of my total lack of wrapping skills. But we were surprised and delighted to see what was in the box.

Now, I used to have a pizza stone, but since I couldn’t figure out how to get the sticky, topping-laden pizza onto the hot pizza stone in the oven without damage to pizza or Self*, I gave it away before I moved.

Megan thought that she could put cornmeal on the back of a cookie sheet and the pizza would slide off onto the hot stone, but she also experienced stickiness and general recalcitrance on the part of the pizza, and ended up baking it on the cookie sheet. It was still good, but the stone remains untested, and we were hoping the stone would give us the crispy pizzeria-type crust of our delivery-deprived dreams.

Of course, Rob immediately started thinking of ways he could make a pizza peel from found objects, so I’m sure we’ll experience the pizza stone in the near future.

While Megan was struggling with the pizza I was struggling with Key lime pie.

The pie problem was caused by Megan and me modifying a new recipe into a sort of Thai chicken soup. It called for lime juice, but a whole bag of Key limes was less than two dollars, so we got that instead. The obvious way to use up the leftover limes was pie, and Megan already had the recipe. I picked up graham crackers and condensed milk at the local store and got to work.

When I looked more closely at the recipe, I saw that it called for a pre-made crust. I figured it was crushed crackers and butter and maybe sugar, but in what proportions? I consulted Epicurious.com and found an easy-looking recipe. I started to crush the crackers by hand, but it soon became apparent that this was not one of the best ideas I ever had.

I went to the studio/pantry to look for my food processor. While I was at it, I located the components of the electric juicer. I like to make my expeditions to my house’s Arctic as productive as possible.

The food processor was a big improvement. Once I had the crust in the oven, I turned my attention to the filling. You wouldn’t believe how many teeny limes it takes to make two teaspoons of zest.

Then it was time to juice the limes. They turned out to be inconveniently small for the pointed part of the juicer and kept sliding off. This in turn made the juicer slide around the counterette (it’s too small to be called a counter), so I had to try and hold it down with one hand while attempting to juice the limette with the other.

You wouldn’t believe how many limettes it takes to make 1/3 cup of juice.

By this time, the crust was done and I put it into the refrigerator without burning myself on the oven. Score! The recipe says to chill the crust thoroughly before putting in the filling, but then you put it back in the oven, so why does it need to be chilled?

Once I had the juice and zest ready, I opened the can of condensed milk. I was immediately horrified. Dairy products other than cheese and ice cream disgust me, so you can imagine the dismay with which I regarded the sticky, gelatinous goo that oozed forth from the can of horror.

I mixed the frightful mess together with egg yolks, an egg, the zest and the juice, then poured it into the sort of chilled crust and put it in the oven for 20 minutes.

Obviously, you don’t want it to brown, but how can you tell if it’s done? I hoped for the best when I took it out of the oven. It was kind of jiggly, but I figured the eggs would finish cooking at room temperature. It seemed to be fine once it had cooled, and there were no crust issues caused by lack of chilling, so I still don’t know why you’re supposed to do that.

I’ve eaten a lot of Key lime pies over the years, but now that I know what’s in it, I never want to eat it again. I did take a taste though, and concluded that it needed more labor-intensive juice and zest. But everyone else loved it, and the whole thing’s been eaten by now.

Ignorance is bliss, my friends!

*I’m pleased to report that I’ve been injury free for four days and counting this new year!

Rita on the banks of the Ohio Canal

Yesterday, I was deeply saddened to learn that the Lovely Rita is gone.

She was at least fifteen years old, a ripe old age for canines, but it still made my heart ache.

All day, as I ran errands with my sister (the vet for Schatzi’s thyroid pills; the Feed & Pet; Rite Aid; the bank; visiting Meg’s partner in pit bulls, Monica, at her store; the Safeway; Harvest Market), my mind was running on parallel tracks: one for my tasks, and the other for Rita. I was flooded with memories.

Faithful readers will remember that Rita lived with me for about three years, when her Actual Owner’s life was kind of tumultuous. She was an amazing companion, and traveled with me often. I know everyone thinks their dog is beautiful, but the Lovely Rita really was. People actually came out of their houses and leaned out of their cars to tell me how beautiful she was. Everyone in the neighborhood knew her and loved her, even people I didn’t know. She was the Queen of the Dog Park.

What is that thing?

When I moved to Oakland, I made the difficult and painful decision to return her to her owner. It just about broke my heart, but I know I did the right thing for her. She would have been miserable there, and almost certainly would not have lived as long (or happily) as she did.

Last night, my sister and I toasted the Lovely Rita, and I tried hard not to cry. I remarked that it makes me wonder why we get pets at all, since we know they’re going to die before us, and it’s going to be horrible. Yet we keep doing it to ourselves. Megan said that it was because they make our lives better and happier.

Rita relaxing

In honor of Rita (and in keeping with my new year’s resolution to categorize), I’ll go through my old posts and put all the Rita-related ones into the “Dogs” category. Though perhaps she should have a category of her own, since she was always in a class by herself.

So it took me this long to notice that the peacock ornaments match my painting. The painting is by Keith Wicks, and it’s called “Russian Hill”. It’s one of the few remaining vestiges of my formerly gracious life, like my diamond watch and my Manolo Blahniks.

Amazingly, the cats have left the peacocks alone so far. I guess chasing real birds makes glass ones a lot less interesting.

I left the cats in charge and went to my sister’s last night, armed with a bottle of sorta-Champagne (it was from Sonoma). My brother and his friend K turned up with split pea soup and cornbread for dinner, along with another bottle of Sonoma’s finest. We listened to music, laughed, and talked. My siblings are confident that this year will be a good one, maybe because they have the well is going now and that’s one step closer to my sister moving there, too. So we talked about the past and the future, memories and hopes.

We didn’t manage to stay up until midnight, but the moonlight was bright enough that I didn’t need the flashlight on my way home. I have learned to look up at the sky between the trees instead of at the ground. In the still of the night, I could hear the ocean.

Happy new year, one and all. Here’s hoping my sibs are right, and it’s a good one.

I’m not sorry to see this year end, characterized as it was by violence, financial disasters, physical injuries, and general bitterness. It wasn’t all bad, though: I did get out of Oakland, and somewhere along the way I started blogging nearly every day, instead of at my usual languid pace.

As Adrian Monk would say, here’s what happened:

January: President Obama’s inauguration. My first ever participation in the annual Day of Service (but not my last). Captain Sully’s triumphant return to his native Bay Area. The beginning of the great storage clean-out. Rob’s emergency neurosurgery.

February: Rob’s surgery successful (thankfully). Conference in Sacramento starring Madeleine Albright. A visit to the Academy of Sciences with a visiting friend. Mini film noir festival.

March: Gorgeousness at the Legion of Honor. Start to look around for somewhere to live other than Oakland. Remembering Dad’s birthday.

Started tracking books read. Between March and December, I read 125 books.

April: Consider selling jewelry. Another conference, but a local one. Jessica’s birthday. A year of Henry. My blog turns eight. Heat wave. Finish clearing out the family storage.

May: Police standoff starring gas-coated neighbor. The company audit begins. Cat-caused eye injury for my sis (happy birthday!).

June: Visiting with Jessica. Birthday wishes. Cat tips and Covets. Broken teapot. Heat wave.

July: The girls turn two. Attempted life swap. Silly shoes, sunburns, and scenic cemetery. A slimy encounter. Farmers’ market and hay bale haircut. Erica’s gifts. More Coveting. A garbage encounter. My beautiful diamond ring finally sells. ~sob~

August: Another heat wave. My Mustang is sold. Bill bummers. Loss of shopping ability. Thoughts of moving. Landlord invasion. Eighth anniversary of Dad’s death. A decision is made. New teapot. Why I don’t Twitter. Puppies!

September: Yet another heat wave. Packing. A happy anniversary. Yet another landlord invasion. Champagne software. Beating the heat. A day at the beach. The funeral fiesta.

October: The interview. Terrifying drive. Spa day. Packing. My sister’s 15 minutes of fame (Yay, Megan!!). Escape from Oakland. Henry moves in. Knee injury. Fall from sleeping loft. Learning the truth about painkillers. Job rejection. Rob’s continuous glucometer. A new library card. Free bees!

November: Suzy proofing. Cat flap, but no cat fights. Memories. Junk world. Bookstore and bees. A Thanksgiving to remember.

December: Internet annoyances. Well digging. Henry’s secrets. Quick trip to Berkeley. Henna tattoos. Cold snap. The horror of Nature. Christmas decorations and cookies. Bear proofing the bees. A quiet Christmas.

Things I have learned this year:

• Gravity can be dangerous.
• Painkillers do not actually kill pain, as previously thought.
• My brother and brother-in-law can do almost anything with almost nothing.
• Country life is a constant battle against dirt. And you ain’t gonna win.
• How to feed bees.
• You can’t always get what you want.

New Year’s Resolutions:

• Avoid damaging Self further.
• Finish unpacking and organizing.
• Answer emails,both work and personal, within 48 hours of receiving them.
• Categorize blog posts from now on.

On the days Megan works, I try to take Schatzi for a walk. I figure it’s good for all parties concerned: Schatzi gets some exercise (Cesar says exercise is more important than even love is for a dog), so do I, and Meg feels a little less guilty about her dog being bored.

I got rained out yesterday, but today I went and got the leash out of Megan’s car and the dog out of the garden. I wish I didn’t have to keep her on the leash, but she doesn’t always come when I call her, and if she sees a deer or a rabbit, all bets are off. She can run faster than a greyhound. And if I lost her, I’d have to change my name and leave the country.

Luna being even more at large than usual is problematic. She horns in on our walks, and prances around in front of Schatzi, highlighting the fact that she doesn’t have a leash on and can do whatever she wants. Today it was business as usual, with Luna bouncing around and Schatzi pulling on the leash.

However, when sniffing and exploring the bushes by the logging road, she forgot about Luna and the leash for extended periods of time. Dogs really know how to live in the moment. When Schatzi was sniffing with particular alacrity, I had to be on red alert, since that often signals a roll in other animals’ calling cards. Nothing makes that dog happier. I can recognize deer, mountain lion, and bear, but today’s leavings were a mystery, and I made sure to keep our girl as far away as possible.

The sandy logging road is dotted with all kinds of mushrooms this time of year, from modest little brown ones to ruffled, neon orange to the classic fairy tale red with white spots. In the picture above, you can see huckleberry bushes growing in and on a burned out redwood stump. Redwoods actually need to burn during their growth cycle, which makes them perfect for our climate: wildfires in the summer, rain in the winter. They also need fog to take in water, being so tall, so if a realtor tries to sell you a sunny location among the redwoods s/he is telling you a tall tale.

Later on, the road got so muddy that I could have used those Chanel rain boots for real-real, as Jessica would say. As it was, I thought my sneakers might get stuck in the mud. They are currently out on the porch drying off, being too grubby to come in the house. Dirt is a constant, unwelcome visitor, just like bugs, and they both refuse to leave.

It’s that feral cat again*.

Here’s Henrietta, relaxing on the duvet in the sunlight. The only thing better than the heater is sunlight in her world. Even when it’s cold outside, the California sun has its warmth.

This evening, she was cuddled up to me, and I petted her as I watched the final, heart-wrenching episode of the latest season of “Mad Men”. I wondered if she had ever dreamed of sleeping safely on a duvet on a couch, with the heater on and petting on demand, and a limitless supply of food. Or did she, in the dark, scary Oakland nights, wish for nothing but safety and warmth, and not sweat the small stuff?

When our journey started, I never imagined that she’d ever sit on my lap, or be so trusting. She’s come a long way in the mere two months that we’ve lived together.

On Christmas Eve, I spotted her sitting on a bench, basking in the sunlight. I rushed out to take a blurry picture of her before she moved:

I was so glad to see her feeling safe enough to go outside and enjoy the sun. As I watched her, I remembered how my father loved to feel the sun when he visited us from England, and recalled one particular Christmas Eve when it was warm enough to have a picnic on the beach at Point Reyes. Somewhere in The Boxes is one of my favorite pictures of Dad, taken that day as he strolled in the surf laughing, lifting his face up to the sun.

*I overheard one vet technician tell another one that when I brought Henrietta in the second time.