Suzy Says

My brother the truck driver

I’m home!

Details to follow. Let’s just say it was an adventure.

Everyone’s OK, and we’re settling in. Thanks for all the love and support!

Well, this will be my last post from Oakhampton.

I’m ending as I began, camping in my house with weirded out cats. Though now there are three instead of two. Henry is in the pantry, a marked improvement over being stuck in the cat carrier all day (the landlords insisted that I remove the screening, so we did that first). He was so patient, and never made a peep.

The girls are wandering around the nearly-empty house, wondering where The Boxes have gone. Presumably they’re all wondering what the hell is going on around here.

The giant moving truck is occupying the entire driveway. I hope that no-one decides to snip off the padlock and help themselves.

We’re hoping to get out of here at 7:00 tomorrow morning. We’ll be a convoy: Jonathan in the truck; Rob in Jonathan’s car (they drove down together this morning); then Self and cat cargo. Jonathan brought little radios, sort of like walkie-talkies, in case we lose sight of each other on the way or someone wants to stop. Much easier than cell phones, and not illegal.

Wish us luck!

Are we there yet?

Yesterday, I trapped Henry on the screened-in porch by the simple expedient of removing the concrete block propping the screen door open. I closed it carefully and locked it. I poured some litter into the top of a banker’s box and placed it as far away from his food and bed as I could, but in a sheltered area so a gentleman has some privacy.

He got up from his cozy bed and started looking around and sniffing. I have no idea what his former life was like, and whether it included litter boxes or not, but he seemed a lot less concerned about having no way out than I thought he would be. I briefly imagined him clawing his way to freedom through the thin screening, but instead, he just went back to bed.

A wise friend suggested that I try putting his food in the carrier, which is lined with a soft, fleecy blanket and awaiting him with the door open on the porch, in case he felt like exploring. I fed the girls, and while they were distracted, brought a packet of treats out to the porch.

Henry sniffed the open packet, and then I sprinkled them liberally in the carrier. He jumped in and ate them, and after he was done, he hung out in there for a while. So that problem may be solved: Maybe all I’ll have to do is put a few treats in there on Thursday and close the door!!

I really think he knows something is up, and he wants to make sure I don’t forget him. As if I ever would.

Further update: Guess where he was when I looked out the window this morning?

In case you have to move sometime in the future – and I dearly hope you don’t, since I love you dearly – here’s how to do it the nouveau pauvre way.

Craigslist is key. Since you all know that much of my life is brought to me courtesy of Craigslist, you won’t be surprised to learn that it’s where I turned to first. I got all the boxes and bubble wrap (which is surprisingly expensive when you buy it new) for free from people who were unwise enough to move to Oakland. One guy moved here from Boston, and it was really hard not to tell him what a huge error in judgment he’d made. He’ll find out for himself. He’ll probably be looking for moving boxes on Craigslist himself within the year.

Save up your newspapers to pad the valuables and to cushion the items that don’t rate bubble wrap, even free bubble wrap. There’s a definite caste system to my packing. Two hundred year old Wedgwood gets bubble wrap. Dishes from Target get newspaper. Don’t forget to cancel the paper before you move!

Reserve your truck ahead to get the best rate, and don’t be afraid to negotiate. Think of it as an unpaid internship at an embassy. If you can, get your brother to drive it and help you pack it, or a boy who’s trying to impress you. It’s free that way, though reasonably priced Rent-A-Boys are available in select locations.

Around here, it’s Moving (or at least Packing) Eve. I got a kind of fireworks send off by the house across the street being on fire last night (when my camera battery was exhausted and taking a nap, so no visual aids for you, my friends. The camera battery gets exhausted faster than I do.). And this morning, I was awoken by a call from my close personal friends at U-Haul telling me that the truck has to be picked up in Hayward, which is at least a half hour drive from here. Neither the waking up nor the news made me very happy.

I have to remember my sister’s wise advice: “Don’t worry about all this. You just pay it for it twice that way.” She also pointed out that our brother will be with me every step of the way, so how bad can it be? He is, after all, an incredible Number One Groover on Life.

I love my family.

It’s simply tipping it down outside, as my late, great stepmother used to say, in her rich, plummy voice. It’s giving me flashbacks of the Highway to Hell last week. Just looking at the car is making me nervous.

The girls are trapped in the house, and Henry is the King of the Porch again. It warms my Grinchy little heart whenever I peek out of my bedroom window and see him all curled up on his cozy bed, fast asleep as the rain beats at the windows. I wonder if he’ll like living in a house?

I hope it doesn’t rain on Wednesday, when we’re packing the truck, or Thursday, when we’re unpacking it. Operation Escape Oakland has been slightly modified. Rob and Jonathan are going to leave Albion before sunrise, and we’ll all troop over to the U-Haul place sometime around 9:00 or 10:00 on Wednesday morning. I’m planning to pick up a couple of rental boys, since Rob is forbidden to lift anything heavier than 20 pounds, and that’s about all I can lift, anyway. Also, there’s my new manicure to consider.

When I went to the U-Haul place on popular murder destination International Boulevard to get a price list a couple of weeks ago, I was swarmed by men before I even got out of the car. You’d have thought I was Megan Fox in a teeny bikini. They were disappointed, because not only did I fail to be a gorgeous starlet, I wasn’t hiring. For a low, low price, they’ll help you pack your truck, mow your lawn, and pretty much any other odd job that isn’t too odd. So I think we’ll pick up a couple when we pick up the truck. Cash for them, help for us. What’s not to love?

Note to self: do not make jokes about what could be in the grandfather clock’s coffiny box, or how heavy it is.

So we’ll pack up on Wednesday, grab dinner at the taqueria, and the boys who are related to me will sleep on an inflatable bed in the living room, and I’ll sleep on my mattress in the empty bedroom, both the pull-out couch and the bed being safely packed in the truck. Then we’ll take off on Thursday morning.

So I’ll come full circle in this house. I started out camping here, waiting for my furniture to be delivered, and I’ll end up camping here, with my furniture in the truck. There’s something poetic about that.

Megan (center) at the protest today.

My sister is.

Her week started with the usual twelve-hour night shifts from Monday through Wednesday. On Thursday, she took her husband to Ukiah for a medical appointment, a four hour trip. On Friday, they went to Willits (home of Seabiscuit!), another long drive, to see the neurosurgeon and determine if Rob’s spine has fused properly (thank goodness, it has) after his surgery earlier this year. On Saturday, she gave CPR classes all day and then went to the shelter to help in getting the last two available puppies adopted*.

On Sunday, she and several friends drove to Oakland to protest Michael Vick, who was playing his first road game with the Philadelphia Eagles. I planned to join them, but my plans got derailed by work-related matters, so I wasn’t free to go until the protest was over. Imagine my surprise when I checked sfgate.com for coverage and saw my sister extensively quoted!

I immediately called her and was able to read it to her before her cell phone cut out on the long drive back to Albion. She was astonished.

I am incredibly proud of her. She had such a long week, but nothing would stop her from spending eight hours in the car to spend two hours protesting. Pit Bulls of the world, you have a pit bull of your own on your side. And she will never stop fighting until every single one of you is in a safe, loving home.
UPDATE: The story has been picked up by the Associated Press, including the LA Times!

*It’s official: Lu is adopting Harlow! So we can watch her grow up!

Henry was nowhere to be seen when I went out to feed him this morning. I called him and called him, but he didn’t appear. I could have alerted the TV networks, but decided to go and pack some more and then look for him again. While I packed, I worried about not being able to find him on Wednesday. My plan was to lure him onto the screened-in porch with food in the morning, so he can stay there while we’re packing up the truck, but what if he isn’t there to be lured?

Henry was lying on his bed as if nothing had happened when I went to look for him again. He gave me a hushed meow of acknowledgement, but didn’t bother to get up. Cats need their beauty sleep, after all. I think I’ll try and get him onto the porch on Tuesday and just keep him there with his food and a litter box until my brother can wrestle him into his carrying case on Wednesday.

He’ll have to get used to the litter box in the short term anyway, since all three cats will have to stay inside for the first few days after we move so they know it’s their house. After that, I’ll let them all out and hope for the best. I’m planning to bring them in at night, but they may have ideas of their own.

At night I lie in bed and fret about things like whether the cats will fight all the time and hate each other, or how on earth I’ll get rid of all the boxes after I unpack, or whether I should buy a bunch of bottled water for my moving crew instead of having glasses to wash up and pack after we’re all done. These minor details which are probably making you laugh are making me sleepless.

I haven’t heard back from the people I risked life and limb to interview with, and since they said they’d decide by the end of the week, I’m thinking that no answer is a no. Looking for a job in the midst of moving really does add to a girl’s stress.

When the day’s packing is through and I’ve washed my ink-stained hands, I settle back with a glass or two of wine and an episode of Columbo. They are intriguing enough to keep my mind – or at least the surface of it – off my worries, but are delightfully lacking in the graphic grossness of the CSI franchise or the sadness of the Law & Orders, which make me despair of humanity much of the time. Also, they were shot in sunny LA in the early 1970s, and I have never much enjoyed the present. And then there’s the considerable charm of Peter Falk. I smile every time he introduces himself as “from the police”.

I’ve had to cancel all my Oakland library holds and return all the books I had checked out. So I’ve been digging in The Boxes for escapism. I can only read children’s books (Edward Eager*, E.L. Konigsburg, and Zilpha Keatley Snyder) and light fiction (Barbara Pym, Peter Mayle, and Miss Read). I can’t wait to get a library card when I move, and I have a list of books to request when I do. That’s a happy thought for sleepless nights. Or any time of day.

*Megan just bought Jessica her first Edward Eager! Also some of the delightful Great Brain series. She’s reading at a fourth grade level at the age of six.

If you look carefully through the plum tree, you can see the remains of Oxycotin Girl’s former abode. The destruction started a few days ago, when I thought they were merely replacing the roof. But after peeling off the roof, they started to tear down the supports, and are now slowly tearing down the walls. Surely there must be a faster way of razing a house? I can’t tell you how hard it is on a girl’s few remaining nerves to hear nails being wrenched out of boards (squeeakkk!) for hours on end, then hammering and sawing on walls. It’s a discordant symphony.

With the Destructo Symphony in the background, I packed up a few more boxes. I never thought I’d say this, but I’m running out of newspapers. I’ve been saving them up for this very purpose, but like all people who move, I discovered that I underestimated the amount of things I have – despite the fact that I packed and unpacked them less than two years ago.

Slow learner, I guess.

One thing I did learn was the reason for the demise of the American newspaper. It’s simple: the newsprint comes off on your hands. By the time I had packed up my champagne glasses, decanters, and the heirloom Wedgwood salad bowl and biscuit jar, my hands were black. Even my Sweet Heart nails were smudged. I had made the mistake of scratching my nose and pushing my hair back, so I looked like a pre-Prince Cinderella. How do these folks expect people to read the paper on the way to work and arrive in a presentable state?

My dear friend the Lipstick Gardener sent me a gift certificate to a day spa. It was an un-birthday present, which we all know is the best kind. I saved it for a couple of months, savoring the pleasure of knowing I could use it any time I wanted. I perused the web site, deciding how to get the most luxury for the money (and deciding what I’d get if money were no object – how I’d love to say that and mean it!).

But time was running out, so I figured I’d better use it before I move to Hooterville next week. I booked a mani/pedi, and set off this morning for my date with primping. It was a perfectly sunny day, and it was hard to believe that just two days ago there was a mini typhoon here. I enjoyed driving on dry pavements more than I ever thought possible.

I thoroughly enjoyed being buffed and polished. I had a heated buckwheat and lavender filled pillow on my shoulders to relax me as I was prettified, and Ella Fitzgerald and Billie Holiday sang to me as I was sugar scrubbed and painted. My toes are now OPI Maliblue, a sort of iridescent blue that changes colors in the sun and has a subtle sparkliness, and my fingers are OPI Sweet Heart, a discreet, yet shiny neutral. I love it when cosmetics have names instead of numbers. It’s much more fun to be Maliblue than, say, number 42. Sometimes I think that Cosmetic Namer would be one of the most fun jobs ever. I bet I’d be good at it, too.

My mental state is as improved as my feet and hands. I wonder if it’s too late to add a proviso to the health care bill to entitle us girls to mani/pedis twice a year or so, and massages all around? We’d all be prettier and more relaxed, so we’d be happier. And isn’t happier always healthier?

My timing really is excellent – I was driving through the worst October storm in nearly 50 years. Oakland got four inches of rain yesterday, or 20% of what we usually get in an entire year.

Yikes.

I’m not going near the car today. I imagine it’s sighing with relief at being safe and sound in its own driveway again.

As I write, the sunny day is indeed chasing the clouds away, and yesterday seems like a bad dream. Tomorrow I will have to brave 580 again, but for the best of reasons: a free mani-pedi. Yes!! A friend sent me a surprise gift certificate for a surprisingly generous amount at a local day spa. I’d been saving it for a rainy day, but it doesn’t get much rainier than it did yesterday, and I should definitely use it before I move to Hooterville.

I have such great friends.

Stormy weather

Wow! That was intense!

I must have aged ten years on the drive home today. Jessica will be even less complimentary the next time she compares the original to my decade-old driver’s license picture.

I was the most worried about Highway 128, whose curves make Marilyn look like Audrey Hepburn. It turns out that was the fun part. Both 101 and 580 were full of trucks whooshing by, or hanging out in front of me, so I was blinded by the mist in the their wake (is there a term for this?) half the time. Add in torrential rains, gale-force winds, a few flooded lanes, and people driving without their lights on, and you have a hell-a-palooza on your hands.

My Mouse must have been working overtime and wishing I brought its twin.

According to the radio, 280 was partly closed due to flooding, and 101 south of San Francisco was also flooded, backing up traffic for miles. About ten minutes after I passed Philo, I heard that a car had driven into a tree which had fallen across the road there.

I have never been so happy to see Oakland in my life.

As for the interview, also known as the stress-free part of the trip, I think it went well. One of the interviewers worked with Megan at the hospital for several years, so that was a point in my favor. She also remembered my mother’s long, painful illness and was really sweet about it. That’s a small town for you!

They are supposed to decide by the end of the week. If they make me an offer, I don’t know how I can fit it in with my current job, especially since they want someone 5 hours a day, 5 days a week. I’m not too happy at the the thought of driving all that way every day, but they do offer medical benefits and it seems like a great place to work. And if they don’t make me an offer, I’ll be all huffy because they don’t want me.

My father traveled a lot for work*. When we were kids, we used to compete to see who could spot Dad first when we picked him up at the airport**. I can still see him, in his characteristic navy blue raincoat, his eyes lighting up when he saw us.

My sister is considerably younger than my brother (6 years) and me (9), and she took a less blasé view of these comings and goings. Being Megan, she decided to do something about her concerns.

I believe she was about five at the time she made her first Mouse. It had a fuzzy front with googly eyes and a pink felt nose (hmm, mine seems to be missing its nose), which matched its pink felt backing. There was a tail, and a bobby pin, so the Mouse could be secured inside a pocket. I think she figured that if Dad had something she made with him, he’d always find his way home safely.

The Mice never failed him.

Now, Dad was a fatalist when it came to flying. He figured there was no point in worrying about it. If it crashes, you’re dead. If not, you wasted hours of your (apparently precious, or you wouldn’t be worrying) life fretting over nothing. “Have a drink and hope for the best” was his motto.

Having said that, though, he always took a Mouse with him when he traveled. There were One Mouse and Two Mouse trips. Twos were long haul: London to San Francisco, for example. Ones were things like taking the train from London to Paris.

As I got older and started to travel more, my sister made me my own pair of Mice. I used to carry them in my pocket, but girls’ clothes are frequently pocket deprived, so I had to come up with an alternative. Let’s just say I keep my Mice close to my heart. They have never let me down, either, in spite of my dislike of flying.

I’m driving up north today instead of yesterday, and I hope I make it on time. It’s a One Mouse trip, I hope. I’ve never had a Mouse at a job interview, but I’m guessing that its power will be as effective there as it is on the road or in the air. I feel like I have a secret weapon.

*Although technically retired, he still did. He was scheduled to chair an OECD meeting just weeks after his death. He loved his work. He used to say he’d work for free!
**Back in the halcyon days when you could meet your friends and family at the gate.

Being the Halloween Fairy takes practice.

Also blah.

So I have a job interview on Monday. It’s the first one I’ve had in nearly twenty years*. I suppose I should be glad that I haven’t had more interviewing experience, but on the other hand, I haven’t had more interviewing experience.

The interview is also 180 miles away.

I figured I’d go first thing on Sunday, so I could hang out with the sibs and play with the puppy, but no. The landlord** is showing the house again between 1:00 and 2:00 on Sunday, and she’s such a flake that I know she’ll let the kitties out and not be able to catch them. So I’ll have to stay here uncomfortably while strangers inspect my chaotic house and bad housekeeping and closet contents, and then spend four hours driving north. Hopefully I’ll get there before dark.

The interview is scheduled for 2:00 on Monday. I was thinking of driving back afterwards, but I realized that if I leave Fort Bragg around 3:00, I’d hit Santa Rosa at rush hour, and be immersed in rush hour the rest of the way home. So I think I’ll stay overnight, and have coffee with my sister when she comes home from work at 7:00 in the morning, and then head home. All this before moving next week.

To make it even more fun, there’s a storm advisory for Monday afternoon through Wednesday, so I’ll get to drive home in pouring rains and high winds.

Good times.

On the bright side, I’ll have an excellent Halloween weekend. Lu is giving a party on Friday, then I’l be part of Jessica’s Halloween entourage on Saturday (she might be a Halloween fairy), and Sunday we’ll be celebrating the Day of the Dead with Mark and Citlali and their family.

*In case you’re wondering how I performed this amazing feat, it’s because the two jobs I had before this one were temp to hire, and then my boss just called me and asked if I’d like to work with him again (we had worked together for years at my previous job). So no interview required. There’s a lot to be said for temp to hire, since you find out what the job actually is and who your coworkers really are before you commit.
**I told her about the water bill, and she just said “Oh.” That was it.

Henry on the front steps

When I talk on the phone, I always pace. Since the house is small, and clogged with boxes, I usually walk up and down the sidewalk in front of my house. Lately, Henry’s been following me on these meanders, meowing his harsh, yet muted meow. I’m not sure what he wants, but maybe pacing annoys cats, since Audrey tends to bat the blinds and mew loudly when I do so. Not that it stops me.

Yesterday, I finished a call and went back in the house. A few minutes later, I noticed both June and Audrey were at the front door, staring out with their tails switching back and forth. I went over to see what was so fascinating, and there was Henry, sitting on the steps. He has never done this before.

I wonder if he knows I’m moving and wants to make sure I don’t forget him.

I may be a crazy cat lady*, but I think animals pick up on our emotions and changes in our patterns of behavior.

Many years ago, when my brother moved, he was almost finished packing up the truck when Jed the Wonder Dog started trotting into the surrounding woods and appearing with a ball in her mouth. She dropped the ball by the truck, and went back into the woods. When she had collected all her balls, she sat beside the pile, looking up at my brother and wagging her tail. It was as if she was trying to say, “You’re bringing your stuff, and I’m bringing mine.”

*And it’s only going to get worse. Rose and James’s cat, Gertie, can’t understand that they’re gone, so she spends a lot of her day at their old house/my new house. I’m not sure if she’ll flee in horror at the invasion or stand her ground. Then there’s Fiona, who lives nearby with Rose’s daughter Catherine, but comes over whenever she feels like it. So instead of two and a half cats, I’ll have three and two fractions. I think that’s definitely crazy cat lady territory.

They say that geniuses are seldom found behind bars, but they are in the the Apple stores.

Tech tard that I am, I was having problems transitioning my new email address to my Mail program (I hate webmail), along with a couple of other things I wanted to have fixed before I vanish into obscurity. So I made an appointment at the Apple store in Emeryville to get things fixed.

The Apple store was bustling, and I was glad that I had made an appointment, since those who hadn’t were being turned away in droves. As I waited, I had time to admire all the shiny new products, and think how nice it would be to have a wafer thin MacBook Air, or a shiny silver PowerBook. I have to admit that my iBook looks a little dingy next to the new kids on the block.

My problems were fixed in an embarrassingly short time. If they weren’t so busy, they’d probably have laughed at me. One more thing to cross off the To Do list.

Meanwhile, another girl was having the opposite experience.

The satellite internet was scheduled to be set up at my new house this afternoon. Instead, they called my sister yesterday morning, just as she was drifting off to sleep after the third of her twelve hour night shifts was over for the week. They told her that they’d be there in two hours. She designated her husband to deal with it, and went back to sleep.

When the installer showed up, he informed my brother-in-law that he’d need to install a pole and embed it in concrete to hold the satellite dish. He said that they’d have to pay for that up front, since the pole person was an independent contractor and not part of the internet company. Note that they did not mention this when the appointment was booked, or two hours earlier when they called to say they were en route.

Fortunately, Rob figured out a way to fasten the dish to the roof (where there is already a dish for the TV, so what’s up with the whole pole thing?). However, the installers did not bring a modem or router, so who knows if it even works. All that annoyance for nearly nothing.

I have a call in to our IT person about it, and it looks like I’m heading up there for a couple of days next week, so hopefully I can get it all straightened out before Moving Day. Less than two weeks away!

Dear June and Audrey,

You are more than two years old now, so you are practically grown up. Since there seem to be no cat boarding schools or nannies available, it falls to me to explain a few things to you which will hopefully make our lives together more harmonious.

Clanging the blinds behind the bed in the morning will not persuade me to feed you immediately. If anything, it makes me annoyed, and I want to make you wait a few extra minutes. And when I do feed you, milling around underfoot slows down the process rather than speeding it up, and also puts your paws and tails at risk of being stepped on.

Racing around the house and breaking things, particularly full glasses of water, does not endear you to me. Nor does clanging the blinds and meowing loudly when I’m on the phone. I also happen to dislike having the bed skirt clawed, whether I am in or out of bed. Same goes for the thick wool rug in the living room. And the washing machine beside the litter box. Have you ever noticed that clawing the metal not only creates a shrieking noise, which should be as unpleasing to the feline ear as it is to the human, but completely fails to cover up the poo? That’s what the litter is for. Litter. Box. Get it?

Speaking of litter boxes, the bathroom is mine, and I’m not a big fan of you squeezing onto the tank behind me, destroying the roll of toilet paper, or playing with toiletries in a vain attempt to speed up the feeding process, or just because you’re bored and there’s nothing to do. You wouldn’t enjoy it if I invaded the privacy of your litter box, so let’s go for some reciprocity here, ‘k?

In a couple of weeks, we’ll all be moving to the country. The good news for you: you can play outside to your hearts’ content, and hopefully burn off some of that naughtiness energy. The good news for me: I won’t have to worry about your escaping or search for you with a flashlight and treats while trying not to scream. The less good news: Henry is coming with us, and you’ll have to share the house and garden with him. And there will probably be some visitors, like the elderly cat who used to live in our new house, and a tame deer. Given how good you girls are at adjusting to changes, and your friendly, outgoing natures, I’m sure you’ll adapt beautifully. And I’ll always be there to help you and keep you safe.

Love,

Your Girl

Well, the lawnlord never did stop by yesterday, so my diatribe on the evils of lawns and water bills remains undelivered. I used the energy to take my things out of the shed, where I discovered yet another Box. Is someone trying to gaslight me? I dragged it into the driveway, and in the bright light of day, its mildewed and smushed condition was immediately apparent. It looked like my soul would, if I had one.

Sighing, I dug into the paper. It was, not surprisingly, full of crap. What else would you expect? They say one man’s trash is another man’s treasure, but for me, the reverse seems to be true. The treasures have mostly turned out to be trash, at least as far as monetary value goes. Having said that, though, it warms my Grinchy heart every time I see my grandmother’s copper Liberty Bell Jell-O mold hanging on the wall of Erica’s store.

The box contained ugly vases; mysterious plates hysterical with cut glass patterns, too small for any use I could think of; a seemingly endless supply of saucers, mostly cracked and/or glued back together, all of them without cups; and the things I kept.

Above, you’ll see a glass platter with pictures of Presidents Grant, Washington, and Lincoln, with “In Remembrance” in big letters. A ribbon below the Presidents says “God Reigns; Charity First; Liberty for All”. I have no idea what it’s for, but it’s so cool I had to keep it. I also kept a relish tray in clear glass, patterned with raspberries and leaves. My grandmother used it for celery and olives at Thanksgiving (I don’t remember relish trays being used on any other occasion, but maybe they were). I also kept an aquamarine medicine bottle, and a matched set of amber bottles with “Otis Clapp & Sons” in raised letters. The unfortunately named Mssrs Clapp are, remarkably, still in business.

I placed the rejects in a box by the curb, and they were gone within the hour. How’s that for recycling? Who knew that cracked china and orphaned saucers had such a hot market?

I felt a passing pang of pity for my heirs, who will not inherit any treasures, at least from me, though they will get more trash than they’ll know what to do with. I picture them sitting amidst the wreckage, wondering what the hell I could possibly have wanted with the entire series of Dr. Dolittle books, or all those vinyl albums, or all those lipsticks. I guess what each generation really bequeaths to the next is the task of going through their stuff. Kids, I’ll make sure to leave you a few good bottles of wine to make the task easier. To paraphrase my father, I hope you’ll raise a glass to me and say “The old girl wasn’t so bad”.

My landlords showed the house yesterday, even though it’s a total mess. Boxes are everywhere, and things to be packed or sorted or otherwise disposed of are piled up all over the place, making it seem even smaller than it already is. I haven’t been particularly diligent about housekeeping in the face of chaos, either, so it’s going to take a remarkably imaginative potential renter to see the potential. Given all the potential buyers on HGTV shows who can’t look past ugly furniture (which will leave with the sellers), lurid paint jobs (which can easily be changed) or shag carpeting (ditto), it seems a waste of time all the way around, but who am I to say?

One thing I need to tell them is that the water bill is now insane. I am using three times as much water as I did this time last year: 9,700 gallons vs. 3,400, and I’m appalled. Not just because of the increased cost, but because of the horrifying waste of resources in an almost perpetually drought-ridden state. Having a lawn where it doesn’t rain nine months of the year is just wrong.

To add insult to injury, the lawn looks like complete shit, Ferris. In keeping with their lame ideas of maintenance*, they just seeded the dead-looking parts and added the sprinkler, instead of tearing out the whole thing, grading it properly, and re-seeding it. Now it’s just clumpy, with several different kinds and textures of grass, liberally sprinkled with weeds, and still has dead blotches. Honestly, it would look better if they just paved it over. Needless to say, they disregarded my plea for replacing the whole mess with native plants and drought-toleramt ground cover.

I finally emailed her earlier in the week and asked her as nicely as I could to let me know when she was showing the house and when she was planning to stop by. I’ve had it with the surprise attacks. So she did tell me she was coming yesterday and is stopping by today, though no time was specified.

It was unnerving to wait around while she showed the house to people. I had to be there to make sure the cats didn’t get outside, but I kind of didn’t know what to do with myself as total strangers peered in my closets and judged my lack of housekeeping expertise. I wish I could move right now!

*None of the kitchen cupboards close properly, because the hinges are too big; none of the doors other than the front and back close; the bathtub taps don’t work; the doorbell doesn’t work; some of the windows don’t open…

The girls were hard at work last night.

Hmmm. I seem to have a Paul Simon theme going on here lately.

When June and Audrey were kittens, one of their favorite tricks was unrolling the toilet paper, shredding it, and leaving it draped around the room like a punk wedding gown train. I stored the toilet paper in the cupboard under the sink, which was not particularly convenient, but was more convenient than replacing the roll every day.

Getting the house ready for public viewing, I decided to put the toilet paper back on the roll. I figured that the girls were old enough now, at more than two years, to leave the toilet paper alone. They deceived me by leaving it alone for a few days, and then I woke up to the above this morning. Surprise!

But it’s hard to believe their super powers of super naughtiness when they look like Audrey does here:

While packing yesterday, I heard June playing with something clacky. It turned out to be a toy tiara, about an inch long:

I have no idea where it came from. Maybe whoever lived here before me had a well-accessorized Barbie. I wished I could put it on June’s head and take a picture. She’s a beauty queen if I ever saw one. But she’s also impatient with my nonsense, so she ran off, shaking her head at my silliness, to find trouble somewhere else.

My car registration was due (almost $100 for the ennui/horror combo that is driving in California), and had a little love note on it saying that I had to have the car smogged, too. This was mysterious to me, since I bought the car less than two years ago.

I called my brother, who is my source for all things vehicular (also science-y), and he said that as far as he knows, you only have to do it when you buy the car.

Hmmm.

I figured it would be much easier to go to the DMV in Fort Bragg than it is in Oakland, and as usual, I was right*. Instead of a miles long line full of despairing people yelling into their cellphones and/or swatting their kids, there was one guy ahead of me and the whole thing, including waiting for the guy to be finished, took about ten minutes.

I also needed to change my address, and it was the perfect time to do it, because it turns out that if I stayed in Oakland, I would have had to pay to smog the car before they’d renew my registration. As if it’s not bad enough that it costs $45 to fill the car and the registration is nearly $100. Apparently, the rule is that in places with grubby air, like Oakland, you have to get your car smogged every year and a half, but in places with clean air, like Albion, you get a free pass. Another good reason to move!

On our way home, my sister amused me with Tales from the Ambulance. Today’s chapter: Ambulance Abuse.
Example One: A diabetic guy who lived in Mendocino and had a girlfriend in Fort Bragg but no car repeatedly called the ambulance, faked a diabetic episode, and when the ambulance arrived at the hospital, hopped out and took off for his lady’s lair. Free taxi! Well, he called a cab one too many times, and the EMTs cut his clothes off and dumped him in the parking lot wearing only a gown.
He never called 911 again.
Example Two: A woman felt she had been waiting too long in the Emergency Room waiting room. She went home, called 911, and the ambulance picked her up. When you arrive by ambulance, the EMTs take you straight to a room, bypassing the waiting room completely. It’s basically the VIP treatment. So her bad behavior was rewarded.
Can you believe it?

*Also, no-one stole anything out of the car in the DMV parking lot in Fort Bragg, unlike the time someone stole my GPS out of my car at the Oakland DMV. They also took a pack of matches and a pen. Somehow, stealing the pen bothered me more than the GPS. I mean, you couldn’t even leave me the pen?