Suzy Says

A combination of talent and necessity has made my sister an excellent cook. I complain about the lack of decent take out and delivery in Oakland, but she has no delivery at all, the nearest Pizza Hut being a 40 minute drive away, and no edible take-out if she did make the drive (Pizza Hut and Mickey D’s being pretty much the culinary limits, though there are really good sit-down restaurants). So whenever I’m there, the food is always great, and it’s all the better for not being made by Me.

When we got home from the cemetery, she made pizza dough and set it to rise in the sun in her garden. Of course, she had a supply of tomato sauce on hand, along with spicy garlic and lipstick peppers from last week’s farmer’s market, as well as locally made sausage. It seemed to take her no time at all to make calzones for dinner (and a few extra for her lunch during the week), along with baby lettuces and balsamic vinaigrette. Dinner was served, along with organic local wine. My brother-in-law did the dishes while we girls talked and giggled as only sisters can.

Late that night, I emerged from the bliss of quilts to offload some of the wine. At this point, I have to explain that to get to my sister’s bathroom, you go out the front door onto the porch, which has a roof (good in winter) and beautiful plants (good all year). Turn left, pass the Hippies Use Side Door sign, and you’re at the bathroom door. Inside, there’s a skylight over the shower, which is decorated with a unique and gorgeous mosaic pattern, along with the usual appointments.

Imagine my surprise when I grabbed the doorknob and found it to be slimy. And gushy. And gross. I pulled my hand away in horror and examined the doorknob. A banana slug was curled around it, minding its own business and completely grossing me out.

Hmm.

It was around 1 am. I seriously considered waking up my brother-in-law, but I knew that would wake up my sister, and neither of us would enjoy that. (Later my BIL admitted that he heard me squeal and just giggled and went back to sleep.) I finally decided that now was as good a time as any to act like a grown-up, so I got a wine bottle out of the recycling and used the neck to poke it off the doorknob. Ick.

However, I neglected to wipe off the doorknob before turning it, so I got slimed all over again. Beginning to see a theme here with the slow learning?

I had never encountered this particular form of wildlife before (nor do I hope to again), but apparently it’s so common that there is a Banana Slug for Peace float in the local Fourth of July Parade (thanks to Meloukhia for the visual). Trust me, they are much cuter in float form than wrapped around a doorknob late at night.

After lunch, my sister suggested that we take Schatzi and explore the Little River Cemetery. It’s a charming place, and though we’ve both driven by it many times, neither of us has ever stopped to pay our respects. I always enjoy walking around graveyards, especially very old ones in England or the fascinating Sleepy Hollow Cemetery which I visited* a couple of years ago.

Still in my unsensible sandals, but with the addition of sunscreen, we loaded the dog into the car and were on our way.

We crossed over the Albion Bridge (fun fact: it’s the only wooden bridge still in use on the entire 655 miles of Highway 1) and were soon at the cemetery. With Schatzi respectfully on her leash, we wandered the grounds. The graves date back to the 1800s, and the most recent we saw was from 2005. There was also one for a couple, with only the birth date for one spouse. That’s planning ahead.

An elaborate monument honors the brief lives of one family’s five children. I don’t know if any of the others grew up, but it must have been devastating. The twins who died a month apart at the age of four or so were heart-breaking, too.

Back then, the style was to say how many years, months and days old a person was, whether they were 6 or 60. Lambs were a popular motif for children; adults had clasped hands, roses, or weeping willows. I liked the epitaph “Lost from sight, but alive in memory”.

Again my footwear was problematic, since the area is apparently extremely popular among gophers. There were dusty holes all over, and once my foot even sank into the grass far enough to be disturbing.

You’d never guess it from the road, but behind the cemetery is a path which leads through the woods to the rocky cliffs overlooking the ocean. The path passes an intriguing sort of bowl, 80 feet deep or so. The bottom is sand, and you can see a cave or tunnel leading to the ocean and stained with salt water. You can also hear the ocean, but the water doesn’t seem to come in. Mysterious…

The forest is magical and hushed and you wouldn’t be surprised to see dinosaurs come crashing through it. Unfortunately, we had to keep to the path since it was poison oak central, but it was amazing. We could look through the clearing to the silvery ocean and its rough black rocks, the waves crashing and the wind blowing through the trees, bowed by decades of past storms.

You’re probably wondering where the visual aids are, and indeed, my ancient camera is full of photos which would show you what I mean. However, the camera is on strike, hopefully temporarily. I’m planning to take it to the Apple store and see if one of the Geniuses behind the Bar can manage to extract the photos for me. I’ll keep you posted (and keep posting) in the meantime.

*Cool photo, if I say so myself.

I’m back!! With a sunburn, assorted bug bites, a box of farm-fresh produce, a brand-new haircut, and a slightly better understanding of what constitutes sensible footwear. At least in the country.

Summer’s been showing me who’s boss for the past couple of weeks. No matter how much I tell it that it’s won, it won’t let up. It’s definitely one of your more stubborn seasons (winter being the other). So I’ve been keeping the blinds closed and wearing sandals every day for so long that I’ve stopped thinking about it. When I packed for my country visit, it never crossed my heat-struck mind to bring sneakers or boots.

I would soon realize my mistake. Others would follow…

My brother has moved onto the property he and our sister are buying, just down the road from her house. It’s thirty pristine acres, five miles from the coast, so it’s sunny there when it’s foggy by the ocean. He moved our mother’s trailer there, took out the carpeting and the old couch, replaced the floor, hooked up solar panels to power the generator so there’s electric light, the refrigerator runs, and even has internet access. My sister and I stopped by before taking her adorable and adored dog Schatzi for a walk/stroll/run (depending on participant) on the property.

I was multi-tasking, because I had to run a report for work. I hooked up my iBook to my brother’s satellite dish ethernet (don’t ask me how it works), started the report, and took off with Megan and the dog while it processed.

It soon became apparent that sandals were not the best choice for walking along a dusty, rocky, unpaved road. Later, it turned out that having your hair up in the blazing sun for over an hour makes you an instant redneck. Just add a beer and a tube top and you’re ready for NASCAR!

When we came back from the walk, the report was ready, and I emailed it to my boss. It’s kind of magical to be able to do that in the middle of nowhere. Shortly after that, he called my cellphone from Detroit, and I was thinking that you couldn’t get much different than each end of the phone: me in a meadow bordered by redwoods; my boss in downtown Detroit. Would have made for a great split screen in a movie.

Up next: cemetery stroll and the attack of the late night banana slug!

The last of the backyard plums, June 24.

Wow, guys. I can’t believe that not one of you wanted to trade with me, even for a weekend. And here I was, thinking I might have missed my calling by not becoming a professional writer of real estate ads.

See if this* changes your mind!

In the meantime, I’m going to visit my brother and sister for a few days, where the dogs don’t bark, the doors don’t lock, and you leave your car keys in the ignition, so you know where they are. It will be a budget adventure, since I’m catching a ride with one friend on the way up and one with Jessica and her mother on the way back. Plans include walking dogs at the local shelter and visiting the farmer’s market.

Maybe we’ll get lucky on the way up. When i think of how many times I’ve driven that stretch of road…

*I did find the pronunciation of “Oakland” pretty funny. Also it’s totally true about Zachary’s. People go nuts about it, yet I personally found it to be on the icky side. Actually, the whole movie is pretty much true – I laughed out loud when I watched it.

I finally managed to retrieve the photos from my ancient camera using a new cable. You can now enjoy a couple of pictures of Jessica from a couple of months ago.

One with a rose as big as her head:

And one with a friend and her little black kitten:

And of course, one of the kitten herself:

Since a summer vacation is out of the question, I thought I’d try a new concept: Life Swap. You get to be Me, and I get to be you. It’s a limited time offer, though I’m sorry to say you won’t get a free gift* if you call now.

Here’s what you’d get:

• Bijou residence in East Oakhampton. Conveniently located near the BART station of death, Highland Hospital (last stop for most local gunshot victims), and popular homicide locale International Boulevard.
• Three gas stations within one block. Only $40 to fill up a Ford Taurus at any given one of them! You can also buy milk there if you are so inclined.
• Walking (or staggering) distance to the liquor store and cracketeria.
• Friendly locals who come right up to your house and take that unwanted recycling or trash right out of your bins!
• Other friendly locals who try to convert you to their extremely unusual religions.
• Front row seat to minor crimes and misdemeanors, such as neighbors dousing themselves with gasoline and others burning stolen cars.
• Convenient freeway underpass where old sofas and other refuse that doesn’t fit in the bins can be easily dumped.
• None of that horrible, un-green air conditioning. “Awesome” cross breeze according to landlord, though so far, it seems as likely to appear as the Loch Ness Monster.
• The world’s cutest and naughtiest kittens. Adorable and challenging! Also slightly grumpy, stray-ish outdoor cat who might possibly tolerate your presence as long as you bring him food and water once a day. Occasional treats are welcomed by all.
• Unlimited trips to the library and the Safeway.
• All the barking dogs your heart could ever desire.

Any takers?

*Because, you know, you usually have to pay for gifts. That’s why they call them “gifts”.

It must have been kind of weird for Canadians to celebrate Canada Day in the middle of the week. Have a day off, then go back to work! Don’t celebrate too enthusiastically or try and go anywhere too far away, and forget about that long weekend.

Here Independence Day is on Saturday, which is also kind of weird. Most off us have the day off anyway, and not everyone got Friday off (I know I didn’t). Garbage was collected (lucky us, compared to the striking Toronto), but there was no mail. The library is closed today, but I’m not sure yet if there will be mail. The air has been full of barbecue smoke for the past couple of days, and last night there were ad hoc and possibly illegal fireworks here in the ‘hood.

Back when fireworks were legal, the Glorious Fourth was celebrated with style at the Hellman family’s mansion (now known as Dunsmuir House), right here in Oaktown. In 1916, Mr. Hellman spent the equivalent of $2,300 in today’s dollars on fireworks, with the alluring names of Silver Fountains, Dragon Nests, and Diamond Mines. The family hosted their friends at a day-long party, culminating in a formal, candlelit dinner, the fabulous fireworks display, and a dance in the carriage house.

Those were indeed the days.

I stopped in at the (un)Lucky after depositing my paycheck at a nearby bank. It was around 6:00, so the lines were long. I should have known better, and I did, but I wanted to pick up a bottle of wine, and Lucky is less expensive than the liquor store and cracketeria (though no-one at Lucky has ever given me free incense).

As I waited my turn, I couldn’t help but notice that the guy in front of me was buying forty cans of cat food. Nothing else. I pondered his imminent purchase and whether he had a house full of cats or was, horror of horrors, planning to eat it himself. Later, I gave the girls and Henry some canned food for their birthday dinner (I decided Henry will celebrate his birthday along with the girls from now on, though I have no idea how old he is), and all I can say is, if he’s going to eat it, he’s a braver man than I’ll ever be. Just dishing it out for the girls and carrying it outside to Henry made me nauseous. ~shudder~

My thoughts drifted from the cat guy’s possible dietary habits to other aimless notions. Am I the only one who’s sick of hearing about Michael Jackson? Why did the Other SJP name one of her twins Marion when Marion Broderick is so clearly an old maid librarian name? Did Karl Malden ever read the fan letter I sent him? When’s the last time I actually left California?

It was finally my turn, and as I bought my wine, I thought that someone stocking up on food for his beloved cats might think a girl just buying wine was just a little odd.

Quince with two of her seven babies: Audrey (behind) and June (front)

The kittens turn Terrible Two today! They are two weeks old in this picture, and their mother was around nine months old. My neighbor, the wonderful and compassionate P, had finally managed to lure the cat close enough to cut off the flea collar which was nearly choking her. P had seen the young cat around all through the winter, but she had shied away. By the time P got the newly named Quince’s trust, the cat was already pregnant.

P valiantly looked after Quince and the kittens, who were born on her tax returns. All seven survived and found happy homes, ranging from a musician in a bohemian neighborhood to an adoring fashionista in a fancy one. Quince and P have been living happily ever after, and June and Audrey have been living naughtily ever after. For all my complaining about them, I don’t know what I’d do without my beautiful girls.

*Italian for “naughty”. The fact that it contains the word “cat” and mine have been so naughty lately made me think of it. My niece is celebrating her birthday today in Italy (not that she’s naughty, of course – she’s completely wonderful) and I’m reading Bill Buford’s delightful memoir “Heat”, which is set in Italian restaurants, so I kind of have Italy on my mind right now.

I always have a hard time getting to sleep when I know I have to get up early the following day, yet I have an amazing ability to be able to sleep right when the alarm goes off (like most of my few talents, this is not a lucrative one). Somehow, once I’m yanked out of sleep by the tyrannical peeping of the clock, the pillows are in just the right position and the bed is a haven of comfort and bliss instead of the arena of insomnia it was just a few short hours earlier. Maybe I should try setting the alarm to go off at bed time.

This morning, however, I had an awakening ruder than the alarm clock. And to add insult to injury, it was before the alarm was set to do so, robbing me of precious minutes of beauty sleep (and a really good dream about shopping in Paris). A resounding crash, followed by lesser noises, abruptly cancelled the rest of my napping program. I pulled off my Marilyn Monroe sleep mask to find the room basking in the cold, pearly light which means early morning fog. Looking at the clock, I saw that I should have had ten minutes more of unconsciousness – not enough to attempt an encore.

Sighing, I got up to see what the noise was. The kitties were sitting innocently by the closet, looking like they belonged on a sappy greeting card in their fakely innocent cuteness. They had found their way into the closet, knocked the suitcase onto the clackety hardwood floor, and in doing so, crashed the closet door resoundingly against the window frame, topping it off with a few pairs of shoes cascading onto the floor from the shoe rack hung inside the door. I tripped over a lavender suede Manolo Blahnik mule as I shoved the suitcase back into the closet and slammed it shut, scattering kittens across the room.

As I went through the living room on my way to the coffeemaker, I noticed that the paper bag I use to collect newspapers and other recycling was unaccountably on the couch instead of in the kitchen. Not surprisingly, its contents made a little trail from the original location. As I collected them, the alarm went off.

The two brain cells I have left have melted. It’s been mind-numbingly hot yesterday and today, especially in the convection oven known as Chez Suzy. Here’s what I’ve done today:

– Crawl out of sweat-soaked bed. Drink cold coffee. Kind of gross, but better than the alternative of putting something hot into already overheated body.

– Notice that it’s only 10:00 am. Hours of increasing heat to come! Even the cats are too languid to eat much or do much of anything. Audrey walks away from her food completely, though June and Henry are their ever-greedy selves.

– Take cold shower. Begin to feel human. Sensation abruptly departs before towelling-off process is complete.

– Sit by fan in bedroom window and read through materials for tomorrow’s conference calls, making notes of questions to ask. Set alarm for an alarming hour.

– Eat some pineapple juice which I had frozen. Pour more in, put it back in freezer for later attempts at cooling Self from the inside out.

– Douse face, hands and poitrine with cold water. Drink a glass of water. Lie on couch reading The New Yorker and cursing the Evil Star. Consider that a black leather couch was really an extremely poor furnishing choice. Wonder how hot it is in, say, Alaska. Try closing eyes and envisioning glittering snow and sparkling ice bergs.

– Doesn’t work. Get up, repeat frozen juice/water/dousing routine. Pee for approximately the millionth time (all that water, and possibly frozen juice and cold coffee) today. Wish for central air conditioning and the means to run it, preferably at meat locker temperatures.

– Avoid the weather section of the newspaper, on line and otherwise. Ditto the thermostat in the hallway. I really don’t want to know how hot it is, on the grounds that if I see it’s 95 degrees, I will actually feel worse, though I’m not sure this is humanly possible.

– Once again resolve to get that heat-reflecting paint and paint roof with it, assuming 1) I ever have the money to buy paint and roller and whatever else I’ll need to buy to actually do it; 2) I can borrow a ladder from my aged and helpful neighbor W to get up there; 3) I don’t fall off or paint myself into a corner.

– After Routine repetition, take bag of frozen mixed vegetables (how did they get in there?) out of freezer. Flop on couch, apply bag to neck, head, and belly in turn. Consider inventing a freezer sleeping bag, like those eye masks you put in the freezer, only you could slip your entire heat-struck body into it until your core temperature lowers enough for bearability.

– This could be my million dollar idea! Too bad Billy Mays is no longer around to promote it.

– Look at clock. It’s after 5:00. It should start cooling down soon, right? Maybe if I take everything out, I can squeeze myself into the refrigerator in the meantime. The freezer would obviously be better, like all penthouses, though unlike most of them, it’s clearly too small.

– Time to pour some vodka into that pineapple juice.

Friday was finally sunny after weeks of fog and clouds. Though we don’t get rain this time of year, I do find day after day of overcast skies depressing. I don’t know how people who live in notoriously cloudy and rainy locales like Seattle can stand it.

So the sun had definitely lifted my spirits as I made my way home from the bus stop. I picked up a bottle of wine at the liquor store and cracketeria, and admired the fairy-tale white blooms on the trees as I walked down the street (not for the first time, I wished I could rehabilitate my camera and share a picture of them with you – undoubtedly, the garden-savvy could tell me what they were). I was feeling all sunny and careless, as Christopher Robin would say.

When I got home, there were no (overdue) bills in the mail. Yay! I tossed my lovely silver handbag onto the couch, along with my few keys on their adorable Louis Vuitton keychain (one of the few remaining relics of more prosperous days), and looked for the kitties. Instead, I saw my teapot lying smashed on the kitchen floor. No wonder they were nowhere to be seen.

I took a closer look, thinking maybe I could repair it, but no. I picked up the pieces and went to throw them in the garbage bin outside. June took this opportunity to race outside while I was otherwise occupied.

I tossed the former teapot into the newly-emptied garbage bin and started to look for June. At times like this, it’s really hard to sound all nice when calling her. I saw her under the car, and tried to coax her out.

The process was complicated by Henry’s appearance when he heard my voice. He came running up, meowing his harsh, yet muted meow, and June took off. I chased her, and she ran into the yard next door. You know, the one with the TWO DOGS who bark all the livelong day.

She was immediately cornered by the dogs. I couldn’t get in because the gate is locked. I screamed her name and the son of the house appeared, looking quizzical. He soon saw how it was, and kindly captured the terrified June, who repaid him by scratching him horribly, and passed her to her terrified owner, who was horribly embarrassed. He was really nice about it, and to the dogs’ credit, they didn’t try to attack the intruder. They are apparently all bark and no bite.

I was so glad I’d bought a bottle of attitude adjuster on the way home. Little did I know how much I’d need it!

My new-ish (and so far unbroken) red microwave has a voice feature, presumably for those who are microwaving blind. You can turn the voice low, high, or off, and I keep it off, since I’m not a big fan of chatting with appliances or being told what to do by them, other than by Jill*, my GPS. When I was getting ready for work this morning, I heard the microwave announce “Voice low” then “Voice high”. And I was nowhere in the room. Puzzled, I turned it to “Voice off”.

A few days ago, I had a similar experience with the radio. It just came on, even though I was in the bedroom and it was in the kitchen. Suddenly, the house was full of Curtis Mayfield on KISS FM. Even stranger, when I tried to turn it off, it stubbornly refused, possibly wanting me to hear the end of Mr. Mayfield’s song about hell. I had to unplug it.

Ghosts? Short circuits? Who knows?

When I arrived at BART today, I inserted my ticket in the machine to add the extra $6.20 I needed for my round-trip to the city (I spent $38 filling up the car today. I’m not kidding. I will be BART-ing more often, I fear), and it spit it out with disdain. I tried again, but the machine again pushed it back at me, making a distressed (and distressing) binking sound.

I went to see the agent. He said it had been demagnetized (by my magnetic personality?), and gave me the forty cents that was still on the old ticket. Somehow it seemed like extra money, getting it in coins.

Finally at work, I had a meeting with a gentleman whose firm we recently hired to manage some money for one of our clients. His phone buzzed, and it was his wife sending him a text message to say she was going into labor with their first child (it’s a boy!). In Chicago. We cut the meeting short and he hastened to the airport. I hope he makes it on time. It does seem like a good omen, though, for the beginning of something new.

*You can choose different voices for the GPS, and “Jill” is the American woman one. They should really have voices that are more fun, like Cary Grant or Zsa Zsa Gabor, but perhaps it would take them too long to drawl, “Turn left in 300 feet, dahling.”

Lately, I’ve been catching up on the most recent season of Damages. Yes, it ended in April, but I usually wait until a TV series ends, then download it, so I can watch two or three episodes at a time instead of having to wait a week for a new one. Not to mention avoiding commercials, particularly those for boy problems* and girl problems and various syndromes (why is everything a syndrome now?). Patience is not one of my few virtues, so pretty much the only things I watch live are sports and sometimes the news (though I think the news can be summed up nearly every day by saying the messed up parts of the world are still messed up, someone shot someone, and there’s a missing kid somewhere).

Anyway, everyone on “Damages” is spying on or secretly taping everyone else, and I couldn’t help thinking how insanely bored someone would get staking out my house.

“The car hasn’t moved in four days.”

“She’s coming out of the house…oh, she’s picking up the paper and feeding that stray cat.”

“Leaving the house…going to BART. Must be going to work. She never leaves the office except to go straight home.”

“Car heading in different direction from BART. Oh, it’s the Safeway and the library** again. (They’re right across the street from each other.)

“Can anyone’s life really be this boring? It must be a cover.”

*The number of Viagra ads during the last World Series made me wonder if it was a comment on the players, the viewers, or both.

**A guy was found dead outside my library branch a month ago, though I didn’t hear about it at the time.

Ah, a Bay Area summer day. Wrapped in thick, pastel fog as you are wrapped in a thick, pastel sweater. Around 3:00, the sun peeks through, realizes it’s looking at Oakhampton, shuts the curtains again and flees in horror to more salubrious (or glamorous) climes.

So even though it’s well after Memorial Day*, you don’t really feel like it’s time to break out those summer whites just yet. Unless it’s these summer whites:

(Above) Trust Valentino to come up with this wonderfully over the top white patent leather gem. About $1,500.

(Above) This Gucci Joy bag would certainly bring me some. Around $1,000.

(Above) There’s always Chanel. Closer to $3,000.

Or an evening bag that costs about the same as a modest house in many parts of the country. It’s up to you, my well-accessorized friend.

*Does anyone still keep to the rule of not wearing white before Memorial Day or after Labor Day? I suspect not, just as no-one seems to follow the old rule that one is supposed to congratulate the groom and wish the bride good luck, which kind of says it all to me.

Some things never change: June front & center, Audrey wandering off. They are two days old.

The cats’ vocabulary is slightly limited. Now this may be because they aren’t quite two years old yet, and who among us (except possibly Oscar Wilde) can boast that their vocabulary was at all impressive at such an early age? But there are definitely a few important words and phrases they understand.

The girls get fed around 9 am and 6 pm. One of the best pieces of advice I ever received was from the kittens’ first vet, Dr. Jill. Dr. Jill impressed upon me the importance of not feeding the kittens as soon as I got up, no matter how plaintive their tiny mews. Her point was that if you feed them as soon as you stumble out of bed, they’ll take your daily rising as a signal that the food will be instantly in their bowls, and they will go to great and annoying lengths to wake you up. Just ask my sister.

So even if you just spend fifteen minutes making coffee and reading your emails, it will be worth it. And it’s true – the girls just sleep or play or do whatever it is cats do when we’re asleep until I say it’s time for breakfast. I usually ask them the purely rhetorical question “Are you girls hungry? Do you want some breakfast?”, which prompts them to scamper into the kitchen and get underfoot as much as possible. Nothing seems to convince them that this delays the food delivery. Henry does the exact same thing. I guess it’s a cat thing and we wouldn’t understand.

They know that I will also be scooping out Henry’s cheap and therefore desirable food, so they keep an eye on me. They generally stick their heads into the tupperware-ish container of food (I have to store the cat food in separate plastic containers – the cupboard doors don’t close properly and if the food is in the bags, the cats will be, too. I learned this the hard way.), so I put a few pieces of Generic Chow on the floor to distract them and then put the container away before going outside to have Henry get in my way all the way to his dish.

The life of a cat maid is not an easy one.

While the girls’ vocabulary may be on the small side, they do seem to be able to tell time fairly well. Around, say, 5:20, they start hanging around the kitchen. June in particular will try and convince me that it’s dinner time. She also likes to sit right in front of me and stare at me unblinkingly with her great golden eyes, as if to say, “Have you forgotten something? Hmmm?” June is much more interested in food than Audrey, and always has been. When the litter was a day or two old, she was stepping all over the others to get milk (see photo above). Audrey never finishes her food, so I have to keep an eye out and put it back in the container; otherwise, June will eat it.

When I tell them it’s supper time, they race into the kitchen again.

At night, when I’m ready to bring the girls in from the porch and close and lock the back door, I tell Henry goodnight and then ask the girls if they’d like some treats, which brings them in right away. It may be bad parenting, but I used to have to go out there and chase them and try to keep one in while I chased the other, and it was a lot easier to just give them a couple of treats when they came in at night. So now they expect the question, and I’m pretty sure they know what the words “hungry”, “breakfast”, “supper” and “treats” means – even if their understanding is limited to “The Girl is finally going to feed us! Yay!”

Clever kitties.

You know, one of the librarians is always kind of weird with me. Not the nice old lady, not the groovy, aloof guy (there has to be a story behind his working there), but the girl with the facial piercings and that ‘tude.

It started off with her remarking on how many books I read. You’d think this would be a positive in the eyes of a librarian, but the way she said it suggested that there was something faintly felonious about it. Was I using up more than my fair share of resources? Do I have deplorable taste in literature? Am I risking her manicure by making her check out so many books at once?

I don’t know, and I haven’t ventured to ask.

When I went in today and returned my books, I handed her my card. Patrons can request books on line, and when they arrive at the local library, you get an email. So I knew I had a couple of books on hold, waiting for me.

She took the card and scanned it, then peered at the computer screen. “You have two holds,” she said. Then she looked at me and said, “I assume that’s why you’re here.”

No, honey, I’m here to admire your mutilations and crankiness.

“Uh, yes,” is all I actually said. She scanned the books and left them on the counter, then walked away.

Weird, right?

On Saturday morning, Brother-In-Law was changing my car’s oil in the driveway. My sister and I heard him talking outside and wondered if he was talking to himself. Peeking out the window, we saw it was a Jehovah’s Witness or two (they seem to travel in pairs or packs, possibly for protective reasons). We were both amazed.

These folks went to an obscure town with a population of 400 people (even locals consider Albion to be isolated), then drove miles and miles down a country road, then down a narrow, rutted dirt road, then walked down an offshoot of the dirt road to find my sister’s house.

Those are some determined would-be converters, my friend.

I have to wonder what their success rate is, if any, in a place populated mostly by people seeking an off the grid, unconventional lifestyle. My guess is that other than atheists and agnostics, most people practice some kind of paganism or nature worship. Albion doesn’t even have a church (or a bar, for that matter – in Oakland, storefront churches and liquor stores seem to go hand in hand). So I can’t believe that any of its non-conformist residents are going to say, “That sounds good! Count me in!”

Two days after I got home, I was visited by my very own pair of JWs. Oddly, it was Monday morning, and you’d think most people would be at work instead of hanging around the living room watching Jerry Springer and waiting to be converted. Again, it wouldn’t seem to be fertile ground for conversion to the cause. I saw them coming down the street and closed the blinds, thankful for once that my doorbell doesn’t work. I did a pretty convincing imitation of not being home, if I say so myself (though the car was in the driveway).

What are the odds of being visited twice in two days, in places so far apart?

Maybe I should buy a lottery ticket.

Birthday Report Card

Foggy, overcast: C

Work day (ugh): D

A million and a half birthday emails, some unexpected, and one announcing a new kitten and an engagement (in the PS!): A+

Also Facebook love: A+

Actual birthday cards (bonus points: Hand-written letter received the day before my birthday, with drawings): A+

No money to actually do anything: F

Dow is up! A

Watched Blue Jays game with morning coffee : A

But they lost: F

Bottle of California “champagne” in refrigerator (to open with the Detroit/Pittsburgh game – guess Detroit isn’t going to win the Stanley Cup on my birthday this year): A

Blueberry pancakes with real maple syrup for breakfast: A

Average: B

On the birthday covet list:

The Birds Barbie (every girl should have a Barbie before she turns 50):

Chanel’s Facettes D’Or Limited Edition Gold Fiction Nail Colour:

Boxed Set of Patricia Highsmith’s Ripley Series:

A bottle (or two!) of the Widow:

A day with the fabulous K, including a stop at Dr. Nails and flowers on our toes.

Thanks everyone for all the birthday wishes. I know you love me – xo xo

I made it home in good time, and was warmly welcomed by the girls. I’m always relieved when I get home and find no-one has broken in and nothing untoward has happened – leaving your house with all the blinds closed and no car in the driveway for a few days seems to be asking for trouble when you live in Oakland.

I may be slightly bitter about having the GPS stolen out of the car and the bicycle out of the back yard.

But I digress…

The girls milled around my feet and told me how much they missed me. When they started sniffing the bags I brought back, with their interesting smells of Other Cats, I went out to see how Henry was doing. He still had lots of food and water left, but was pretty snippy with me. He always gets mad at me when I go away, which leads me to believe he enjoys my scintillating conversation almost as much as his bargain basement food. But seriously – I do think he likes having the company and attention. He usually forgives me the next day.

Back in the house, it soon became apparent that the usual naughtiness continued apace while I was gone. One of the two water bowls had been overturned, creating a nice, slippery mini flood on the kitchen floor. The candle holder in the fireplace had similarly been knocked over, merrily scattering votives, even though the cats know they’re not allowed in there.

In the bedroom, my jewelry box had been tossed onto my desk, spilling jewelry all over it and creating hopeless tangles. The TV remote was hiding nervously under the couch. I could just picture them racing all over the house, frustrated that they couldn’t go outside. And maybe missing me. A little.