Suzy Says

All this for me?

Whenever I know I have to get up early, it pretty much guarantees me a bad night’s sleep. I lie there thinking non-sleep inducing thoughts like “If I go to sleep right now, I can get five hours” and unhelpful things of that nature. Inside my head probably looks a lot like the outside, a jumbled chaos of boxes, things, and stuff, if you throw in a hamster wheel for them to keep bouncing around in.

Of course, the one time a girl can sleep is, you guessed it, right when the alarm goes off. It’s an enduring mystery. I had an early conference call, and it went on longer than I expected. I hardly had enough time to pretty myself up and get to BART, where I discovered there were delays, which in turn delayed Me. When I finally got to the office, there was unseasonable rain outside and a Cinco de Mayo festival in the lobby. Free Mexican food (though, sadly, no margaritas) in exchange for showing your photo ID, which I had fortunately and uncharacteristically remembered in my morning haste.

Clutching my vegetarian tamale, I dropped everything off in my office and proceeded to have a fairly productive day in spite of the rushed beginning. When I got on the bus on the way home, the driver said, “Girl, you done made my day with your beautiful self!” so my prettying must have been better than I thought. Or he was being nice (free compliment with every bus ride!).

So I was smiling my way down the street when I noticed the flashing lights that meant one of Oakland’s finest was paying me yet another visit. Possibly the bus driver had alerted them to my good hair day. I asked the cop who was standing on the remains of my lawn what was up, and he said that a guy two blocks away had apparently doused himself with gasoline and was threatening to set himself and the house on fire. His possession of a rifle was making reasoning with him a little on the challenging side.

Welcome home!

Old movies always make me wish I lived in the past. Come to think of it, the news does that, too. Anyway, last night’s entertainment was The Reckless Moment (1949), starring the beautiful Joan Bennett and the always suave and charming James Mason. Bad guy, good guy, or a mixture of the two, you gotta love him.

A Columbia picture – with the original Columbia lady, back when she was a total babe instead of the hideous “updated” one – the credits included my favorite of all time (“gowns by” – in this case, Jean Louis) and went on to inform me that the screenplay is based on “The Blank Wall”, by Elisabeth Holding.

I’m a huge Holding fan, and cannot understand why she’s so unknown. I have almost all of her books, most in the Dell double book edition, where you read one story, then turn it over and get a whole ‘nother one, usually with lurid covers. But don’t let that put you off. She is a mistress of suspense, in the grand tradition of Patricia Highsmith and Ruth Rendell (though antedating them by many years), where a person makes a fatal mistake and his/her life spirals out of control.

The movie is in glorious black and white, and I have to say, if I really could live in the past, it might be in the 1940s. The cars and clothes are great, everything’s stylish, and there are important things like electricity and hot running water. Sure, there’s the dreary war, but there’s always a dreary war. At least things looked good.

Since it looks like I’ll be staying here for a while, I’ve decided to try and do something with the backyard and porch. I’m thinking of getting matchstick blinds to put on the sides of the porch. It would make more shade (or I could roll the blinds up if I wanted sun) and it will have the total bonus of shielding the next door dogs and their cement hell from my sight. Also, if the Barkers don’t see the kitties on the porch, there might be less barking.

Theoretically.

I’d like to get something to climb up the trellis, which is also on the Barkers’ side. Extra prettiness, an extra layer between Me and the Barkers. I’m considering orange bougainvillea, because I love it and it doesn’t grow where my sister lives, so she can enjoy it when she’s here. And orange was Frank Sinatra’s favorite color, and it doesn’t get any cooler than Frank. My boss always says, “It’s Frank’s world – we just live in it.”

My next notion was hanging baskets of fuchsias for the front of the porch (facing the lawn), but my sister told me that fuchsias are the Suzy of flowers – showy, pretty, and shade-loving – so they won’t be happy there. But I do want something that attracts hummingbirds and butterflies, so any suggestions are welcome. It’s facing east but also has a southern exposure, so there’s sun most of the day.

I’m also considering excavating the flower bed that is bordered with bricks or something and is very overgrown. It’s on the right hand side, next to B’s fence, so there’s a little more shade there. I was thinking of maybe tomatoes and basil, but I’m not sure, so again, I’d love to hear your ideas, either in the comments or at speakallATearthlinkDOTnet.

Finally, I sent a note to my landlords with my rent check this month, asking if they’d consider supplying me with some kind of ground cover for the front lawn. The grass is totally dead and looks like a nervous breakdown. Even if they won’t buy me the plants, I’ll probably end up digging it up. At this point, just mulch would look better, and I can’t bring myself to put another lawn there. They don’t belong in this climate, and I begrudge the water in a potential drought year, even though my actual water usage is only 10% of the bill.

I never miss the Kentucky Derby, even though I don’t watch horse racing* otherwise. What could be Suzy-er than fabulous hats, the more over the top the better, daytime cocktails (mint julep, anyone?), beautiful animals and an event that’s so fast not even I have time to get bored?

No-one could have been bored by today’s race. I was astonished to see Mine That Bird** speed past horse after glossy horse until he crossed the finish line with his jubilant jockey, the charming character Calvin Borel.

Wish I’d had the horse sense to bet on him at 50-1 odds!

*Golden Gate Fields is just a few minutes drive away, but I’ve never been. Maybe if I could wear a fancy hat…

**Why do horses always have such ridiculous names? Why?

If it isn’t one headache, it’s another…

The big pain in my tiny brain has receded, leaving a strange bruised feeling. I finally got to sleep well after midnight last night, and was awake barely in time for a conference call scheduled for this morning. I certainly wasn’t at my best, such as that is.

When the call was finally over, I went outside to collect the garbage cans, which were piercingly (for the headache challenged) emptied earlier today. I didn’t realize June was right behind me, and she shot out of the house as if fired from a catapult (pun intended). I chased her, saying words that no well-brought up young lady should, as she headed under the porch.

Henry was not pleased to see her. Not only was he trying to take a nap, he knows perfectly well that she has usurped the porch and hisses at him and claws at the glass whenever she sees him. He vanished, leaving me to try and coax her out, while actually wanting to scream at her. I noticed that Henry hadn’t finished his food, so I lured her with that until I could grab her and bring her back into the house, threatening reform school or a mean Mary Poppins like the one in the books. She seemed completely unconcerned.

I thought having access to the porch would quell the wandering craving, but apparently not. Maybe she wanted to see things up close. Maybe she wanted to chase Henry. Maybe she wanted to drive me crazy.

Mission accomplished.

At least so far.

It’s 2:00 in the morning. I made the mistake of taking some Excedrin for my raging headache, with the result that I now have a headache and what I call “aspirin tummy”. Throbbing head; stomach a vat of seething acid. I tried to go to sleep and forget about the whole thing, but after an hour of tossing and turning and irritating the cats (who were setting a good example by sleeping curled up cutely together until I kept waking them up*), I had to admit defeat.

When I was in second grade, I had a truly vile teacher named Mrs. Conneman. She was so mean to me that I used to have extremely vivid fantasies about my parents sweeping into the classroom and carrying me off (with a quick stop at my locker for important personal belongings, like my red rain boots). I still remember looking back at the old hag with total triumph as I was borne away from her clutches, once and for all. I’ve always been a pretty talented day-dreamer.

Not surprisingly, I had bad stomach aches in those days. Apparently they were quite common among Conneman students (though this did not seem to lead to an official inquiry or get her fired, because she was still there when I was in 6th grade). Rather than getting rid of the cause of the belly aches, I got dosed with a hideous dark-green liquid to dull the pain. If it were in a fairy tale, it would at least have turned me into a toad, and probably something worse. It was the liquid version of Mrs. Conneman. My hopes were temporarily raised when I learned it also came in chocolate, but that turned out to be a brown, chalky nightmare that was, if possible, even worse than the original flavor.

When I was in 6th grade, I was horror-struck to learn that our class would be presenting a Christmas play to none other than the evil Mrs. Conneman’s latest batch of victims. Despite the protective camouflage of my full-body Christmas tree costume, I was convinced she’d know it was me and do something horrible. I don’t know what I thought she could do but believe me, I was ready for some medicine by the time I tremblingly approached her door like it was Death Row.

Needless to say, nothing happened. Undoubtedly she was fully occupied with destroying the psyches of those currently in her class to bother with the damaged goods of years gone by. Nearly 40 years and 4,000 miles later, though, a stomach and headache bring me right back to that day.

*And looking at me as if to say, “What the hell? Stop imitating a tossed salad and go to sleep already!”

I thought I’d feel relieved and happy once the whole storage debacle was over, but I don’t, really. Sure, I’m glad that we aren’t spending all that money every month when we have so little to begin with. Yes, I’m glad that I’ll never have to go there again and see the sad remnants of the past, and be faced with how different our lives are now.

Sometimes I wonder if I’m like the Magnificent Ambersons, finally getting my comeuppance. When I was a girl, we lived in a beautiful 150 year house on five acres of land, had two cars, went to Maine every summer and often visited Dad’s parents in England. My mother never had to work.

When I grew up and got married, we owned a gracious Jazz Age apartment in one of the best neighborhoods in one of the most beautiful cities in the world. I drove a 1966 Mustang convertible, wore diamonds and went to Europe at least once a year. The world was my oyster.

Now, I live in a tiny house in a city where murders are commonplace. My brother, sister and I are panicking about our ability to continue paying the mortgage on the property where we will eventually retire. Or not, if we’re forced to sell when there’s little or no market for undeveloped rural property. I’m selling the diamonds I used to wear so proudly just to make ends meet (and the ends appear to want nothing to do with each other).

Confronting that storage space and thinking of how far I’ve come in the past thirty years has been a deeply saddening experience. And instead of feeling like a weight has been lifted, I’ve had insomnia, nightmares, and headaches ever since. Is it the closing of a chapter of my life, facing up to the deaths of my parents, grandparents, and my marriage? My tiny house is jam-packed with boxes, which will eventually be put into the storage cube my brother bought, and furniture, which there isn’t room for. Maybe it’s not really over yet and I still have some things to work through. My head aches too much to think about it any more.

And I thought I had a rough day yesterday…

My brother, sister and I have a tradition* of calling each other when we get home from a visit. Emptying out the storage doesn’t exactly qualify as a “visit”, but we still agreed to call each other. I knew it would take my brother at least an hour longer to get home than it would me, since he had a longer way to go and had to drive the loaded-up truck slooowly on the two lane corkscrew known officially as Route 128. I was a little concerned about his driving the truck all Clampetted up like that, but he said that after driving a fire truck so long, it would be like driving a sports car.

I had put on my PJs, nuked dinner, and was well into a bottle of wine when I thought he’d be home. I called his cell and it went straight to voicemail. I wasn’t worried, because of the total lack of cell phone service for most of 128. When the phone rang half an hour later, I thought it would be him.

It wasn’t.

It was my sister, working the night shift, telling me that the truck broke down near the thriving metropolis of Navarro (population 130). He managed to stop it on the shoulder and hitch a ride to Navarro, where the driver provided him with a beer and a cigarette and went on his way, leaving my brother to call AAA from a pay phone.

Now, Navarro used to be a slightly scary place, appearing to be populated entirely by meth** users (and possibly manufacturers), bikers, and trailer trash. It’s been cleaned up quite a bit and has a decent-looking store. Last fall, I saw a sign saying that Edgar Winter was playing there, which mystified me for several miles.

But the store was firmly closed at 9:30 at night, and there was no-one to be seen. So my brother had to stand there until AAA appeared, shivering in the t-shirt that had been entirely appropriate for day time furniture wrestling, but was now wholly inadequate protection against the cold winds. My heart ached for the poor guy, marooned in the middle of nowhere, freezing his butt off after the day we’d had. I was so glad when my sister called to say he was home, safe and sound.

*The other farewell tradition is waving and blowing kisses until the departing car is out of sight. Our parents did it, too.

**I find the popularity of meth in rural communities a mystery. Why get all speeded up when there’s nothing to do and nowhere to go?

Well, if that wasn’t a manic Monday, I don’t know what is.

I was just settling down to work when the phone rang. It was my brother. Calls before 9 am on my landline tend to be either my boss or my brother (sometimes the same thing), whereas calls before 9 am on my cell are almost always someone on the east coast. My brother isn’t much for idle chit chat, so I figured something was up, and it was. He wanted me to meet him at Mom’s storage, 60 miles away, and help him pack up the rest of the stuff and move it on out.

Work was looking better and better, but I agreed to put it on the back burner (it’s used to being there anyway) and headed out the door, leaving June in charge.

At the storage, it soon became clear that all the remaining stuff would not fit in our brother-in-law’s truck. We accepted the inevitable and loaded it up with things destined for Chez Suzy: the grandfather clock, in its suspiciously coffin-like carrying case; the Atwater-Kent radio cabinet; the glass-fronted bookcase; and the rocking chair my great-grandfather made for my great-grandmother.

We caravanned to my house, wrestled the goods and chattels into my increasingly tiny house, and then went back to the storage for Round Two. We hillbillied the remaining stuff into the truck, destined for the storage container now residing on the property up north, and after a long hug, he went his way and I went mine, each of us plunging into the rush hour traffic armed with the knowledge that we’d never have to meet up there again.

I felt a pang of sadness as I looked at the empty space. Sure, I wish I’d told you all that it was my new year’s resolution to empty it out so I could check that one off and feel good about it. I’m thrilled that we aren’t spending $mumble* on one more month of storage. But I’m sad that we had to sell so many family things, and that things are so hard for all three of us now. I’m also glad that I’m not an only child, and that I’ll always have my brother and sister by my side, no matter what happens.

That’s the power of love.

*When I told the guy at the office that we were clearing out today, he said that we were paid up until May 27, since the charge had just gone through today. Of course. I asked if they could reverse the charge, and he said we were supposed to give 10 days’ written notice, but he’d ask his boss. I was resigned, but on the way out, he stopped me and said they’d reverse the charge. Maybe it’s a sign that things are getting better?

I’m feeling nostalgic on this sunny Sunday afternoon. Maybe it’s knowing that Mike and Jennifer’s little ones are going to be spending the next few days with their Grandpapa while their parents are (hopefully) in Paris. Maybe it’s the roses blooming so extravagantly in my back yard. Maybe it’s just getting older.

Whatever it is, I’ve been thinking of the long-ago days we spent with my mother’s parents. They lived in a grand white Victorian house, which was the town sheriff’s wedding gift to his only daughter. It was built by the same architect as the bride’s father’s house next door, and in both houses, his initials were carved on a beam in the attic.

The attic was a wonderful place, full of boxes and trunks and wardrobes full of ballgowns. In the afternoon, the light would stream through the stained glass windows and paint everything in rainbow colors. You never knew what you would find: great-grandfather’s sleigh bells; his Civil War sword; souvenirs from Nana’s brother’s grand tour of Europe…

Next door to my grandparents’ house was an even grander one, practically a mansion, set in vast, professionally-tended grounds. It was fascinating and mysterious, because its owner, the fabled Mrs. Newton, was never seen. Gardeners kept the outside in perfect order, and groceries were delivered, but they were not taken in until dark.

After dark, you would sometimes see a light moving from room to room, as if Mrs. Newton carried a lamp with her.

My grandmother was regrettably not a gossip, but her two spinster boarders (with the perfect spinster boarder names of Frieda and Maretta) fortunately were. They told me that Mrs. Newton’s son had been killed in WWII, and that she hadn’t left the house since. This seemed wonderfully tragic and Miss Havisham-ish to me at the time, though it never occurred to ask me what had become of Mr. Newton.

Although I don’t know what happened to the sad lady who lived in the mansion, I do know what happened to the mansion. It’s a bed and breakfast. I could go and stay there, right next to my grandparents’ house, and find out who’s living there now. But I think it’s better to let the past stay in the past.

Now that the heat wave is gone and my mind is more or less back in working in order, I’ve been thinking a lot about the great house hunt.

It’s probably just as well that I didn’t get that house. I’m not sure I could handle the stress of sudden packing, giving notice, having to pay for two places at once, and the cost of moving. Also, I didn’t get a good feeling from the landlady. She was pretty cold and distant, and immune to my charm, which may well be what bothers me the most. My current landlords may be flaky, but at least they’re nice.

The biggest problem with that house was no outside access for June and Audrey. They spend a lot of their time on the screened-in porch, sniffing the air and keeping an eye on Henry. It’s the best of both worlds, since they can be outside while still staying safe. It would have been really hard for them to adjust to being inside all the time again, and I want my girls to be happy.

I also wonder if Henry would have run away or stayed at the new house. We had a breakthrough today. I was talking on the phone and walking around the back yard. He saw me and came running up. I reached out, and instead of clawing my hand or running away, he sniffed my hand and then let me pet him. I think he may have actually purred. It’s the first time this has happened, so he must really trust me.

Maybe it’s all for the best if I stay here for now.

My dear friend, the Lipstick Gardener, fierce defender of feral cats, guardian of my kittens’ mother, and all-around Renaissance woman, mentioned that she had some musicians staying at her charming Victorian house. Their names sounded familiar. I dug through my mental attic, finding years’ worth of rubbish, like old high school biology tests and ex- boyfriends and the words to the “One Day at a Time” theme song, finally finding – bing! – that I knew these musicians.

I had in fact met them and shopped at their wonderful record store in Dearborn. They are good friends of Kathleen, the Belle of Motown, who introduced me to them. She also happened to stay with me last fall. And both Kat and the Gardener happen to be knitters, vegetarians, and cat lovers. And of course, Suzy fans. I mean, who isn’t?

How’s that for a small world?

View from my porch

The heat wave has gone back to hell, where it definitely belongs. Probably good practice for me, though. It’s nice to be able to open the blinds instead of living in the strange, hot gloom, feeling besieged by the relentless sun.

The sun is feeling kinder and gentler today, possibly sorry for its earlier temper tantrum and trying to make up for it by being nice, even though we all know it will be back to its old tricks again soon enough.

The kitties are celebrating the return of the cool. Henry is lounging openly on the grass, instead of hiding in whatever shade he can find. The girls are chasing each other around the house instead of lying exhausted on the porch or by the front door, seeking an errant breath of air. So we’re back to normal. For now.

Remember how I mentioned that my recent Vogue purchase was research? I’ve been doing some fashion and beauty writing for the San Francisco edition of Examiner.com. It’s fun, but it’s more work than I anticipated. I have to come up with three story ideas a week, get any additional information I need by phone or in person, write the articles, and take photos and upload them. Whew.

The writing part turns out to be the easy part, but I’m not sure if I can keep up with the articles, my blog, and my email along with everything else that has to be written. I guess we’ll see. It can be an experiment!

All this for being paid by the click. But I’m used to being underpaid, and it’s fun. Check it out and tell me what you think. Any ideas, comments, insight, or spring shoes are much appreciated.

The view from my office window

I’m coming to you from my office, high above the streets of San Francisco. I can look down on almost everyone from here.

My boss/partner and I share an office, but we’re rarely here at the same time. Today is no exception: I’m here, and he’s somewhere else, possibly Chicago. I decided to stop in after doing the paperwork for selling my ring*, since (1) I had a conference call and (b) I wasn’t in a hurry to subject myself to the indignities of BART so soon after removing myself from them.

Since I have the office to myself, I have taken my shoes off and am luxuriating in the air conditioning while happily eating one of the bagels the handsome receptionist brings in. I’m also blogging instead of working, and the little flat screen TV in our office is tuned to HGTV instead of CNBC, now that the “Gilmore Girls” re-run is over. To be fair, I did check out how the markets were doing first.

I still like working with music or TV on in the background, the same way I did when I used to do homework. I don’t know why, but it’s just more fun that way. And I can use all the fun I can get.

*Though I sold it to a reputable jeweler near Union Square, I got to sign my very first pawn ticket! Apparently such sales have to be documented for the city and state. I got my thumbprint taken, too, giving me a little criminal frisson.

It’s 96 degrees as I write at 5:30 pm. The sun can’t get its ass out of here fast enough for me today. I’m kind of offended that it chose my blog’s birthday to be so unreasonable, since my dislike of heat is so well-known, but perhaps the sun was just being extra unreasonable in my honor.

Audrey is stretched out on the table on the porch, trying to catch an errant breeze. I left the girls in charge and went to Wal-Mart to buy a cheap barbecue* today, since the fancy propane one that came with the house (surprise!) doesn’t work. It’s way too hot to cook, and even if everything I could have delivered didn’t suck, I couldn’t afford it, anyway (hence shopping at Wal-Mart). Since I can’t take the heat, I’m getting the hell out of the kitchen.

On the menu tonight: grilled lemon-garlic shrimp soft tacos with fresh cilantro and a salad of field greens with my fabulous shallot vinaigrette. Come on over – you can help do the dishes!

*Which I had to assemble. You can imagine.

Fear not – it’s not a post about the dreaded Octo-Mom. Nor have I decided to see how far I can push the fertility envelope.

(Pause for collective sigh of relief)

No, today is my blog’s 8th birthday. Can you believe it? Never has so much been written about so little for so long!

I wonder if I’ll make it to a whole decade. Stay tuned, and thanks for reading. You know I love you.

Henry in his tent under the rose bush

June & Audrey on the porch

All the cats are enjoying the sunny day more than I am. It’s supposed to be 85 today, which is just too hot as far as I’m concerned. Especially in April, when some people are still waiting for Spring to spring. It’s supposed to be even hotter the next few days.

I faced the inevitable and put away my duvet until next winter, when I can once again enjoy its cuddly embrace. I’d better go and drag the fans out of the shed.

It’s going to be a long summer.

Update, Monday, April 20: It was record-breaking heat yesterday and today. It’s supposed to ease off in a couple of days, though.

Here’s the baby girl, interrupted during her post-prandial bath on the porch. Cats have no problem bathing in full sight of the neighbors, or, in this case, other cats. You can see Henry’s rose bush in the background. He has a tent under it and his dishes are next to it, and he also has his bed under the porch until the winter rains start again.

I felt bad about evicting him from the porch, with its futon couch and blanket, but now the rain seems to have really gone away, it’s only fair for the girls to be able to sniff the air and get some sun, or breezes when it gets hot again, which I’m sure will be sooner than I’d like. And since the weather has improved, I hardly see Henry other than at breakfast, when I make the most of my opportunity to pet his soft fur and have a little chat.

It’s been almost a year since I started taking care of Henry, and sometimes I question the wisdom of blunting his survival skills by giving him food and water. But other times, I’m so thankful that I could help him and make a difference in his life. He definitely trusts me, though I can never pick him up or cuddle him. And it gladdens my heart to see him running toward me in the morning, or sleeping peacefully, knowing he’s safe.

Those in the know of course know that Jessica’s birthday is every April 15th. If you didn’t know, mark your calendars for next year – it’s clearly more important than that silly tax filing deadline thing. Also, shame on you!

I couldn’t be there for the celebrations, but I mailed my offering (Cinderella’s Magic Pumpkin Seeds) and a really cute card in good time (unlike my tax return).

Being the well-brought up child she is, Jessica called to thank me. She ventured that “I’m not sure the seeds are really going to turn into Cinderella’s coach, though”, as if this would be terrible news to me, having given them to her, thinking that they would. She was afraid I might be disappointed! I told her they probably wouldn’t, but they would turn into pumpkins which she could carve at Halloween, and that was clearly a welcome thought.

We chatted a bit more, and I asked her how old she was. “Six!” she said happily. “So you’re going to get your driver’s license this year,” I said. “Suzy…” she sighed. “You are so silly.”

Even six year olds are onto me.