Suzy Says

I’ve been a busy little bee the past few days, flitting up and down Market Street wearing slightly more sensible shoes than usual, going from conferences to meetings at the office to fun errands like selling my jewelry* and sneaking into Walgreens to buy Vogue** and antacids.

There were two days of conferences, held at the posh Four Seasons. As I swanned past the two doormen (one for each door – I love having doors opened for me), I noticed elevators to the “private residences” and felt a pang of envy for those with the means to buy a condo in a five star hotel. And of course, you all know that I suffer from serious Eloise envy and fantasize about living in a fancy hotel the way other girls fantasize about meeting Johnny Depp.

Oddly, the lobby is on the fifth floor, where the conferences were held. I’m beginning to think that there’s never any escaping school. The speaker (teacher) stood at the front of the room (class) and talked about things (insert Charlie Brown grown-up voice here) while the attendees (class) pretended to listen and take notes, while actually wondering what’s for lunch and why time is standing still.

When breaks (recess) and lunch (lunch) arrive, everyone’s trying to talk to, sit with, or be seen with the popular kids. Unpopularity is disguised by going out on the terrace and appearing to make and receive important phone calls.

I left for meetings in our office and came back both days, giving me ample opportunity to observe how skanky that section of Market Street is. It’s not the worst part, but it does have a fair number of homeless folks and crazies, one of whom was calmly relieving himself on the side of the BART station access near the fancy hotel. If I were paying $400 a night for a room there, or lived in one of the sky-high condos, I wouldn’t be too thrilled with that. I wonder why they built it there (and it was built recently, so Market Street was already like this when they broke ground). I used to live half a block away from a slaughterhouse, and thought the same thing when luxury condos were built directly across the street from me. “Abbatoir adjacent” and “Homeless crazy central” aren’t usually considered luxe amenities.

Maybe they want to feel like they’re walking on the wild side, or seeing the real San Francisco, which they are. It’s not the whole truth, but it’s definitely part of it.

*Now that the ring’s been cleaned, it turns out to be yellower than it first appeared, so it’s worth a thousand dollars less. The jeweler chirped, “Usually when a piece is cleaned, it’s much brighter and worth more. This is really unusual!” Thanks, family curse! You will never stop surprising me in innovative ways!

**It’s for research. I’ll tell you more soon.

My kitchen, 7:30 a.m.

Few things make a girl feel more like a distressed gentlewoman than selling her jewelry. I almost felt as if I should be clutching a threadbare shawl about my shoulders and writing answers to advertisements for governesses in remote country houses.

The possible purchaser (not surprisingly, I haven’t made up my mind yet whether I can part with it or not) was a kind and experienced woman, who told me more about my ring than I had ever known. It was like Jewelry CSI as she peered at the ring through a giant magnifying glass and told me how it was made and why old diamonds (the ring dates from around 1900) are different from new diamonds.

The ring needs to be cleaned before the appraisal can be completed, and when I have all the information, I’ll decide what to do.

I don’t feel as sad about it as I thought I would. I rarely wear it anymore, and it’s part of the past. It’s actually less painful to let it go than to have it and not want to wear it. I like to think of a young man searching for the right ring for his beloved, and falling for the ring the way he fell for her. Or a couple looking together for the ring that symbolizes their love, their future, both knowing it’s the one.

I loved having it, but it’s time for someone else to enjoy it.

I seem to have decided, don’t I?

I finally finished looking through the boxes today. I had originally thought I could get rid of half of them. Ha! I have three boxes of books to be sold, and a box and a half of things for the auctioneer, but that leaves 30-mumble boxes taking up valuable space in my dainty living room. The box on the far left is nothing but cookbooks, including The One Maid Book of Cookery*, which used to belong to my grandmother and starts out “The conditions of living are fast changing, the number of gentle people living in flats with One Maid, or with no maid at all, is rapidly increasing. The One Maid Book of Cookery is specially written with a view to these modern conditions.”

You can almost hear the tone of horror with which the author wrote “with no maid at all” in 1913.

I have the same feeling about the boxes (or, as the cookbook writer might say, The Boxes). I keep looking over at them and being amazed all over again that they’re there. Every morning as I stumble past them/into them, I discover all over again that they have failed to vanish overnight, the way nightmares should.

I’ll avert my eyes and pour a nice, cold glass of Geyser Peak sauvignon blanc. It’s almost time for Jacques Pépin, and I know he’s having a glass, so I’ll join him. Just to be polite.

*When I opened it to copy the preface, I found a file card in my father’s writing for Borscht Moskovski, and a slip of paper in his mother’s beautiful hand with recipes for rice pudding and spiced gammon. Also a newspaper clippings with recipes for cheese straws and oxtail stew. Available upon request.

During one of my many recent trips to Petaluma, I noticed that part of the dreaded 580 is officially named the John T. Knox (whoever he is/was) freeway. This is not the kind of immortality I’d like.

Dad and I used to talk about everything, and one thing we talked about was having things named for one posthumously. Dad thought it would be nice to have a public garden or park named in his honor – anyone could enjoy it, and there would be the whole cycle of life and renewal thing. He was a devoted and talented gardener, like his mother and his youngest daughter, and in the midst of our preparations for his memorial service, the autumn plants he had ordered arrived, at once comforting and sad and hopeful.

As I drove for the nth time to Petaluma, to see a house I probably won’t get, it occurred to me that my perfect immortality would be a handbag.

I’d like to be the Kelly or Birkin of my time.

The Kelly was named for the iconic beauty, actress and real-life princess Grace Kelly, of course, and legend has it that she carried the roomy Hermès bag to conceal her pregnancy from the paparazzi. I don’t know if that’s true, but I do know that more than half a century later, it’s still so highly coveted that there’s a lengthy waiting list, and they start at $5,000.

The Birkin was named for Jane Birkin, sultry actress/singer and muse to Serge Gainsbourg. Versions vary as to how the lovely Jane got involved in the creation of her eponymous bag about 25 years ago, but it’s the most desirable of all the Hermès bags, and supposedly has a waiting list of two years. When Logan gave Rory a hot pink Birkin bag on Gilmore Girls, I was shocked that she didn’t know what it was, and wanted to grab it from her unappreciative hands immediately. Fortunately, she later understood the significance of the gift. I hope she kept it after they broke up.

I know I would.

Besides the practicality – you can use your namesake bag as often as you’d like – you’ll have something beautiful to live on after you’re gone, but not forgotten.

Remember how I called twice about a house, but didn’t get a response? Well, the owner called me last night and said she’d been out of town and was showing the house today at 11:00. I got some details from her (built in the 1940s; hardwood floors, even in the kitchen; 1,100 square feet; garage; no extortionate move-in costs) and set off in the Saturday morning sunshine.

As I crossed the Richmond-San Rafael Bridge, it occurred to me that I have probably gone to Petaluma more in the past month than I ever did when my mother lived there. No wonder I never got that Daughter of the Year award. Just as well: it would be one more thing I’d have to find a place for. Or keep in yet another box.

The house is on a cul de sac, with a view of the rolling Sonoma hills, currently wearing their winter/spring green, though they’ll change their wardrobe to gold soon enough. It has a lovely garden in the back, with room for a vegetable garden, and a lawn bordered by flowery, vine-y plants. On a drip system! Best of all, there’s a sort of secret bower in the back of the garden, made of wooden trellises with a roof, shady and flowery and with an old fireplace.

Inside, the house has a working fireplace, built-in, curved shelves in the living room, a tiny chandelier in the equally tiny dining room, and a small kitchen with an electric (ick) stove, but you can’t have everything. Washer and dryer hook ups in the pantry with original beadboard, and a charming bathroom with the original square sink in a built-in cabinet, with little glass knobs for the drawers. And the bathtub works!

While I was filling out the application, other people started tramping through the house. The owner said she’d make a decision in about a week and let me know.

It’s going to be a long week.

Apparently, those of you in Canada and/or the UK have a four day weekend to celebrate Easter (and hopefully, by now, the arrival of spring). Here in the US of A, we rarely, if ever, get a four day weekend, and we don’t get any long weekends from New Year’s Day to Memorial Day, in late May. No wonder people keep going nuts in public in this country.

Oh, well. Easter, like most things, isn’t as much fun when you grow up. Knowing that I’m not going to wake up to a basket full of candy (or a new bonnet, for that matter) on Sunday morning will just make it easier to sleep in, cats permitting.

In retrospect, it kind of amazes me that we could eat candy at 7:00 on any morning, especially when Marshmallow Peeps are involved. Now just looking at displays of them make me shudder and avert my eyes, teeth aching.

When I got home from work today, I discovered that the recycling hadn’t been collected, though the green bin and the garbage bin had been emptied. Clearly the recycling guys have a better deal and possibly even a four day weekend.

The mailman didn’t have the day off, either, since he had left me a surprise package. On investigation, it turned out to be from my former neighbor, who has my kittens’ mother and who often surprises me with little cutenesses. This package had flowers and drawings on it, and inside, there were fabulous things from MAC, including the sold-out Hello Kitty* lipglass in Mimmy.

It was a grown-up Easter basket.

*Yes, I did love Katy Perry’s Hello Kitty top, though not the leggings.

Storm-tossed roses

Well, that decision was made for me. The owners of the white picket fence house want a total of $4,000 to move in. That’s first and last month’s rent, plus a security deposit, plus a pet deposit. All for a small, beige-carpeted house in a small town where it’s 100 degrees in the summer. In a state where unemployment is at an all-time high and the economy at all-time low. You’d think I could get a place in Manhattan for that kind of money.

So it’s out of my price range, and maybe it’s just as well. It would have taken literally every penny I had, plus a loan from my boss/partner, and I’d have no cushion whatsoever if something goes wrong with the car, or the kitties, or Me, for that matter, since I’m health insurance free at this point.

I’ve decided to write a friendly note to my landlords and ask if they would consider taking their stuff out of the garage, so I can put mine in. It would go a long away toward improving my tenuous mental health if I could get rid of the boxes in the living room. Also, I have to admit that it kind of annoys me not to have the full use of the property for which I’m paying rent. Especially when I can’t use the bathtub and most of the doors don’t close.

I’ll also ask if they’d be willing to buy plants, preferably drought-tolerant ones, to replace the sad brown grass. I’ll haul out the old grass and replace it if they’ll buy the materials. Having a severely depressed lawn tends to make Me depressed, too. Maybe if I can make it a little nicer here, I can take my time, save up some money, and look for the right house at the right price.

Maybe I’m just not a white picket fence kind of girl.

There were sun and showers today. Take your pick! The traffic goddesses smiled upon me, other than the usual slow spots (Berkeley and that construction place when you pass San Quentin). The sun was shining in Petaluma as I arrived at the house with the white picket fence.

The owner was a nice guy, and showed me around the little house. I’d say it’s a little bigger than my current digs in Oakland, but it has a garage big enough to hold all the boxes taking up my living room and all the stuff in the Oakland storage. It has a lovely back yard, a side yard, where the current tenants have a table, chairs, and umbrella set up, and a small front garden. Everything is professionally landscaped in drought tolerant plants, which I think is important. It’s also beautiful.

Inside, the kitchen is essentially a corner of the living room, being completely open to it without even a breakfast bar. The counter and cupboard situation is about the same as here, though the cupboard doors actually close. There is beige carpet everywhere but the kitchen and bath. It doesn’t look like my bed and bed side tables, none of which are very big, would fit in either bedroom, but there is a huge walk-in closet in one, and a regular closet in the other.

The owner mentioned that temperatures get into the three digits in the summer, though it cools down at night. And you know how I love the heat.

So there are a lot of pros and cons:

Pros:

• Beautiful town. Can walk to historic downtown, and transit to San Francisco is only two blocks away. Neighborhood is quaint Victorians* and tall trees.
• Much safer and no audible barking dogs or visible depressing dogs marooned outside.
• Beautiful, drought-tolerant landscaping. No sad, dead lawn to mow and bemoan. Nice yards for Henry to play in, though will have to come up with some kind of shelter.
• Pretty house with use of bathtub and doors, cupboard and otherwise, that actually close.
• Lots of closet space, and, more importantly, lots of storage.
• Rent is cheaper than current abode, and I wouldn’t have to pay for storage, making it cheaper still. Also water is about half the price it is in Oakland, and car insurance will be cheaper.
• Could probably put the grandfather clock in the front hallway (and finally get it out of storage).
• Much closer to my brother sister and so much easier to get there.

Cons:

• The owners want first month’s rent, last month’s rent, a security deposit, and an unspecified pet deposit. This would be in the neighborhood of $3,500+ dollars, and I doubt if I can afford that neighborhood right now.
• I’d have to move in about two weeks!
• Beige carpeting with cats. Beige carpeting.
• Not much improvement, if any, in the kitchen situation, though at least I could close the cupboard doors.
• The current tenants are taking their washer and dryer with them, so I’d have to buy used ones to replace them, adding to moving costs. Then there’s the U-Haul.
• Sliding screened door in the laundry room, which looks onto the back yard, so the girls could hang out there, but is that a real substitute for a screened porch with sun and shade?
• Would have to come up with some kind of shelter for Henry. And how can I be sure he’ll understand about the move when I can’t have him in the house with the girls?
• It didn’t look like either of the bedrooms was wide enough to accommodate queen size bed plus two IKEA bedside tables (yes, nothing but the best for me). I could have one table, though.
• 100 degree weather for part of the summer. It does cool off at night, but 100 degrees is too hot for a delicate flower like Self, not to mention girls in permanent, always-stylish fur coats.

Any thoughts, advice, opinions and spare change gratefully accepted.

*The house’s owner kept referring to the house as “Victorian”, though it was built in the 1920s.

I was startled awake by an unexpected (and unexpectedly heavy) shower this morning. I dashed outside in my pajamas, to the detriment of my velvet slippers, and grabbed Henry’s dishes and bed. By the time I got to the back porch, I would have won the neighborhood wet PJ contest. I propped the door open, fed and watered Henry, then called him until he appeared. He seemed a little nervous, maybe because the girls have been lounging on the porch and now it feels like enemy territory, but at least he can get out of the rain. As I write, he’s lying comfortably on his newly spring cleaned couch, possibly thinking “It’s mine now, girls!”

It’s been a little like Florida today: torrential downpour, followed by sudden sun, then another downpour. I dashed between the raindrops to (literally) run some errands, including the post office, where the guy ahead of me was getting a $2,000 money order. I definitely Coveted that beautiful pile of money.

Remember the house with the white picket fence? No-one rented it on Saturday, so I’m going to look at it tomorrow afternoon. Hopefully traffic will be kinder to me than it was this weekend (when I finally got home, I learned that there had been no fewer than three accidents. No wonder it was such a mess). I’ll keep you posted, rain or shine.

This time, I actually tried to go and look at a house for rent in Petaluma, but I still didn’t get there. This time, it wasn’t my fault, though.

I was sailing along in the sunshine, listening to the new Neil Young (appropriately enough, it’s all about his car) and wishing it was never hotter than the current 75 degrees, when I ran into serious traffic. Of course it was after I had passed all the exits and either had to go left to the Bay Bridge or right, towards Berkeley.

I stayed in the Berkeley lane, thinking I could turn off soon and go home. It took more than forty minutes to go the mile and a half to the next exit, which deposited me in Emeryville, the big box store wasteland. You’d think it was 5:00 on the Friday of Memorial Day weekend and I was trying to drive to the Hamptons, instead of unglamorous Oakland at 1:00 on a Sunday afternoon. I called the house’s owner, who was sympathetic but said that five people were looking at it today. If none of them takes it, she’ll call me and I can see it later this week. Given my usual luck and the cuteness of the house:

I’m not holding my breath.

I have two calls in to another house owner, but I’m beginning to remember from my long-ago dating days that if you call someone twice and they don’t call you back, that’s an answer, too.

My mother would have been 77 today. The biggest gift she ever gave me was her love of music. She may well have been one of the few 70 year olds who enjoyed Blackalicious (though not before coffee). I think it’s a tribute to her that many of the albums she loved and played over and over again when I was young are such classics:

• Carole King, Tapestry
• Herb Alpert, Whipped Cream and Other Delights
• Cat Stevens, Tea for the Tillerman
• Moody Blues, Days of Future Passed
• Fleetwood Mac, Rumours
• Janis Joplin, Pearl
• Elton John, Goodbye Yellow Brick Road
• Queen, A Night at the Opera
• Harry Belafonte, Calypso

Wherever you are, Mom, I hope you know that I still love the music you loved, and it comforts me to know that these albums gave you pleasure. I hope you know that we did our best for you, and that you are always with us.

It’s a beautiful day in the neighborhood

The winter rains appear to be over, so I moved Henry’s dishes to the back lawn. He loves to dine al fresco, and now the weather’s warm and sunny, I hardly ever see him except at breakfast time. I rescued his bed from his summer quarters and put it in the newly-repaired washer, along with the blanket from his winter quarters. After I took the blanket off, I noticed that the couch cushions (it’s actually a metal-framed futon rejected by my boss’ youngest daughter) could use a spin in the washer, too, so off the covers came, creating another load of wash.

Henry feels the same way about housework as I do, so when he saw me pulling his bed apart, he retreated to a safe distance, where he could keep an eye on me but not have to be involved in the actual chorishness. I think I was a cat in a previous life (and apparently a really mean one, if you believe in all that karma stuff).

Once I had the cushions off, I noticed how grubby the floor was, so I went to get my trusty bottle of Mrs. Meyers (basil scented) and my cute gloves which should inspire me to do housework more often, yet somehow don’t:

While the bucket was filling, I saw the porch windows were in serious need of spider web removal (sorry, Charlotte), so I did that before swabbing the porch floor like an exceptionally well-accessorized pirate. Everything is in the dryer now, which I feel so guilty about using, and once I put the couch back together, I’ll replace Henry’s bed in his original bachelor pad and shut the porch door so the girls can get some fresh, sunny air.

Whew. I’m exhausted. Bring me a cocktail, will you? And put an umbrella in it.

Always being a little behind the times, today I finally realized that there were only three days left of the historic 40 year retrospective of Yves St Laurent’s exquisite work at the De Young Museum. Since two of those days are weekend days, the worst possible for visiting museums, I decided to dash across the Bay and pay homage to Monsieur St-Laurent before it was too late.

Driving through San Francisco on this warm, sunny day, with the windows down to let in the air characteristically spiced with eucalyptus and sea salt and listening to a Marvin Gaye* tribute on the radio, I thought how incredibly beautiful the city is. There is nowhere else like it. I was lucky to have lived there for so many years.

Embarrassingly, this was the first time I had visited the De Young since its alleged makeover was completed in 2005. Up close, I didn’t find it any prettier than it is from a distance, and I have to admit I miss the old building. But then, I am change-averse and past-loving.

So it’s not surprising that I liked the 1960s dresses the best, including a little black number Catherine Deneuve wore in Belle de Jour. Several of the dresses on display were made just for Mlle Deneuve, the ageless beauty who was YSL’s muse, as well as International Best Dressed Hall of Famers Jacqueline de Ribes and Lee Radziwill. Others were from the well-stocked closet of native San Franciscan Nan Kempner, the life-long fashionista who famously said, “I spend way more than I should…and way less than I want.”

Me, too.

*The great Marvin Gaye would have been 70 today. He was shot and killed by his father on the day before his 45th birthday. Amazingly, Marvin Sr. only received six years of probation for murdering his own son.

Buried treasure

I had a date with Plumber* Robert today. He arrived early, which a girl always appreciates, and brought an end to my washing machine woes, which I think we can all agree is better than flowers (though not better than chocolate or wine). Apparently, the problem is that all roads to lead to Rome, or in this case, all pipes lead to the same place, somewhere in the mysterious crawl space under the house. This is not a good plumbing idea, but 85 years ago, it seemed to be.

I finally couldn’t take any more of the yowling and whining of the poor red dog across the street, and dashed off a desperate missive, begging the owners to do something about their dog, or I’d call the Humane Society. I had to put the note between the slats of their fence, because Red Dog, on closer examination, is huge and intimidating, and attached to the door by a mighty chain. The note was gone today, and when I went out to get the paper, I saw the owners bringing Red Dog inside, where he has remained for the rest of the day. Coincidence?

Spring has been very springy lately, with temperatures in the 60s and cloudless blue skies. I’ve even been sleeping with my window open. I think the girls have spring fever. They’ve been racing around the house like mad. I made the mistake of picking a yellow rose and bringing it inside, and it was shredded within the hour. Henry, on the other hand, has been scarce. He does appear for his breakfast in the morning, but instead of lounging on his couch all day, is off playing somewhere. I like to think he’s back on his couch at night, since I always tell him goodnight when I close the back door.

It’s been a Magical Mystery Tour going through the boxes from storage. I do have two boxes of books to sell or otherwise remove from the premises, but that’s just a drop in the box ocean in which I am valiantly trying to stay afloat. There have been some fun discoveries, though, like the stereoscope (seen above) and its tin box of images.

I have to admit to a pang of pity for my niece and nephews, who will have to face all this lot after I’m gone and wonder why the old lady didn’t just throw this crap out already. Sorry, kids!

I passed on looking at the fourth house this week. It was one of those box-filled days when the drive to Petaluma and back in rush hour traffic was an impossibility. Someone else rented that house, so I figure it wasn’t meant to be and that something else will come along.

Or not.

*Maybe becoming a plumber or mechanic is a better idea than going to college. People always need their plumbing and cars fixed, recession or no recession.

I’ve been semi-idly (is there any other way?) looking around for a different place to live. The dogs next door are driving me crazy (and have recently been joined by a dog across the street who squeals and whimpers all day), and the BART station of death is getting to be a little scarier than I can handle, with three deaths in as many months. Not to mention having the GPS stolen out of my car, and, oh yeah, the murders of four cops last week. I think I deserve to live somewhere a little more pretty and a little less hazardous.

I’m thinking of moving to Petaluma. It’s a pretty town – it starred in American Graffiti and Peggy Sue Got Married – and a historic one, with a charmingly preserved downtown. My mother used to live there, so I got to know it and like it.

Reading the housing ads, I’ve been both shocked and dismayed by how many places don’t allow pets. If you’re single, these landlords are basically saying you are not entitled to any companionship. No purring cat or faithful dog to lower your blood pressure or take the edge off the horrors of life. Nope. You must sit alone in your clean, sterile environment, and God forbid your shoes should mark up the kitchen tiles. However, it’s perfectly OK to have kids merrily crayon on the walls and wreak other puerile havoc. That’s just fine.

So finding a place that’s nice and affordable and will let me live with my beloved girls is a challenge. I’ve seen three houses so far that were unsuitable for various reasons:

1. Red house: Cute, but even less counter space and tinier kitchen than I have now. Trailer right next door, only feet away, on one side, and on the other, a garage that is being converted to housing for an as-yet undetermined tenant. Add in the steep dirt road that would be mud in the winter and that’s a no.
2. White house: What’s that humming coming from the barn across the driveway from the house? Oh, it’s a sausage factory? And that house right behind is the landlord’s? Wow, look at that fake wood panelling and particle board doors and acoustic tile ceilings!
3. The Doll House: Charming, but teeny. Doubtful that I could fit bed and bed side tables into bedroom, or couch and chair in living room. House flush with sidewalk, and no back yard at all. This is California – you need some outdoor living space.

I have another one to look at this week that looks promising. I’ll keep you posted.

My BART covets:

The girl wearing a fabulous fuchsia taffeta trenchcoat, short, and carrying the incredible Louis Vuitton Alma bag in rose pop:

Honey, why are you on BART and not being glamorously chauffeured into town?

And then there’s the lovely wearing the sold out J Crew Astrid jacket in ivory:

who, with her knee high sassyboots, should have been stepping into her limo. Haughtily.

I would have felt underdressed if I weren’t wearing these:

And carrying this:

But a girl can still Covet. In the most unlikely places.

You’d think a sunny, breezy Monday, the traditional washing day, would be a good day to do a load of wash.

You’d be wrong.

I was virtuously doing the dishes when I noticed a muddy puddle slowly creeping toward me from the laundry room. I went to investigate, and was horrified to see that the washer was leaking. Not only was it leaking, it had flooded the litter box.

The mop was wholly inadequate to deal with it, so I sacrificed a couple of towels. As I cleaned, I wondered if I dared to wash the towels afterwards. What if it floods again? Is it worth the risk? Should I call the landlord? She may well wonder what on earth I’ve done now, since I’ve already had the sewer problem, the shower problem, the lock problem, and (unbeknownst to her) the mystery fire in just over a year of living here.

Maybe it really is time to move.

Why is it that even though I’m (technically) a grown-up, Sunday evenings are just as depressing as they were when I was a kid? I no longer have to worry about my homework being done, but that seems to be very little comfort when facing yet another week of work and worries. Seriously, kids: being a grown-up is not fun! It’s not eating pizzas and staying up late every night. It’s paying bills and wondering how on earth you’re going to pay your taxes and what horrible thing is going to happen next.

Forgive the gloom, but I’m crampy and crabby* and my living room is awash in countless boxes, giving it that just moved in look so few decorators can achieve. Yesterday, I met my brother at the storage, and we loaded up my brother-in-law’s truck with approximately a zillion boxes of my stuff, which are now sprawled all over my living room, making themselves at home.

The kitties, of course, are delighted, and are happily climbing on top of them, sniffing them, clawing them, jumping at them, trying to pry them open, etc., whereas I mostly gaze at them gloomily and then go make a drink.

Today I did go through a couple, and at least half of it can be trashed, but even that is problematic, since my trash can is positively petite, while the green bin is unnecessarily capacious. I could go the traditional route and dump everything under the freeway like everyone else around here, but I think I’ll try and find the real dump instead.

In the meantime, it’s girl vs. boxes. I think I know who’s going to win.

*This seems to get worse and worse as I get older, and an informal survey reveals that this is usually the case. I was pinning all my hopes on achieving menopause soon, but apparently you get all the monthly girl grossness plus added delights, such as hot flashes. For years. I don’t think there’s a man out there who could endure the amount of pain and misery we girls do, not to mention the indignity and grossness, and I’m not even counting the waxing or the mammograms here.