Suzy Says

The calm before the storm

It turns out that getting tree and Self out of the creepy crawlspace relatively undamaged was the easy part of the process.

In addition to forgetting how challenging it is for the challenged to put the branches in the slots, I had also forgotten that I don’t have a tree stand. The tree is about half a century old (it was originally priced at $2.88, according to the sticker on the box), and is too thin (if not too rich) for modern tree stands. So every year, I prop it up with bricks, and promptly forget about it until the next year.

Not only was I trying to hold it up and together (the trunk has two pieces, top and bottom, which screw together), I was trying to hold out against the kittens, who were trying to help.

They were only five months old last Christmas, and I was too traumatized by the move to bother decorating, so this is the first Christmas tree they have ever seen. Naturally, they assumed that I had put it up for their amusement, which is the only reason I do anything. Imagine their delight when the fabulous peacock ornaments, bought way back in August*, made their stunning début. Now, there’s a toy they could really enjoy!

My original plan was to add some clear and frosted white balls to the tree, but after the constant assaults on the peacocks, I gave up, even while regretting resisting buying that iridescent garland at the peacock ornament shop and thinking about those really small candy canes I saw at Safeway. Hey, a girl can dream!

After an evening spent squirting the cats with water, yelling, and swearing instead of sitting glamorously by my beautifully decorated tree, I shut the cats in the laundry room and removed the peacocks from the tree. Unfortunately, I had had some kind of efficiency psychotic episode after decorating the tree and had already returned both the tree box and the peacock box to the depths under the house. There was no way I was going to drag up the dusty boards on the porch and crawl under the house again. So I put the ornaments in a different box and put it in the closet.

I reckoned without the kittens’ ingeniousness when it comes to naughtiness and the fact that few doors in this house close properly, since I found them merrily batting around the elegant toy birds in the morning. The box of birds has now been moved to the top of a closet with a door that actually closes (and stays closed), and the tree has a certain minimalist chic with just white LED lights on its white branches. Which June thinks are chew toys.

Of course.

*Though I only just started writing Christmas cards!

I could use an elf or two. Any volunteers?

I thought today would be a good day to put up the Christmas tree. I ventured into the creepy crawl space* under the house, found the battered old Gimbels box, and hastened up the stairs, convinced that mice and spiders were pursuing me. Since the crawl space was apparently made for midgets, I managed to bump my head on the way out, probably losing valuable brain cells in the process.

I could have used them, because setting the tree up was more challenging than I remembered. It’s an artificial one, painted white with branches that are inserted/screwed into the trunk. It’s harder than you’d think to hold it up and put the branches in, especially with the kittens “helping”. You can hardly blame them, since it’s the first Christmas tree they’ve ever seen (and maybe their last). I had envisioned the tree twinkling and the candles in the fireplace shining while I sipped wine and listened to the soundtrack from “A Charlie Brown Christmas”, but so far, it looks like only the wine part is going to come true tonight.

On the other hand, I do have my coordinating wreath up.

*California houses rarely, if ever, have basements.

Joy asked for more Schatzi photos, so here they are. Again, I apologize for the complete lack of skill on the part of the photographer. You can see the adorable star on her chest, her French manicure with the white tips on her paws, and the affectionate look in her eyes. She’s a brindled pit bull, though they come in many colors and sizes. She’s a ladylike 34 pounds!

Schatzi, with the sun on her fur and love in her eyes.

My sister pointed out that there have been, to date, no pictures of her beloved dog, Schatzi, on my blog. I endeavored to redress this egregious wrong by taking some pictures at Thanksgiving, but, alas, the sun was too sunny and the photographer too inept to give Schatzi her considerable due.

In this picture, she is looking up at my sister, and I think it’s pretty clear that there is love in those big brown eyes. The whitish thing in the background is either the glare of the sun or a ghost passing through in a hurry – you decide. I wish I had taken a better picture, since she really is a beautiful dog.

Those who are not Germanically inclined may wonder about her name. It’s only fair to say that our mother had the worst taste in pet names (and men, but that’s another story). Her cat L’il Bit and dog Baroness von Hershee (known by the slightly less embarrassing diminutive “Bear”) spring to mind. Anyway, Schatzi means “treasure” or “sweetheart”, and she is both.

Mom was walking the unfortunately named Bear one fine day, when she heard a noise coming from inside a Dumpster. Peering inside, she saw an emaciated young pit bull, whimpering for help. Mom flagged down a couple of passing guys, who hauled her treasure out of the trash. Mom cleaned her up and brought her to the local shelter. On being told that the dog would be euthanized immediately for the capital crime of being born a pit bull, Mom of course turned around and took her home.

Although Schatzi had been through things far too terrible to relate here, she is, true to her name, a total sweetheart. I can tell you this from personal experience, when I had her stay with me for a month while Mom was away. Eventually, Mom and her dogs moved in with my sister, and time has now left Schatzi in charge. She and my sister are devoted to each other, and there could be no happier ending for the little dog who went from being one man’s trash to one girl’s treasure.

Samsonite Fashionaire for the Fashionista

It’s 6 am! Why am I up? It’s because my brother is picking me up bright and early (well, early) to do a few errands and then go back to his place and my sister’s on the beautiful Mendocino coast. Carpooling there and taking the bus back makes me feel so greenly smug! Also I get to use my fabulous Samsonite Marimekko luggage, which is almost as old and charming as I am.

I’ll be computer-less and email-less until I get back. But don’t feel too sorry for me. It’s not only Thanksgiving, it’s Dungeness Crab season. There’s a farmer’s market on Friday, and there will be long walks in the redwoods and long talks by the fire.

In the meantime, Merry Thanksgiving to all, and to all a good pie (my sister is making three: pumpkin, apple, and huckleberry)!

…the girls did get jealous of Henry having his picture published, here’s one of June and Audrey, sitting in the sunny window.

There’s nothing like a Jessica post to get people talking! JFans will be delighted to hear that I’ll be seeing her (and, oh yes, her mother, too) at Thanksgiving, so I’ll almost certainly have more tales to tell. Note to Self: don’t forget to wear that necklace she likes.

For the Henry fans among you (and you know who you are), here are a few visual aids:

Not the paparazzi again. I’m trying to nap.

Man with a mission: Henry on his way to breakfast.

Room service: breakfast in Henry’s bachelor pad under the back porch.

Jessica may only be five years old, but she’s already learning about boys. And girls.

She changed her top while a friend was visiting, confidently predicting that when he saw the wardrobe change, “he’s gonna be all, like, whoa“. No girl over the age of five reading this will be surprised to hear that not only did he not say “whoa”, he didn’t even notice. Better get used to it, kid.

At school, Jessica has discovered that girls can be mean. I thought Mean Girls syndrome didn’t start until high school, or at least junior high. Kindergarten seems kind of young to me, but I’m behind the elementary school times. A girl cut in front of her in line, and Jessica naturally objected. Mean Girl refused to get behind Jessica, and Jessica refused to back down. Things escalated, and Mean Girl threatened to tell the teacher.

Jessica, realizing that Mean Girl wouldn’t actually dare to tell the teacher, since she’d have to admit she started it, immediately responded, “Go ahead. Be my guest.”

Clearly, this was not the way things were expected to go, so Mean Girl, having no Plan B or comeback (though undoubtedly she thought of one long after she got home and it was too late to use it) gave up and got in line.

The next time I need some advice, I know who to ask. A girl who can handle school buses and bullies with equal aplomb will know just what to do.

Last night, in the dark hours between moonset and sunrise, I was awakened by the unmistakable sound of cats fighting. Fearing for Henry, I peered into the darkness. I couldn’t see a thing. Unsettled, I went back to bed and read the new Michael Connelly until I felt ready to sleep again.

I woke up a couple of hours later with the wind howling. Palm leaves rattled, the windows shook in their 85 year old wooden frames. Going out to pick up the newspaper, I expected to be greeted by a full-blown winter storm. I was amazed to see the clear blue sky, the horizon an opalescent pink. It was as balmy as a summer day. The newspaper had blown across the street.

Paper in hand, I went to check on Henry. He came running out to meet me, saying good morning and leading me to his bowls. The water dish was full of dirt, and the little tent I got him to shelter in when it rains was collapsed against the fence instead of under the porch. Its faux sheepskin lining was nowhere to be seen.

On closer examination, the tent had deep bite and claw marks in the fabric, and was either blood- or dirt-stained. Henry, however, appears to be unscathed, and happily ate his breakfast as if nothing had happened. You should see the other guy, he seemed to be saying.

If I must have a cell phone, why can’t it be this one, with more than three carats of diamonds? And a handy little mini version that clips to one’s handbag, to avoid the annoyance of digging through all that money, lipsticks, boys’ phone numbers, etc., to find the ringing phone. Especially good post-manicure!

Priced around $25,000, this is definitely a Covet.

Who needs an iPhone when you can have a Dior phone?

Speaking of phones, my older, humbler one finally turned up somewhere in LAX. I got a call from TSA telling me they’d found it a couple of days ago. Wonder what it was up to during the past month? Since I already had a new (and cuter) phone, I decided to donate it.

The local librarians have begun to comment on how fast I read and how much. I picked up the most recent bounty, and the librarian asked me if I wanted all five books at once, and pointed out that I had just taken three out (which, to be fair, I had just returned).

When I was a kid in Maine, one of the privileges of being a lab kid was being able to take out as many books from the beautiful library as we wanted (other than the new ones, which were as limited to us as anyone else). That place was heaven on earth to me. I loved stepping through the double doors to the marble flooored foyer, and from there, into the library itself, with its glorious gallery above, and…all…those…books.

In that twilight place, no matter how the sun blazed outside, I met Mr. Shaw. Mr. Fitzgerald. Mr. Hemingway. Mssrs Chandler and Hammett. Miss Plath. Mssrs Zola, Baudelaire, de Montaigne. Misses Bronte. The Divine Jane. Mr. King. There was no end to the discoveries, the worlds that opened to me.

But the new ones were of less interest to me than the past.

In those days, I was discovering the incomparable E. Nesbit, Edward Eager, C.S. Lewis, E.L. Konigsberg, Zilpha Keatley Snyder. Of course, the worlds of A.A. Milne, Lewis Carroll, Kenneth Grahame, and John Masefield were already well known to and loved by me, and on my bookshelves (built by Dad* at home), but on occasion, then as now, a desire to read certain books and passages would overcome me, and I’d have the freedom to check them out and revel again, or restore my spirit, in the beautiful, familiar prose.

*Dad was streamed into Classics as a boy, but being tone deaf, was a terrible singer. His music master sent him to learn carpentry to spare his own aesthetic sense, and undoubtedly, those of Dad’s classmates. By the time the school figured it out, it was too late. And Dad built bookshelves in every house we ever lived in, including his last home with our beloved stepmother.

You all know I can find the cloud in every silver lining, so you probably won’t be surprised to learn that my emotions on the recent election are far from unmixed. Although I’m thrilled that Mr. Obama was elected (and to be a witness to history in the making), I’m equally disappointed that nearly half of my fellow Americans voted for John McCain. As Iggy Pop would say, what the hell? What the heck?

I’m also appalled that Proposition 8 passed. I am so disgusted with my fellow Californians for passing a law of intolerance and hatred. Shouldn’t the new Obama day usher in an era of tolerance and unity?

Our New First Family!

Yes, we can – and we did!

I can’t believe the day is finally here. I feel like a bride who has been planning a huge, elaborate ceremony for more than two years, and now the day has finally come that will change my life forever. It seems slightly unreal.

My wise friend Mike suggested that I write about my voting experience on this historic day. The problem is that I voted by mail weeks ago, so I don’t have a good story about valiantly waiting in line for hours in the rain (probably the best I can do is the anecdote about the Neil Young ticket). I don’t know why everyone doesn’t just mail in their ballots, to tell you the truth. So much easier, and more importantly in Suzy world, less boring and time consuming.

Of course, having nothing to write about has never stopped me before.

I was encouraged by the line to vote at the church at the foot of my street this morning, and the many people at intersections throughout Oakland, urging people to vote no on the hateful Proposition 8, which seeks to outlaw marriage for gay couples, and yes on Proposition 2, which seeks humane conditions (such as being able to actually stand up) for all California farm animals. I can’t believe we need a law for that one. The girl brandishing her Proposition 2 sign outside the gym was accompanied by her aged and patient beagle.

In the days before I figured out that I could mail in my vote, I did stand in line, most memorably to vote for Bill Clinton the first time. It was a bright, sunny day, like today, and I voted at the church around the corner from my apartment on Jackson Street in San Francisco. I still recall the joy in my heart as I cast my ballot, the feeling of being high on hope as I walked the few blocks home, sure of a brighter future for this great country.

Today, I feel hope, too, but also fear in the wake of the last “election” and the intolerance and hatred inherent in some of the propositions that somehow made it on the ballot. But I can’t believe the majority of my fellow Americans can honestly think this country can stand another four years of the mismanagement that has brought us to the sorry place we’re in now.

I meant to go to Reno this weekend. Not for the traditional divorce* (fun fact: the first Reno divorce was granted in 1906) or the traditional gambling (I may be the only person who’s been to Las Vegas and not gambled there), but for a little getaway. And to see the legendary Neil Young.

However…Saturday was dark, stormy and scary. As I write, it’s simply tipping it down, as my beloved stepmother used to say, and what tips down as rain here gets tipped down as snow there. With the reports of accidents, threats of road closures, and the memory of my things and stuff being stuck in the Reno snow for days last year, I decided to stay home, pet the kitties, and finish reading The Suspicions of Mr Whicher instead.

However…I still had that Neil Young ticket, and if I couldn’t bask in his glory, someone else should. I posted it on Craigslist without much hope, since it was the day of the event. About three that afternoon, the phone rang.

It was a young man from Santa Cruz, who was canvassing for Obama in Carson City, Nevada. This dedicated guy has done this every weekend for the past six weeks, driving all the way from Santa Cruz to Nevada, after working all week at his regular job.

Last night, he heard about the Neil Young show and had been desperately seeking tickets ever since. He was overcome with happiness at getting mine. I emailed it to him, he paid me via PayPal, and everyone was happy. I don’t know which of us was happier, to tell you the truth. I was so glad to be able to thank him for the great work he was doing, and knowing he would enjoy the show after a long, hard day of canvassing.

*John sent me the paperwork last week. It had been rejected by the courthouse clerk, but she wouldn’t say why. My boss, who has a law degree, and I looked through it all and found a couple of places we hadn’t signed and a couple of missing dates. So we fixed that, and John’s going to try again to file. Maybe a Reno divorce would have been easier!

This morning, I discovered that there are worse ways of being woken up than the alarm clock, the phone, or the eternally barking neighborhood dogs. June bit my toe! Really hard! And despite being swathed under blankets, it was both painful and surprising.

Really. Biting the toe that feeds you.

I hasten to add that this was not an attempt to wake me up to make breakfast. The kittens’ first vet gave me an excellent piece of advice, almost exactly a year ago, which was never to feed them when I first get up. So I always make coffee and read my email before giving them breakfast. They know they won’t get fed right away, so they let me sleep in on the days that clocks, phones, and dogs don’t wake me up.

So it wasn’t a “wake up and feed me” call.

I honestly think June has some kind of eating disorder or syndrome, like those people who eat soap. She has chewed the fabric covering the metal side supports right off my desk chair. She chews the ~shudder~ metal door stops built into the walls by the closets. Lately, she has taken to chewing CD cases, which, being plastic, shatter in a horrifying manner. I’m convinced that she’ll accidentally eat the shards and disaster will ensue. Granted, I pretty much always think disaster is around the corner, but still.

In an attempt to stave off potential catastrophe, I bought her some small dog sized chew things. She just batted them around. I gave her a demonstration (I’ll pause here while you finish laughing at the mental image), and even dipped them in chicken broth, but she just licked the broth off and then batted them into oblivion*, the place where cat toys and socks vanish, never to be seen again.

*That just reminded me of a book I loved as a child, “Attic of the Wind”, where a little girl visits the title place, where all lost things eventually end up.

It’s been in the 80s over the past few days, which both the kittens and I find a little on the toasty side. My sister thinks it’s the “last hurrah” before winter sets in, but the forecast says otherwise for now. To be fair, winter is harsher where she and my brother live (colder, with the occasional hard frost, lots more rain, frequent power outages and road closures) than in the Bay Area, so her dread is reasonable. Especially since she heats her house with a wood stove. I can tell you from personal experience how hard it is to keep the home fires burning.

The kittens and I decided to see if there were any breezes to be had on the back porch yesterday evening. Henry noticed our arrival, and strolled over and started clawing at the mat at the foot of the stairs that lead to the screen door of the porch. He has done this before, and it drives June and Audrey bananas. I think he knows it does, and likes pointing out that he gets to roam around wherever he likes, while they’re trapped inside.

He decided to take it a step further and actually walked up the stairs to the screen door. Hissing ensued, and there was a blur of claws and curses until I managed to move the girls from the door. I’m very fond of Henry, but who knows if he has rabies or worse? Also, I could just see the combined strength of the three cats tearing a hole in the door, with wholesale mayhem following.

Fortunately, disaster was averted. Henry sat aggravatingly on the lawn, having a post-fight bath, while the girls watched enviously. Good thing they can’t say what they’re thinking – sometimes.

The kittens wanted a pumpkin this year (last year, they were too young), so I duly got them a nice organic one, kitten-sized. Once I got it home, I couldn’t decide what to carve into it. At first, I thought I’d carve a couple of cats into it. I even did a drawing:

Which is cute, but I couldn’t figure out how to transfer the drawing to the pumpkin, which was beginning to seem smaller by the minute. If there’s a way to be technologically challenged, I’ll find it (right, Doc?).

When I was walking home from ambling some errands, it occurred to me that maybe, just maybe I could carve OBAMA into the pumpkin. In a stylized way, of course.

I’d give it an A for effort but maybe a C overall, since you can’t read the whole word at once due to the pumpkin’s small size. It was much harder to get all the glop out of the middle than I remembered. Not to mention stickier. Maybe my parents did it? My hands are still kind of pumpkin smelling, which is kind of gross. I keep meaning to ask B next door if there will be trick or treaters. I don’t want to be Mean Old Lady Suzy before it’s absolutely necessary.

Seen today: a chicken, or possibly a rooster, sitting in a palm tree.

Heard last night: a couple arguing as they walked down the sidewalk. Then an audible slap and a woman’s tears. I hesitated, then went out to see if she was all right. I found her sitting on my neighbor’s front lawn, weeping. I asked her if there was anything I could do to help, and she got up and ran off, sobbing and waving her hands in the air. I don’t know what else I could have done, but I’m haunted anyway.

There are few things the kittens enjoy more than a good box. Every time there’s an empty one, or one with things in it but the flaps open, they’re there.

Nearly a year after moving, the house is pretty much box-free. The kittens loved sitting up high on the box towers, which may explain why they never lifted a paw to help me unpack. (I think I’d make a very good cat.) The box pictured above is the only one left, and it’s smallish and perched on top of one of the CD shelves. It’s Audrey’s favorite spot, and if I haven’t seen her for a while, that’s usually where she is.

I have a theory that the devotion to boxes is because I was in the throes of packing almost as soon as I got the kittens, so boxes are one of their early childhood memories.

That, or they just like boxes.