Suzy Says

The red sun against the smoky Oakland sky, Thursday evening

My brother and sister’s Summer Solstice party was suddenly ended by an unexpected and wildly out of season rain-free lightning storm. There were thousands of lightning strikes, setting the dry trees and shrubs on fire. California usually only gets rain in the winter, so wildfires are a real danger every summer.

I am proud to say that my brother has been a member of the local volunteer fire department for many years. He sleeps with his boots beside his bed, and never leaves home without his pager. He and his fellow fire fighters leapt into action. My sister went down to the firehouse to make food and wash the tired men’s sweaty, sooty clothes as they cycled in and out of the relentless flames.

She called me with updates, and for a while each was scarier than the last. At one point, my brother called from the front lines and told her to pack up all the essentials from both houses and get ready to evacuate. Fortunately, the wind shifted and spared them, leaving their houses and gardens coated in ash, like a light snowfall. I have rarely been so frightened or felt so helpless, 150 miles away from where my siblings could be losing their houses – and in my brother’s case, his life.

I am so incredibly thankful that they are safe and sound, though the fires rage on. One hundred and twenty one fires have burned 42 acres and threatened 900 homes in their county. Fellow firemen from Nevada and Oregon have come to help. The skies here are still hazy with smoke.

Volunteer fire departments aren’t limited to small rural communities like the one where my brother and sister live. According to the US Fire Administration, 87% of fire departments are volunteer or mostly volunteer, and protect 38% of the population.

Have you thanked your fire department today?

Update:

When my brother came off a 24 hour shift this week, he found a thank you note in his car – along with $50, a bag of cherries, and some chocolate. All along the roads, there are signs telling the fire department “We love you!” “Thank you!” – and the amounts of water available on that particular property, with directions for the fire department to take what they need. And the lone grocery store is taking donations. Nothing like a small town, especially one with such heart.

I was deeply shocked and saddened to learn today of my beloved stepmother’s death.

Margaret was a beautiful, stylish, courageous, witty, and generous person. She was a wonderful friend to me, a frequent travelling companion, and an inspiration. I have so many happy memories of her, and will always be grateful to her for giving my father the happiest years of his life. I’m not a big believer in the whole “soulmate” thing, but I truly believe they were meant for each other. As Margaret put it, they had a ten year honeymoon together.

She was a remarkable woman. She started flipping houses after World War II, long before it became the fashion it is now. She built up what we laughingly, but with some accuracy, called “The Empire”, renting out houses she owned in Wimbledon to tourists. She ran the business herself until just a few years ago, when she handed the reins over to her son.

She learned to drive in her forties, bought a car, and drove it home – a surprise to her first husband! Anything she set her mind to do, she did. She had more energy in her seventies than I have in my forties.

They both loved travelling, and Margaret was the ideal companion for Dad. If he was travelling on business, which was often the case, she amused herself until they met up at the end of his working day. Egypt, East Africa, even Uganda! India, Italy, Russia, France, the Czech Republic – they went everywhere together. Dad told me once they were on a bus somewhere in Africa, with the livestock and the heat and overcrowding you’d expect in this mode of travel, when the bus broke down. Margaret calmly went to sit in the shade and read her book until it was repaired – many hours later. Dad couldn’t resist pointing out that Margaret was a much better candidate than I would have been in such circumstances.

We travelled together on my annual or twice annual visits to London when Dad was still alive. Our last adventure was going to Italy in 1999, where Margaret had rented a palazzo in San Gimignano, appropriately named Villa Margherita. We went together and had a spa day at the famous Montecatini Spa, merrily getting lost on the winding mountain roads.

Margaret was the most tireless shopper I have ever met. We cut a swathe through Harrods and boot sales, Rigby & Peller and second hand shops in the King’s Road. I still use the bag she bought me in the King’s Road – it has been with me as far as Russia and as close as my sister’s house. It holds enough clothes for two weeks in Europe, but still fits in the overhead bin. Just one of Margaret’s many bargains.

She was always beautifully dressed, and had great personal style. My father always appreciated her elegance and beauty. They used to change for dinner every night, ready to spend the evening together after a busy day working.

Margaret welcomed Dad’s children and his aging dog with open arms and open heart. We were all lucky to know her and love her, and to be loved by her. I hope there really is an afterlife and Dad, Margaret and Jesse James the Outlaw Dog are united once again.

And speaking of the past, I have it on local authority that my former home is now being used for storage by one of the film set companies in the building. It seems kind of a waste of a perfectly good kitchen and bath (both of which are much bigger than the ones I have now). Also, it makes me sad to think that no-one is watching the stars from the skylights, or passing the time of day with friends and neighbors who pass through the courtyard. They tell me it’s sad to walk on by, especially at night, and see the windows dark, the window boxes empty, the shiny black door closed.

Possibly the best birthday present I got this year was the seemingly interminable primaries finally terminating. Michelle Obama looked fabulous in her violet dress. Wouldn’t it be great to have a stylish First Lady again?

The next best was seeing the Sex and the City movie with my long-serving friend, Richard, he who lures me out for lunch from time to time. We’ve known each other since high school, and there’s nothing like friends who have known you since you were in your teens and still love you.

Having a straight man take a girl to see SATC in San Francisco may well be the ultimate in accessorizing.

It’s a good thing the theater was nearly empty, since we giggled and whispered our way through it, having a wonderful time. The movie does a great job of summarizing the series, so if you haven’t seen it, you could still enjoy the movie. Needless to say, everything looked fabulous and it was a sparkly confection, just the way you’d want it.

If only life were really like the movies. Well, that movie, anyway!

With all this kitten talk, I realize I have never filled you in on what became of the Lovely Rita.

In preparation for the long trip from There to Here, I took her to the vet. Dr. Jill said she wouldn’t recommend putting a dog of Rita’s vintage and dignity through the horrors of being packed up and treated like baggage, but she wouldn’t refuse me the certificate saying Rita was healthy enough to travel, either. Because Rita is in excellent shape, even for a dog far junior to her.

This put some doubts in my mind, but I went to tell Actual Owner that Rita and I were off on a new adventure together. He was visibly shaken, and asked if I would consider leaving her with him. Even a heart as stony as mine melted when he said, “I was there at the beginning of her life, and I’d like to be there at the end, too.” Because we both knew that he’d never see her again if she left with me.

The truth is, she is his dog. She spent the first ten years of her life with him, and only three with me. He’s home, I’m the summer camp.

I won the battle, but I lost the war.

So I did the right and painful thing. Actual Owner came over one evening, and I loaded him up with all her accessories, things I had acquired for her over the years, ranging from her travel water bottle (she was the best travel companion: always happy to go anywhere, never bored) to her beloved bed to her hip treats (prevention!). I also gave him all her vet records. He thanked me for taking such good care of her, and put on her leash.

I hugged her good-bye, burying my face in her thick fur once last time. She walked off with her guy, tail wagging, looking up at him with love I’ve never seen on her face for anyone else.

It was the right thing to do, but it was one of the hardest I’ve ever done.

Now that I’ve been in Oakland for six months, I am completely sure I did the right thing. She would not have been happy here with the constantly barking dogs next door, the complete lack of parks, having to walk on a leash on cement sidewalks with shopping cart people instead of being Queen of the Dog Park, running free with the sun on her fur.

And her extended vacation at Camp Suzy was not in vain. Her Actual Owner definitely appreciates her more now. He takes her everywhere, from the store to the Tai Chi classes he teaches, and she is happy and healthy. I will always miss her, but I’m happy she’s happy. And I’ll always have the memory of my Dog Days with the Lovely Rita.

Henry awaits his breakfast*

It turns out Grey Cat’s name is Henry. Every morning, he’s waiting for me to appear with food, water, and sparkling monologue, our conversation being rather one-sided.

He used to run away. Then he started watching carefully from a distance. Then one day, he answered my remarks with a few observations of his own. He has the manly sort of voice you’d expect. A few days later, not only did he keep up his end of the conversation, but he walked toward me, slipped past to get to his dishes under the porch, and started eating while I was still there.

I was incredibly excited.

Lately, he’s been spending more time in the backyard, lounging or napping with his back against the fence like a Mafioso (and probably for the same reason). Somehow, he manages to look alert even when he’s asleep.

The girls are jealous and on constant Henry watch, even though I have assured them he’s never coming in the house. When I hear their paws hit the floor and scurry from window to window, I know there’s been a Henry sighting. He, of course, is supremely indifferent to them.

I asked my former neighbor if she has a 365 day return policy on the kittens (they will be a year old on July 2). Audrey has been most unsatisfactory recently:

• She stole proscuitto off the kitchen counter and ran through the house eating it;
• Went up the chimney and had to be coaxed/insisted down with a broom (fireplace now temporarily blocked with a large painting):
• Has made a habit of opening the cupboard with the cat food in it and spilling it all over the floor;
• Repeatedly raced through the house and leaped onto the screen door, clinging there and yowling.

She’s now sleeping off the effects of overindulging in overnaughtiness, and I’m wondering if it’s too early for a drink.

*It’s a pretty bad picture, being taken through my window, but it’s all I have. So far.

Ah, the perils of new handbags.

When I put on my professional persona and go to the City, I usually carry a quite splendid bag which, rumor has it, was featured in Elle this past spring. I got it from the fabulous handbag store in my fabulous friend K’s beautiful, historic town. You have to love a town that has a hangbag store. It’s faux crocodile (why not? I’m a faux adult) with a patent leather finish and wonderful, heavy pewter fittings. It was a little on the cher side, but the Creepy Handbag Guy gave me a great deal, as he usually does, and I carry it so often that it was worth every dollar.

However, I got a new one for my birthday, so I couldn’t wait to use it, along with the new lipstick from, appropriately enough*, my friend, The Lipstick Gardener.

Off I went, with my new lipstick on and my new bag in hand. BART was uneventful, other than a passel of unruly schoolchildren who vastly outnumbered their keepers. I got to the office and realized I didn’t have my photo ID, which allows me to pass through to the elevators. So I had to sign in and show the security guy my driver’s license.

Once on our floor, I asked the receptionist which conference room I had for my meetings that day. Well, I had neglected to mention the meetings to him, so all but the smallest room were booked. Going to drop off the handbag that caused all the trouble in the first place, I discovered that I had also forgotten the key to my office door.

It’s a wonder I remembered to transfer my wallet to the new bag.

The receptionist opened the door for me, smiling handsomely and keeping his thoughts to himself.

At the first meeting, the guy gently reminded me that we had planned to conference in two others at his office in Boston, but there was no phone in the littlest conference room. The receptionist kindly remedied this, and undoubtedly regaled his friends with tales of Suzy later that evening. At this point, I noticed that I didn’t have a pen…

It was that kind of day.

*Even more appropriately, it’s called “Party On”. I love it when make-up has names – I’m always slightly disappointed if it only has a number. I think it would be a great job for a frivolous girl like I to come up with make-up names.

Much less fun (and harder to solve) than a Nancy Drew mystery. Though, like her, I have had a cute blue convertible and noticed that boys never do anything, so if there’s something to be done or a mystery to be solved, you’d better do it yourself. Stylishly.

You know how some people have something wrong with their magnetic field or something (those of you who are scientifically minded can let me know what I’m talking about here) and can’t wear watches? I think I’m like that with coffeemakers.

The curse started, as curses tend to do, long ago, and continues to this day. Those who are cursed (Me) have no warning, and it is sprung upon them in the early, uncaffeinated hours when they are least equipped to deal with it.

I thought the curse would go along with that coffeemaker, as I merrily tossed it into the trash, but no. It was passed onto its successor, a coffeemaker version of Fallen. The second one lulled me into a false sense of security for some time before going suddenly and stubbornly on strike in the French manner. Also ? la fran?aise, it would mysteriously start again, only to stop with no warning later on, sometimes while in the middle of working.

I hauled out my old French press, the one with the plastic ~shudder~ carafe because the cats’ romping keep breaking the glass one, making for some extremely hazardous waste.

I will just say here that I used to use one of these all the time, but my love has turned to hate.

I hate:

• Having to wait for the kettle to boil, then attempt to pour said water onto grounds without spilling or scalding Self (no easy task when you’re Calamity Suzy);
• Having to wait again for the coffee to strengthen sufficiently to jumpstart a cold and Grinch-sized heart;
• How there’s always a certain amount of sludge in the bottom of my coffee cup; and
• Having to scrape* out the grounds, but yet have enough left over to get into everything I wash and leave a sad ring-around-the sink in its wake.

I think I hate that most of all.

So I ordered another coffeemaker, a pretty red one, one that I could just throw in the coffee and water and the coffee would appear like magic. I took it out of its package, admired its cuteness, plugged it in, turned it on, and – nothing. The warming burner was cold to the touch, always a sign of deadosity, whether in people or appliances.

I called the company and they agreed to send me one that works and to have UPS pick up the body, which is waiting on the front porch and dreaming of speeding hearses.

In the meantime, I had to resort to the French press again. Although it worked this morning, the grounds-trapping screen holder was cracked, so when I pushed it down, it exploded all over Self and the kitchen floor and anything else that was in its way.

When I took out the screen part to rinse everything out, the plastic holding the screen onto the stem fell apart in my hands. So it’s yet another Oakland homicide**, though a purely involuntary one.

If the replacement coffeemaker doesn’t arrive today, I face a coffee-less birthday morning tomorrow. What could be more cursed than that?

*Sometimes this procedure gives me heretical thoughts about the bad old days when we were all unenlightened and just threw everything in the garbage. Things were so much easier and less stinky then. It really isn’t easy (or pretty) being green, which is why, you guessed it, I don’t enjoy it.

**Oakland: its not just for homicides anymore! Apparently, we also specialize in carjackings!

Well, my $20 may have been turned into crack, but it also turned back into $20. Neat trick, n’est-ce pas?

The guy who borrowed it finally turned up, paid me back, took his license, and told me he loved me again before leaving. That’s what they all say.

In other neighborhood news, a guy was murdered three blocks away from my house. It explains all those cop cars and crime scene tape I noticed when coming home from the Safeway the other day. Apparently being a gang informant isn’t the healthiest lifestyle choice.

Today I noticed that there’s a “Neighborhood Crime Watch” sign at that intersection. I guess the neighbors watch the crime being committed; in this case, Oakland’s 55th homicide of the year.

I felt very frivolous reading Vogue on the train as it passed through the industrial outskirts of Oakland on its way to the civilization of the city this week. Of course I had to get this issue, since it includes an article on the much-anticipated Sex and the City movie, now less than a week away*. Nice to know that they’re keeping up the tradition. The series’ seasons used to start on or near my birthday, and the movie is an early birthday present this year. Can’t wait to open it!

I caught Jacques P?pin’s show this morning, and it inspired me to recreate his shrimp casserole for dinner. I got all the elements at the farmers’ market, and am about to start marinating the shrimp. I just realized that I’m going to have to peel all that shrimp, which is both gross and time-consuming, two of my least-favorite things. I wish I had Jacques’ minions, or Jacques himself, to do that part. I also wish I could peel and chop garlic as quickly and easily as he does.

One of these days, I’m going to get cooking lessons. Or a chef/maid combo. I’d love to have Staff.

*Guess who has the countdown widget on her Facebook profile?

I’m pretty sure my $20 has been turned into crack.

It’s been hot’n’heinous lately. In a vain attempt to keep from melting/swooning/dying in my very own living room (if I must make a headline, I don’t want it to be as a cat snack), I had the both the front and back doors open to catch any stray breezes*. Since this is Oakland, I had both doors locked.

One sultry afternoon, I was trying to convince myself that the heat was an anomaly, it’s much worse where people have real weather, etc. when there was a pounding on the front door.

A tall, skinny, older African-American man stood there. Gasping slightly, he told me that he was my neighbor and needed $17.50 for a locksmith. His car keys were locked in his house and he needed to go and pick up his granddaughter. I asked him if he needed some water, but he said no. He offered me his driver’s license, which has an address on my street, and told me I could hold it until he brought the money back.

Caught off guard and slightly unnerved, I gave him $20. He gave me the license and ran down my steps, calling out, “I love you! I love you!”

I looked at the license. It expires in 2012, so it’s current, and the description and photo match the look of the guy. It’s been two or three days now, and I’m still mystified. It costs more than $20 to replace your license. Maybe it’s a scam and he has a bunch of fake ones he uses, or he stole it from someone else. Who knows?

Never a dull moment when you live in Oakland.

*The house appears to be set up for central heating and central air, but the central air doesn’t work. I called the landlord, who said vaguely that she had never used the central air, but if you open the front and back doors, you get “an awesome crossbreeze”. Thanks.

After complaining so bitterly about being delayed, I have a helluva nerve leaving you all in suspense for so long. All I can say is the Florida thing and the recent hellish heat wave robbed me of what little energy I had left. It was all I could do to keep up with work and whimper occasionally.

The plane left Tampa nearly three hours late. Once we neared Denver, the plane experienced an identity crisis: am I a plane? Am I a roller coaster? One of those horrifying rides you have to sign a waiver before getting on? The pilot blamed the boisterous bouncing on “microbursts”. I had never heard of them before, but as I considered my mortality, I thought they sounded like a new skin care product or maybe a laundry detergent (“Now with the power of microbursts!” “Cleans your skin with fruit extract microbursts!”).

The Denver airport was deserted, as I suspected. Took a cab to the Marriott, where the receptionist took one look at me and gave me a voucher for a free drink. Before she ran my credit card.

If I hadn’t just spent so much time in the staggering luxury of the Florida resort, this would have seemed like a pretty nice room to spend six hours in. Called Room Service and ordered a bottle of wine before the food. First things first. Tried to flip on TV for a much-needed re-run of something mindless. Didn’t work. Called my friend at the front desk.

Room Service brought the wrong wine. Eventually he returned with the right one and the TV repairman. By the time all this was straightened out and the bottle of wine empty, I had five hours to sleep before taking the shuttle back to the airport.

Looking out the window of the shuttle, I saw no signs of a mile high (or even half a mile high) city, just dead brown fields and dark grey sky. The Denver airport’s roof appeared to be made of a collection of weird white tents. The security line looked like those photos of people waiting for food in Communist Russia, right down to the hopeless expressions.

When I finally got through the metal detectors, it was more than half an hour later. The security guy gave me a hard time for putting my tiny Ziploc bag of toiletries on top of my iBook in the bin. I asked why, and he said it made it harder to scan. I pointed out that my completely opaque jacket was on top of my shoes, and that didn’t seem to be an issue.

This may have led to the ensuing bag search. He victoriously brandished my nearly empty tube of Tom’s of Maine all natural toothpaste and started explaining how many people make the mistake of not including their toothpaste in the Ziploc bag. I zipped up my bag and walked away in mid-speech, saying, “Throw it out. Just throw it out.” You’d have to be pretty creative and/or determined to blow up a plane with a teaspoon of baking soda toothpaste, but that’s just my opinion.

I never thought I’d be so happy to see Oakland.

Well, here I am at the Tampa (or as I’m beginning to think of it, Tampon) airport. Like Oakland, they don’t have a Red Carpet Club, but they do have WiFi.

I’ve already learned that my flight is delayed by over two hours, so I’ll miss my connecting flight in Denver, and eaten a vile, overpriced sandwich, so I might as well tell you all about it, what with all that time to kill.

This whole thing has been a fiasco from the get-go, so I don’t know why I’m surprised. I do know why I’m annoyed, though.

I got to the airport in good time for my flight, which should have left at 5:30 pm. The departures board showed the flight was delayed, but not by how long. I called United and learned it was two hours, hence the missing of the connecting flight.

I pointed out to the agent that this kind of thing is why airlines take your email address and cell phone number: presumably to notify you of such minor details. I just checked my email and I remain un-notified. I’ve been using my phone enough to know I don’t have a text or voicemail. And you’d think putting the new and worse departure time on the board would be possible with all this modern technology and everything.

Everything is sold out going to SF, Oakland, or San Jose from Denver tonight. Agent Genius suggested that I ask a United ticketing agent when I get there, at 9:35 tonight (or possibly later) and ask them to find me a hotel. I asked if the ticketing desks would still be open then, and guess what? They won’t. But I can flag any passing United person and ask them!

I decided to call someone who is actually in the US and whose first language is actually English to help me out: our assistant in Detroit. She booked me on a flight that leaves Denver at 8:25 am tomorrow and gets into Oakland at 10:02 am – only 12 hours after the time I was supposed to arrive – and reserved a room at the airport Marriott.

So all I have to do now is wait and hope that 7:30 really means 7:30.

Stay tuned (and wish me luck)!

The Oakland airport is much smaller and less crowded than SFO. This means you can breeze through security after the usual exotic dance routine. Once you do, though, you soon discover that there is no Red Carpet Club, so you have to sit sadly at the gate, where you are tortured by an endless loop of Muzak. The Muzak is punctuated by security announcements about abandoned luggage, which can be “inspected, searched [what’s the difference?], damaged, or removed”. I also wondered about the “damaged” part, whether that means blowing it up, or, say, kicking it around.

Yes, I had too much time to kill at the gate.

Once aboard, I was delighted to discover that I had an entire row to myself. I was less delighted to discover that the father of a small child sitting in front of me had decided to equip his son with a harmonica for the voyage. I imagine that I was not the only one.

As for the Denver to Tampa flight, I’m not sure which was worse: flying through a thunderstorm with all that lightning, or the screaming kids. Since the FAA is always making new rules to make air travel less comfortable, how about one to make it better? I have three options for the powers that be to choose from:

1. Build a soundproof room at the back of the plane to accommodate people travelling with children;
2. Enact a rule that children must be sedated, crated, and placed in cargo, along with the other pets (this could have a snappy title like “Sedate’n’Crate” for marketing purposes – it might really catch on); or
3. Equip flight attendants with tranquilizer darts like on Wild Kingdom.

Banning harmonicas goes without saying.

Being met by the chauffeur was as fabulous as I thought. After the horrors of the planes, it was heavenly to be ensconced in the cool quiet of the Town Car and sped through the dark, balmy night to the fancy resort.

On checking in, the front desk apologized profusely for the suite, whose balcony faces (gasp!) the lagoon, instead of the beach (as seen above). They are moving me to the beach suite later on today, but all I have to do is leave my bag and they?ll take care of it, so I can ?enjoy my day?. I could get used to this.

I went outside this morning to leave offerings for Grey Cat, and was astonished to see a hearse speeding down my street, its tires squealing as it went around the corner. A speeding hearse is a strange sight indeed.

About a week ago, I started leaving food and water under the porch for Grey Cat, a handsome stray who often suns himself on my garage roof. It occurred to me that he might be having a hard time finding water now that the winter rains are over and we might have to start rationing soon. And if I’m leaving water, why not food?

I wasn’t sure if he was the one emptying out the bowls, but this morning, I saw his tail slipping under the porch, and the kittens watched carefully. Eventually, he emerged and had a bath, which made me happy. I hope that eventually I can get close enough to pet him and maybe even get him to the vet for a check-up and spay/neuter. He can be my outside cat. I should think of a better name than Grey Cat, though.

I should also get packing for this Florida thing. I’m hoping to get by with carry-on, since I get to Tampa at 9 pm and then have an hour’s drive to the resort where the conference is being held. Apparently they are going to send a car for me, which is the most exciting part of the trip so far. I’ve always wanted to be one of those people who are met at the airport by a chauffeur holding a sign. I can pretend to be a movie star!

Yesterday, I printed out the agenda, and it is disturbingly full of cocktails and assorted social events. As you all know by now, I am by no means cocktail-averse, but I have never liked drinking with coworkers. I don’t know what’s worse: seeing your boss tipsy, or having him/her experience your alcohol (in)tolerance. At my old job, there was a guy who got so tanked at our yearly conference that he peed in the bar manager’s office, mistaking it for the bathroom. More than a decade later, I still remember this event, and I’m not the only one, since it came up every year at annual conference time.

So I think I’ll stick to soda water and avoid disgracing myself any further than I already will by not being an actual grown-up. If anyone asks me about it, I’ll get all tragic and murmur “rehab” and “recovery” and see how embarrassed they get.

I was drinking coffee this morning, minding my own business and slowly coming to the conclusion that it’s really waking up, not breaking up, that’s hard to do, when I heard a noise. I went to investigate, and both kittens cannoned into me en route. It soon became clear why they were running so fast: they were fleeing the scene of the crime.

They had torn the shade of the floor lamp in the living room in two. The bottom half pooled sadly on the floor, and the top half hung there dejectedly.

While inspecting the damage and wondering if I could get a new shade, or would have to invest in a whole new lamp, I noticed a guy going through my recycling. Not only was he investigating the contents of the recycling cart with the thoroughness of J. Edgar Hoover perusing JFK’s file, he was tossing the rejects on my driveway.

Stealing my recycling is one thing, but making a mess for me to clean up while doing it is something else. You know how I feel about cleaning up my own untidiness; cleaning up someone else’s is unconscionable.

I went outside and yelled at him to leave. He just stared at me. I made a shooing gesture and repeated my order to vacate the premises. He retreated a few feet, then stopped and stared again, inspiring an encore from me. He finally shuffled off to the corner, where he met up with a fellow thief/mess-maker, and pointed at me before they went to see if there were easier pickings somewhere else.

A few hours later, a woman appeared at my door and said she was there to provide elder services. I do have a birthday coming up next month, but I’m not that old. Not yet. I explained to her that I was the oldest person here and she must have the wrong address.

Maybe the recycling guy called her on me, like kids playing a prank on their neighbors by sending them lots of pizza.

I tried to open the comments again, but not surprisingly (given my complete and total lack of any kind of techperstise whatsoever), it didn’t work. I’ll have to call Movable Type and/or find some tech savvy kindergartener to fix it for me.

I can’t stand the thought of calling MT, because I’ve spent most of the day on the phone with faceless corporations, unmaking and remaking reservations to go to Florida against my will. Against my will, because it’s for a conference, and it’s on the other side of the country. Before you get all excited about the Florida thing, remember that I already have sun and ocean, and I’d have to travel 3,500 miles for more of the same. Plus uncomfortable work clothes and, you know, work.

The whole thing started when I foolishly booked my tickets on Expedia. The confirmation I received from them showed me leaving Oakland at 2 pm on May 4, and arriving in Tampa at 12:30 AM on May 4. Not humanly possible, I think most of us would agree, unless I have secret (even to me) powers over the space-time continuum. The reservation should have been leaving May 3, arriving 4. Given that the conference starts on May 4, there’s no way I would have booked the tickets to arrive the day after it starts. Clearly, the problem here is not my lack of techpertise, but a problem with Expedia’s system, which allows hapless travellers to reserve tickets that have him/her arriving 14 hours before s/he leaves.

Quite a trick.

Another good one is the choices you get.

1. Change ticket to the originally requested dates. This costs $150, plus a $30 Expedia-induced processing fee, plus the difference in fare, if there is any after all those fees. The value of the ticket is $295.
   
2. Get a “credit” for the ticket, which must be used within one year. Oh, and when you use it, there’s a $100 fee, or approximately one third the value of the ticket.

I selected option 2 as the marginally less painful of the two screwings offered. In both scenarios, Expedia/United have been paid for a service they failed to provide, because of their error. They each blame each other, by the way. And I get to pay $100 not to go to Florida.

Or so I thought.

I cancelled everything, and the guy actually giving the conference, a Fromage Grand in this tiny business world, called me personally and begged me to come. He even said he was a close personal friend of my boss, etc., etc. and agreed to pay all expenses. Even he could do nothing about the greedheads at Expedia and United, but presumably he also suffers from being only human. In return, I have to bring him a box of See’s chocolates, specifically, “the good ones”, Nuts & Chews. I have the nuts part covered.

Lilacs in my sister’s garden

Country walks always sound good until I actually go on one. I have noticed the same thing about herbal tea – well, pretty much all tea. It sounds delicious but is actually not. Unlike, say, an espresso. Or a glass of wine. So I like the idea of strolling through the primeval redwoods with the people I love most, but the reality is more like slipping and scrabbling through the dirt and fallen needles while complaining bitterly. And sweating. Ick.

Nature is gross. Shopping is so much better.

Actually, there was a little bit of fun shopping, at Tangents in Fort Bragg (which I usually refer to as “the cute store”), but it was mostly errands, like the Safeway. At the Safeway, I was horrified to note premixed cans of beer and Clamato juice. What the…

Not even a country slip’n’slide could make that seem like a good idea.

I stopped for gas in Boonville, and it was $4.14 a gallon. It was a mere $3.83 in Cloverdale, though, so guess where I filled up?

And of course, I had lunch at the Hamburger Ranch and Pasta Farm. Did you even have to ask?

When I got home, I discovered that I could not get into my house. The lock just kept turning around and around, but refused to unlock. I ended up climbing in one of the living room windows. I don’t know whether I should be relieved or disappointed that no-one called the ever-present po-lice on me. Hmmm.

I called the locksmith, who came over right away and changed the locks. He thought they were probably original, 85 years old, so no wonder they died. He suggested getting locks for the living room windows (you think?), which, on closer inspection, turned out to be the only room in the house that was lock-free. Not even a trace of ghosts of locks past on the four windows. Hmmm.

Getting window locks is now a matter of some urgency, since I’m going to Florida on Saturday for a conference. Now I know from personal experience that the windows can be climbed through with impunity, it makes me a little nervous.

Highway 128 through the redwoods

This is the pretty part of the (long) drive to my sister’s house. Most of it is 580 and 101, San Quentin and auto malls and other non-scenic things. As soon as you leave the Hamburger Ranch and Pasta Farm onto 128, things get a lot prettier. And a lot quieter.

So now you know where I’ll be later on today. Our family friend Paul is visiting from Florida – he let me stay with him for a couple of months a few winters ago, and get this: he still likes me – and we’re driving up together to spend a few days with my sister and my brother. There will be a few stops along the way, essential things like Trader Joe’s and Gowan’s farm stand, and probably the Hamburger Ranch, but sometime this afternoon we’ll be ensconced in my sister’s garden, smelling the lilacs and laughing. Rumor has it that she’s making some kind of fancy chicken dinner, too.

As you probably all know by now, the internet connection there is approximately the speed of a very lazy or comatose snail, so you’ll have to wait until my return to hear all about it. In the meantime, have fun, and if you get into trouble, blog all about it!

Well, here I am at the Oakland office, awaiting the furniture delivery men. I am beginning to suspect that someone tipped them off to the narrow, though lovely, marble staircase and they’re saving me for last. Or going to every day laborer depot in the city, looking for someone else to do the lugging.

In the meantime, I could be sorting the mail and prospecting for carpet, but I’d rather tell you about the play and the police. Before I do, I will just mention what I can see from the office window.

It’s only the second floor, so even though the windows actually open, there’s no point in jumping out of them. Now, that’s a safety feature! From my perch above Dicker and Dicker of Beverly Hills, I can see boarded up buildings, including the Fox Theater, which is undergoing renovations, and hear the endless peeping of the traffic signals. I may lose what little is left of my mind after another hour or two of that. There is a shopping cart guy across the street, making a fashion statement by wearing nothing but shorts, flip-flops (or possibly no shoes, it’s hard to tell) and three wool hats. He is having an animated conversation with either the cart contents or his imaginary friend. Directly under the window, a couple is having a heated verbal battle, which is threatening to become threatening.

Maybe the furniture guys took one look and fled.

On Saturday, I fled Oakland for the more salubrious shores of San Francisco to take in the west coast d?but of Dennis Lehane’s first play, Coronado. Based on his short story, the best description might be noir – live action film noir, as it were. If you’ve read or seen Mystic River or Gone, Baby, Gone, you’ll know what to expect, as Lehane explores the dark side of the human heart. It was performed in a small theater, and that made it more intense – I felt as if I were part of these people’s damaged, yet fascinating lives.

The drama didn’t end with the play. After I had finally battled my way onto the bridge (you know it’s going to be bad when the onramp is bumper to bumper) and off the freeway, I turned onto the street next to mine. There were two cop cars, one on each side of the road. I stopped for a cop to cross the road, and was relieved to be waved on. I was less relieved to note four cop cars on my street, including a canine unit. That’s a lot of cops for two blocks. I still don’t know what happened, but they were there for more than an hour.

As of today, I’ve been blogging for seven, count ’em, seven years. That makes my blog ancient in internet terms. Probably 80 or so. And it may well explain why I seem to have run out of things to write about lately. I often think about stopping – surely close to a decade of frivolous nonsense is enough for anyone – but then something happens and I think, “I have to blog about that”, or I get an email or phone call from someone who’s read it and wants me to know s/he has enjoyed it. You realize that just encourages me, right? So for better or worse, for sillier or shallower, I’ll keep blogging. At least for now.

Fortunately, the heat wavelette last weekend seemed to be a fluke, and/or was sent packing by the powers that be to places that are used to that kind of thing (Africa, for instance, though it’s possible Tarzan couldn’t have taken that kind of heat – at least inside, close to midnight), and we’re back to the standard weather of sunny skies and 60 to 70 degrees during the day. The weather we all pay top dollar to live here for.

I took a day off from the three hour tour last week to go and buy furniture for our Oakland office. The differences between our San Francisco office and our Oakland office pretty much embody the basic differences between those two cities. SF: pretty, impressive, easy to get to, in the middle of everything. Oakland: not. It’s probably only fair to warn you that there’s a post on the horizon in which I break my rule against comparing and contrasting and do just that to the two cities. Guess who wins?

So instead of clopping through BART and the streets of San Francisco, I drove the highways and byways of the East Bay, desperately seeking Staples and Office Depot. I bought a desk, a chair, and a filing cabinet to join the desk, chair and heaps of mail currently in place at the office. I’m hoping to actually – and I realize this is a radical, radical notion – get the mail sorted and put away one of these days. It might be nice to see what color the carpet is.

I arranged to have the furniture delivered tomorrow. Much like the cable company, they believe in picture windows of time. Sometime between 10 and 5. I split the time with my partner/boss, and somehow I got stuck with the early shift. I can use the time to open and sort the mail. I know, I know, you all wish you were me now. The usual.

The office is in a historic building downtown, about a block away from the splendid Paramount Theater. The ground floor has an outlet/outpost of Dicker & Dicker of Beverly Hills, though few places could be further from Beverly Hills than downtown Oakland. I’m almost positive that game shows when I was a kid used to have prizes of furs from Dicker & Dicker of Beverly Hills. However, I expect that the lack of an elevator will be more interesting to the delivery men, and I doubt that they will be impressed by the white marble stairs with their elaborate wrought-iron railings.