Well, it looks as if I’m not getting the furniture I was promised. Let’s just say, something strange happened on the way to the truck.

The renowned Damask sofa, fresh from the cleaners, is still lolling in the warehouse refusing to come out.  My friends, who were giving her to me, staffed its delivery to a woman working for them who apparently has better things to do.

Call me crazy, but if you work for someone who gives you a task, don’t you graciously, or in this case, resentfully, execute it?  When I mentioned this, the bottom fell out of the tub, to quote my friend, Abe Lincoln.

“I have no control over what anyone else does,” said my sofa connection.

“But she works for you.”

“And your point is?”.

“She works for you?  You pay her to assist…help, cross the finish line of errands well done?”

See, I never should have picked up the rope, as they say in 12 Step.  If Miss, where is my sofa, kept silent, maybe she could still be wooed from the warehouse, like Marilyn Monroe when she wouldn’t come out of her dressing room.

“Come on now Soph, stick out those big cushions of yours and give us your best big girl smile.”

I may be going round the bend, no surprise there, just thought I’d be doing it lying on a sofa.


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Hash Wednesday

Yeah I know, such blasphemy, sacrilege and impiety.  Three great words, even if they imply I should be happily drawn and quartered?

That said…

Today is Ash Wednesday, the first day of Lent, where Christians of all sex, I mean sects, troop to mass to get their annual cross the size of Montana smudged onto their foreheads.

Ashes to ashes, dust to dust…always gives me the insatiable urge to Swiff.

It’s the kick-off to penitence: fasting, abstaining from favorite things like chocolate and margaritas, and we mustn’t forget service to the 20th degree.  Donning a hair-shirt would not be discouraged by the good old Catholic Church.

I’m surprised they don’t sell them at

Truth be told, I was the queen of self-flogging for most of my life.  Thanks to my dear mother wielding God like an Uzi, I was devout from plain fear.  When you’re told at 3 God will strike you dead of you don’t eat your vegetables, you take it pretty seriously.

So now, though I do believe in a power greater than myself, same as Jefferson, which could qualify me as a deist, I no longer go for ashes.

Deism…belief in the existence of a supreme being, specifically of a creator who does not intervene in the universe.

Layman’s language:  God will not stab you if you choose not to eat your spinach.

My biggest beef with the Vatican besides its miserly wealth and ongoing cover-ups, is the guilt it instills in its faithful followers believing fear of God is fundamental.

e13c484535b9fb68e95ac6ae74acd11b And there is that horrendous ash horrifying your face you’re not supposed to wash off, to fade on its own.  Yeah, well…I always got around that by going late in the day and showering, chronically forgetting about the fading part.


Hey, can a model walk in with Father Flanagan’s massive thumb print across her temple?  Maybe if she were a toll collector, or coal miner whose ash would, let’s face it, be rather redundant.

Blasphemy, sacrilege, impiety.

I have two more words for those participating in today’s ritual…

Elizabeth Arden.

I hear they’re running a two-for-one, deep pore, ash-less special through Saturday.

Just tell Liz, Susannah sent you.





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Audrey’s In The House

I’m not much into decorating as a rule, but suddenly I’m rivaling Martha Stewart.

I already have lots of artwork for my many walls.  Never being able to afford a masterpiece, I’d find a cheap, old magazine cover, poster or photograph then frame it lavishly.

It’s all about the packaging.

So…my bedroom is more or less at its fighting weight…done…a fait accompli, but needing a little salt and pepper, as my pal Camille would say.

I  already have two great pictures of Audrey Hepburn.  A Town and Country cover, getPart-1and one from Life Magazine getPartthat raise the bar, I so wish was open, considerably. 

But, can you really have too much Audrey?

It’s amazing what you find online when you do a search.  Funny Face, a musical, is one of my favorite Audrey films when she’s practically drugged to Paris to model for Fred Astaire whose character is loosely based on fashion icon Richard Avedon, who actually was a consultant on the film.  It’s kitschy and silly,  breathtakingly beautiful making you want to don a beret and hop the next plane to Paree.

I decided my Amish bedroom needed a sprinkle of our girl.

The 8 by 10 print, with tax, came to less than 5 bucks.  The framing?  Well, that’s another story even with my best Monty Hall, Let’s Make a Deal, persona I only haul out on special occasions.  Offering cash always helps.

So, once again packaging had the last say.

Say hello to Audrey.    getPart-2



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Let A Man Be A Man

Have you ever heard the expression…

Do someone you love a favor, leave them alone?

I’ve often wondered if women with men know how lucky they are especially if they’re decent and kind.  I see so many twisted relationships based more on money than love.  Yeah I know, Susannah you’re not in Kansas anymore, and all I can say to that is, it’s a cryin shame.

A couple I’ve known for 20 years who have had a very long marriage, are having problems.  I’ve sat with Mandy, I’ll call her, on a bench in the park numerous times while she complains about Roger.

Now I’ve learned to say nothing…listening, only responding when asked, not easy when you’re observing a train wreck.  She just won’t let him be.  He tends a garden at a schoolyard, a pure labor of love that from his efforts, looks like Eden, it’s so verdant and flush.  While he works the earth, she sits there like his mother, eyeing his every move.  The man is 67 years-old.  Does she think he’s going to run off with a rose bush?

You see that’s the key right there.  Don’t treat a man like your son.  Let men be men, and I’m the first to say they’re far from perfect, but they do have qualities that can take you over the moon.

I’m an old-fashioned girl.  I like when a man steps up for me, opens the door, helps me out of a cab.  Chivalry, when spotted, should be swooned over, not shredded.  Mandy, who in her day was quite the vamp, doesn’t allow Roger his manhood.  You can hear his balls clinking around in her oversized Prada purse.

I invited them to my new house, for wine I said.  Roger, all smiles said, “oh, we’d love to come.”  Next time I saw Mandy, she chased me up the street.  “You can’t have him over..he’s not supposed to drink.  You need to take back the invitation.”

If I told you her behavior turned my stomach, I wouldn’t be exaggerating.

Again I said nothing, but my heart quietly strolled over to Roger’s side of the fence.

Another friend I have is not well, and he too has a very dominating wife who rules the roost without taking very good care of him, yet up his ass like a proctor exam scrutinizing his every move.  I’d like to take both these women and crash their heads together like a couple of coconuts.

If they only knew how much more alluring they’d be if they just gave their misters a little wiggle room.

Do someone you love a favor, leave them alone, then watch what happens.

Those roses will bloom, only for you.   images-1



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A Rose By My Bed

For as far back as I can remember, there was nothing as lovely, when you first opened your eyes, than a pale, pink rose greeting you like the sun.

It was as if nature stopped by for a chat.

My new place, still in progress, was treated to one by Tony the florist, who, when he saw me passing by, jumped from his sweet little shop to present me with a real showstopper.  I was thrilled knowing how beautiful it would look.

Then memories came flooding back to join nature’s table.

There wasn’t a time I visited Bill Hicks in the assortment of hotel rooms we’d canoodle in where there wasn’t a long stem rose by my side of the bed.  Over twenty years later, I still have all the vases lined up like little reliquaries in homage to that era.

Funny how such a small gesture can uncover a treasure that still means the world. getPart


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A Simple Negotiation

images There’s a guy in a wheelchair who panhandles in front of the Starbucks on my new corner.  He has one and a half legs, his stump featured in all weather.  After only a month, I’ve grown accustomed to seeing him.

I was once told, souls such as he are placed there by sponsors of sort, who collect their earnings at the end of the day for the exchange of room, board and quasi care.  Whether this is true or not, I can’t say.  But there he is, 9 till 5, like a regular work day right till that factory whistle blows.

It’s hard, as you can well imagine, for me to just walk by him.  He’s ornery on top of it.  Not the kinda guy who pries open your heart.

But then there is that stump.

Can’t imagine, as active as I am, not to have two full legs.  This is what got me to stop on a rainy Monday to ask, “Did you eat today?”

He gave me a sneer wiping his nose on his hoodie sleeve before saying, “Nope, I ain’t had nothin.”

“Okay…what would you like?” I said, donning my Good Semaritan hat.

“A cheese buga and fras,” he said, like I was his waitress at McDonald’s.

“Where can I get that?”

“Over there,” he says, without pointing in any specific direction.

“Hmm.  Over there seems pretty vague,” I say, not willing to travel to Chicago to feed this guy.

“How bout some soup?” eyeing Panera around the corner, knowing I had a gift card.

“Soup? I hate soup.”

“Okay then, how bout this.  How do you like your coffee?”

Without blinking an eye he says, “light, 6 sugas.”

I disappear into Starbucks coming back with a grande special with enough sugar to launch him into space, and he says, “dud a doughnut come with dat?”

Just another day folks, in the Naked City.



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Bianchi Lanes

images-2 My apartment is at a standstill, still waiting for the couch to arrive. Rumor has it, it’s in Vegas playing the slots.

When I look into the living room, the term space takes on all new meaning thinking, hey..maybe I should rent it out, or plant a few trees.

I’m not used to relying on other people, issue number one.  Efficiency is my middle name so this decorator’s limbo I’m in feels strange, like I’m marinating in hot sauce.

Focus on the positive, it’s been suggested.  Since when do you care about furniture anyway?


Now…now that I’ve won more than the Home Jeopardy Game, and to be quite honest, it pisses me off.  I don’t want to give a shit about inanimate objects that, let’s face it, couldn’t give a shit about me.  I kinda miss my beat-up desk with the grape juice stains along the front, this recent acquisition being Queen Elizabeth in comparison.


How did I become so fucking legitimate?

There was something to be said for being Bonnie Parker.



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Almost Had A Cat

I emptied a closet so he’d have his own, made a list of all he’d need.  Even bought a snazzy dish I found in a thrift store.  I was all ready.

Snowdon the puma was going to be mine.

Then I had a house visit from the rescue squad.  Let me say, when you’re invited to someone’s home you should remember to bring along your manners.  If squirrels came, they would have behaved better.

This woman who kept me waiting for over an hour, finally arrived like a storm.  She put her hands on my freshly painted walls dropping her many satchels like air bags before saying…so where are your windows?

Where most windows would be?

Cats are apparently famous for jumping out, and after meeting this woman, I totally understood since she has 8 in her care.  I envisioned them with tiny parachutes leaping for their lives.

All of my windows have screens except for one pane.  They are encasement windows which means, they open out, not up.  She said, even after I told her I’m alone most of the time and would promise not to open this one lonely pane, it’s not acceptable.

I’ll come over and put up window guards, she said, without even asking.

But I don’t want window guards, and you need to trust me that I won’t open that window because I’d never hurt this cat I so thought I wanted till I met you.

Then of course my insecurity kicked up, thinking my home wasn’t a safe environment.

Why do these rescue people make it so hard treating you like the John Dillinger of adopters putting you through the wringer for no good reason.  I get the vetting process, that’s a good thing, but their technique could use some serious tweaking.

Needless to say, I am not getting Snow, unless it falls from the sky.

Such a shame, really, since I’m the most loving person on the planet, especially animal wise.  Any four-legged creature who ends up with me will have won a contest.

If only Carmela the basset hound could be one of my references, she’d certainly tell them.

“She even put cold compresses on my head when it was hot.  Rubbed my belly to make me laugh…and of course tickled my ears because how could you not.  Yes, Susannah rocks from here to the Grand Ole Opry.”

Yeah, if only.

So farewell Lord Snowdon.  I pray you get a good home.  Remember, we’ll always have Paris, I mean Petco.

Yeah, if only.  Ya hear that?  It’s my heart breaking.getPart I visited him every day for two weeks, we got along….sigh


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An Elegant Man

What constitutes one…let’s see all parts creating the whole.

images-6  13847794f236174c05aa4c2b88606dea-1  images-3  images-1

There has to be an air to him, whether he’s in a fine suit or a pair of chinos.  The way he carries himself is important.  I know deportment sounds like bullshit from a finishing school, but it does have its point.  There’s nothing more of an eyesore than a man with bad posture, like he’s hiding something between his shoulder blades.

Clean clothes also make the difference.  Have you ever faced a guy across a table with stains on his shirt?  My mother comes to life when it takes everything I have not to spit on a napkin and rub them off.  A girl doesn’t need to know what you had for lunch at dinner.

Also, a man who takes the time to clean and press tolls self-worth like the bells at Notre Dame.   getPart(My friend Ed)

Women like a confident male, as long as he doesn’t boast from the appetizer clear through to dessert.  It’s more in his demeanor than speech.  Then it works the opposite.  His need to bray translates into insecurity.  OOH…THE LAST THING A WOMAN WANTS TO HEAR (or in my case, sort of hear).

And last but not least, good manners.  I met a man I like, alas, though taken, for a drink at a nearby cafe who stood up as I entered.  You want to turn a girl on?  Treat her like a lady.  It’s the nicest thing you could do for her.  My femininity is rusty, and not because I’m wearing overalls and driving a Harley, I’m still quite the girl, just not where men are concerned.  When my hearing went south, so did my colors folding like old Confederate flags.

One of those flags fluttered while getting dressed pointing to a favorite black dress I slipped into like an old friend who came a’callin.  Sleek black hose, pumps…a Jackie scarf tied around my neck.

There was indeed a lady in the house.

My friend in his crisp white, open-collared (stainless) button-down beneath a deep navy blazer, a pocket scarf winking from its pocket, looked like a Polo ad with a slice of Tom Ford tossed in.

The definition of elegance, according to Webster’s…pleasingly graceful and stylish in appearance or manner.  Dignity, poise, refinement and taste.  Sophistication, charm, culture and allure.  Polish, panache, dash and pluck.

Words that dazzle before a man or woman even tries them on.

There’s something to be said for taking the time to don that dress or fold one’s pocket scarf.  A respect of sorts for oneself and those in your company.

As I faced my friend while he ordered for two, I remembered what it was like to be treated like a woman, by a man with distinction, a healthy sense of self and a wine list.  images-7




Posted in alcohol, Beauty, Connecticut, dessert, Fashion, food, friendship, humor, men, money, New York City, sexual relationships, Women and men, words | Tagged , , , , | 28 Comments

Tatters of the Heart

images My friend Joan and I were discussing how weepy we’ve become in our twilight years, how everything seems to make us cry.

We’re like those old AT&T commercials, when the son surprises his mom on Christmas, or the dog jumping in the suitcase cause the kid’s leaving for school.

Sentiment has become our drug of choice.

I have a good friend who recently had a triple bypass healing down south.  He told me in an email, his chest is so tender, a T-shirt even hurts.

I remembered J. Crew Men’s makes a soft, cotton one, two in a pack, so I called to order them for him.  Clearly the boy who took the call was very young.  You heard it in his voice, that…this is my first job sound, striving to be professional and efficient, practically to a fault.

We discussed my order in depth uncertain of the size and agreed, for comfort under the circumstances, the bigger the better.

My friend, who I’ll call Max, is a handsome, hulking guy, former Ford model, top of the heap in his time and one of the kindest people on the planet.

The salesman, after placing the order said, “I’m waving shipping for Max.”

Yeah, you guessed it.  I sobbed.



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