What is this feeling?

For the past week I’ve noticed a persistent lightening of the spirit. Yesterday I realized I’ve been suffering from a malaise brought on by an absolute mistrust of the people running the country. I didn’t even know how much my psyche had been affected by Bush, Cheney, Rove, etc. until the election was decided. I lost the sense of resignation that I didn’t even realize had been weighing me down.

Obama and his administration will screw up too but I can’t believe it will be anywhere close to the massive incompetency and clandestine machinations we’ve been subjected to over the past two terms. It’s like grown-ups are in charge again – leaders that can put together coherent sentences with real words that actually convey complete thoughts. If that makes me a snobby elitist, I’m willing to accept that -- doesn’t make me a pseudo-American, Governor Palin.

That the American public cares so much about what the President-Elect can do before inauguration is testament to the debacle of this administration. Seriously, I can’t remember any other President-Elect being asked about anything, outside of staff and cabinet appointments, before inauguration.

So, I’m looking forward to the next four years as the country begins digging itself out of the hole it’s been plunged into.

WTF? over.

I don't get it. I just don't get it.

All we've heard about for two weeks is that if the bailout bill doesn't pass congress, and fast, we'll all be wishing we hadn't thrown away that refrigerator box.

Apparently the House didn't like the idea of spending $700 billion to save investment banks so they turned up their noses, crossed their arms and said, "no." Then the Senate got hold of the bill, added enough crap to it to bring the total up to $850 billion, passed it and sent it back to the House. The House's response, "NOW, THAT'S MORE LIKE IT!"

Hallelujah! ... Happy Days Are Here Again ... popping corks ... WOO HOO!

But wait a minute, what's up with the market? While the bill was being debated in the House, the Dow was up 300 points. After it passed, the Dow was down 157 points.

Erm, excuse me, what ...? I don't ...? Huh?

Suburban Agriculture

Gardening is not for wusses. Being a wuss myself, I can speak with some authority on this subject. I was dubbed the child with the green thumb at an early age and clung to the title. Being the third of four kids, I eagerly latched onto any characteristic that distinguished me from the pack. I lost my dog last year but gained a back yard. It was impossible to grow anything other than grass back there while Alistair was alive. Alistair of the toxic urine. He peed an apple tree to death for gosh shakes. And, he totally corroded the lower hinge on the gate. That hinge looked like it came up from the Titanic when it finally just crumbled. Don’t even ask about the air conditioner.

Anyway, the garden. It’s very small -- only 8’ x 10’. I planted it with tomatoes, okra, onions, lettuce, beans, peppers and zucchini. The zucchini was a bust. I got one before it died in captivity after putting up a rabbit-proof fence (more about that later). Zucchini does not like to be penned in. One plant apparently needs about 50 square feet to be happy. It didn’t go down alone, however. It launched a hostile takeover of the beans’ territory. While it was busy stunting them, it left its rear unprotected and that’s when the fence slipped in cutting off any chance for retreat. The zucchini chose death over surrender.

Back to the rabbit proof fence. It falls under the “Seemed like a good idea at the time” category. The fence lived up to its name and kept the rabbits out. Unfortunately the three foot high fence was more than my five foot frame could handle. The first time I fell trying to step over it was because my shoelace got caught in it. Fortunately, being only five feet tall, I don’t have far to fall. The second time I fell the fence teamed up with the bird netting I’d spread over the tomatoes. This time my foot got tangled in the netting as I was stepping over the fence with an armful of tomatoes and okra. I lost my balance as I was trying to free my foot. As I crashed through the fence the produce was flung into the air and rained down all around my prostrate body. My finger was caught in the netting and as I sat up, the tent stake anchoring the end of the fence popped out and came whizzing by my head. bugger. The netting ripped my fingernail off halfway down the nail bed. (You just cringed, don’t lie.) I looked at the nail and knew it was going to hurt and bleed like hell once it figured out what just happened. I was right. I gathered up my veggies and limped back into the house, trying not to drip blood on the floor. I made my husband cut the rest of the nail off, went to bed and slept for three hours. Proportionately I think the injury I sustained in my 8 x 10 garden is the equivalent of a farmer having his arm wripped off in a thrasher. We took the fence down and I have yet to see a rabbit in the garden. However, I do think I heard snickering coming from the bushes when I fell.

Catch-Up

I guess I should try to catch up some on da bloggin’. Let’s see since April I’ve:

· Visited my daughter in New York – all by myself.
· Taken a world literature course – aced it.
· Grown ‘maters and other veggies – without insecticides.
· Saved the lives of three birds so far that have gotten trapped in the bird netting covering the aforementioned ‘maters.
· Become grandmother to one dog and two cats – Delta, the chocolate lab adopted by my son and Marlon and Orson, the obese cats adopted by my daughter.
· Gone to a 4-day work week – love it, love it, loooovvvve it!

I’ll start with New York. A mere three weeks after returning from France, I was off to New York. My daughter’s roommate was out of town so I even had my own room. I booked Super Shuttle for the trip from the airport and, though it took a bit longer, cost less than half as much as a taxi from LaGuardia. While my daughter was at work the next day, I did a little grocery shopping (I emphasize little because the apartment is a 6th floor walk-up). In the store, I managed to bash my shin into a carton of canned goods while simultaneously getting a cramp in the other foot. I limped home and up the 5 flights of stairs and promptly got my finger wedged in the door jamb. Don’t ask me how. I was not off to a good start. I spent the rest of the day puttering around the apartment and managed to not injure myself any further.

That night I went, by myself, to a Broadway play – “August, Osage County.” I noticed when I emerged from the Time Square subway stop that there were a lot of sailors around. I wracked my brain; wasn’t there a reference to this in an episode of “Sex and the City?” What did they call it? Oh yeah, “Fleet Week.” There were sailors in their whites everywhere and most of them were easy on the eyes. The novelty wore off pretty fast because they were adding to an already crowded area and were in my way. I now really, really, really hate going to Time Square but, unfortunately, you have to if you’re going to one of the Broadway theaters. The play was fantastic and I got home a little after midnight.

I also saw a new musical, “Passing Strange,” this time with my daughter. It was very good also. The rest of the visit was spent going to the Metropolitan Museum, walking the Brooklyn Bridge, helping out with a wine & cheese party my daughter gave on the roof, going to dinner on Memorial Day at the apartment of friends (wonderfully cool people – and excellent cooks), shopping and just hanging out with my daughter in the city.

We were resting on a park bench when we encountered the most gimped-up pigeons I’ve ever seen. One of them had a foot problem (it was missing) that was cringe-worthy. Another had hairy legs. I shit you not. I started referring to him as the “werepigeon.” It was like they were trying to freak us out ‘cause they wouldn’t go away – and there was an old lady feeding pigeons on the bench across from us. I’ve posted a picture of the werepigeon.

At the end of my visit, I Super Shuttled back to LaGuardia and that trip wasn’t quite as smooth as the one from LaGuardia. The shuttle was an hour late and it took forever to get to the airport. The fact that it was the handicapped van added, I’m guessing, about an hour to the trip. I still got to the airport in plenty of time. We sat on the tarmac so long before takeoff, I fell asleep. When I awoke I thought I’d slept through the whole flight and we’d already landed in Memphis. Nope, we were still waiting the take off. The pilot got on the intercom and bitched about how LaGuardia, like most of the east coast airports, had only two runways, a crazy amount of air traffic, and how we’d burned $1,200 worth of jet fuel waiting in line. I had to run to my gate in Memphis and was the last one on the plane, but I made it. Seriously, I can’t wait to go again.

Humbling experiences

A few humorous/embarrassing moments:

There’s a public toilet in Monaco close to the bus stop on the pier. I decided to avail myself of it before we began the trek up the hill to Monaco-Ville. I deposited my .30 euro and opened the door to the unisex facility noticing it was a hole-in-the-floor model -- my first. Then the door closed and I was in darkness. I guess the light was out. I tried the door handle but it was locked. I started groping along the walls feeling for a light switch. My eyes began to adjust to the dark and I could make out, with the help of a little light coming in along the floor a big red button next to the door. Pushing it unlocked the door. I opened it and used the light to size up the situation. The toilet was modern and clean and there was a horseshoe shaped bar that could be used as a toilet seat recessed into the wall that could be lowered by pressing a button and pulling the seat down. The sign also claimed the seat would raise automatically. When I felt secure enough in my surroundings I closed the door, lowered the bar, perched on the edge (it was high and I feared the seat would automatically snap back to it’s original position) and went about my business. Unfortunately, sitting so far forward, I was only in the general vicinity of the hole and let me tell you, there’s quite a splatter range when piss hits stainless from a height of about 2 ½ feet. I’m just glad I was wearing capris.

Yesterday on our sojourn back from Gordes we took a wrong turn in one of the little towns. When we were circling around to try again, a woman jumped out of the car in front of us leaving the door open with a child inside. She ran straight to Dan’s window and started asking for directions in French. We couldn’t manage a sound. All we could do was stare stupidly with our mouths open and shoulders hunched. It took her a split second to realize she’d picked idiots to ask and ran to the car behind us. As we drove away I realized I had a map open in my lap.

There’s a small circus going on in the park behind our hotel. We were walking by the motor homes where the circus folk live the other night on our way back from dinner and some of them were hanging out in what appears to be a communal outdoor gathering spot. They mocked us (I think it was just Dan really). Let me tell ya, there’s nothing quite as degrading as being mocked by a French carny.

Dan stepped in dog shit. It was bound to happen. He was walking down the drive here when a car came along and he quickly stepped over into the median to get out of the way. That’s where he hit it. It wasn’t so much the stepping in the crap that was funny so much as the little shitslip/slide to the side. Some people here do clean up after their dogs but they leave the bags-o-crap laying on the sidewalk. I guess they have shit pixies here that come by and pick them up.

Gordes

Our trip to Gordes in Provence was our longest car trip. It took about 2 ½ hours to get there driven mostly on the A8. This is similar to our interstates only it’s a toll road. When you’re traveling that far, the tolls really add up. I think the highest one we paid was 12.70 euro.

There was parking just on top of the hill so we didn’t have to climb into the town. We ate lunch at the café featured in the movie “A Good Year” and we photographed where various scenes were shot. The town is quite picturesque and we roamed around the very steep streets for a couple of hours. We had an ice cream and decided to go to see the bories which are dry stone huts -- some built centuries ago. We discovered there was one right in our car park so just photographed it instead of going to the historic borie village (saving us some euros). They all look pretty much the same.

We decided to drive back to Monaco on the N7 which is like our state highways and have no tolls. It was a much more enjoyable, if quite a bit longer drive. The highway was lined with old sycamores and vineyards most of the way. We passed a large field of purple iris. We went through town after town, all with a number of roundabouts. They were landscaped, some quite elaborately. Dan merrily pirouetted his way across Provence. He then drove on the Bord de Mer (the coastal highway) from St. Raphael to Cannes. This road was slow going, even though we seemed to be speeding along, with lots of hairpin curves along the sides of mountains with nothing but the Mediterranean below. We decided to get back onto the A8 at Cannes as the sun was beginning to set and a fog was rolling in off the water. Plus, I was getting nauseous. The trip back took about 5 hours.

Top photo is from the drive on the N7 showing the sycamores and the bottom is the town of Gordes from a flanking hill.

Street singer in Antibes

We climbed up to the old part of the town (Monaco-Ville) where the Palais Princier, Musee Oceanographique, cathedral and tourist shops. We toured the palace where the royal family still resides. The part on the tour is opulent and includes the throne room where, among others, there is a huge portrait of Prince Rainier, Princess Grace and their children. The tombs of the past princes are in the cathedral. Flowers are left on Prince Ranier’s and Princess Grace’s -- mostly roses on her's.
We got a couple of sandwiches and sat on a bench across from a low wall overlooking the Mediterranean. There are large gulls here, or maybe they’re albatross’ and one landed on the wall next to a couple across from us that were also enjoying a picnic. They were sitting on the wall with their food spread out between them. The gullatross sat on the wall behind the woman for a little while until shooed away. He then landed just on the other side of the wall so that his head and neck were all that was visible sticking up just behind their food. I half expected him to say, “Mine!” like the stupid gulls in Finding Nemo. I was hoping the couple would look away so that I could see him steal some of their lunch but it didn’t happen. He really was a pretty bird. His head was snow white and there was a red half circle on his lower beak.

The next day we drove to Antibes, a town on the Riviera with a huge port where large yachts and a multitude or sailboats are docked. There was a fabulous food market set up in the main square. We wandered around cobblestone shop-lined streets and came upon a lady singing in the style of Edith Piaf. She accompanied herself on guitar and a tamborine she worked with a foot pedal. She was singing “La Vie en Rose” as we walked up but by the time we thought to video her, she was singing a song I’m not familiar with and not even sure if it’s French. Of course, when we got about half a block away, I heard her start the song from the movie that Edith Piaf used for her comeback.

We had lunch then walked along the piers ogling the boats. The largest yacht had its own helicopter complete with a custom cover.

The top picture is the market in Antibes and the bottom is the seaside view of the Musee Oceanographique in Monaco.

Glassmaker Pascal Guyot

Grasse and Biot

Grasse is about an hour drive from Monaco. We hit the public WC and were engulfed by a student protest march as soon as we got back on the street. The French sure know how to put on a march. Apparently they love bringing everything to a standstill without accomplishing a damn thing. This is according to Phillipe, the chef and owner of a restaurant in Paris that Rick Steves recommended. We were his first customers of the evening so we had the place and him to ourselves. While we were perusing the menu, I notice him take a bottle of Johnnie Walker Red and pour about four fingers over rocks then place the glass over the bar into his kitchen workspace. As soon as he served us he went into the kitchen then reappeared with a plate of steak tartare and mashed potatoes and proceeded to sit down to eat and converse with us. He lived in Philadelphia for 3 years where he owned a French takeout place. He’d been back in Paris for about 7 years. He was very funny and I was sure he was gay but then this beautiful child glided in and gave him the 3 cheek kiss saying, “Bonjour Papa.” She was probably 11 or 12 with braces but just absolutely gorgeous. It seems French girls do not have an ugly stage. I heard her talking to Phillipe in the kitchen and repeating, “What are you doing?” in English. They then walked out and asked us how we say, “What are you doing?” which word to accent. We were a little confused as to what they were asking but then I threw my hand out in front of me and said, “What’re ya doin?” The child said “Oui, that’s eet!” and proceeded to mimick it perfectly over and over. It was for her English class apparently. She then left us, going to their home above the restaurant. But … I digress.
Grasse is the perfume capital of France. We had a coffee in the square next to the fountain and did some window shopping before going to the Fraconard museum and perfume factory. I was so impressed, I bought perfume … and I seldom wear perfume. We went back to the square, had lunch, and wandered the narrow streets a little more before getting back on the road headed for Biot.
Biot is known for it’s glassmaking and ceramics. We parked at the foot of the hill and proceeded to scale the side to the top where the old village is. Like on the Eifel Tower, I had to stop a few times. But was it ever worth it! At the top were these very narrow passages with doorways that were framed in potted flowers and vines. The stuff of every romantic picture I had in my head of one of these hilltop villages. There were old public sinks that still were in use. When we got to the square the first shop we saw was Verrerie du Village with creations by Pascal Guyot. The shop was situated at the juncture of two streets, one higher than the other. On the upper street you could look through an open window down into the glassblowing shop. On the lower street you were on the same level as the glassblowers. I could have watched all day except it was really hot because of the furnace. I bought a necklace in the shop. We wandered around, had a beer and decided Biot was our favorite place since leaving Paris.

The first picture is one of the passages in Biot. The second is the fountain in Grasse.

On Sunday we flew Air France from Paris’ Orly airport to Nice. The Orly terminal was confusing. It was a huge round space with ticket agents lining the sides, electronic self check-in in the center and security screening just beyond. On the other side of security were the gates making up the other half of the circle. A ticket agent checked us in at a self serve kiosk then pointed us to where to check in our luggage. They have a 32 kilo limit on bags (our heaviest was 17). The baggage agent told us to go through security at 10:30 for our 11:00 flight. We thought we’d misunderstood but we had plenty of time before our flight so we walked around the attached shopping for a while. When we got back security had cleared out so we went through. One of the screeners remarked that we were early so apparently they prefer to have a huge crush of people all at once.

We picked up our rental car at the airport and hit the road. Fontvielle was about a 30 minute drive. We got lost finding the resort but not for long and fortunately it was Sunday so there wasn’t much traffic. This place is practically right on the pier. In fact, you drive right on the dock to get to the parking garage. A bunch of little Italian kids followed us on their skateboards. One little guy jumped in front of our car and put his hand up for us to stop at a speed bumb so they could skateboard over it. I thought they were pretty cute. Dan’s had it with Italians.

We got settled in and mercifully spread out in our unit then went to an English pub that the receptionist suggested. It was cold and rainy but warm and snug in the small pub where we watched Manchester City play Portsmouth with Italians, French, English and Scots.

On Monday we tackled the supermarket. Note: Don’t go to a supermarket on Monday morning in France. Most are closed on Sunday so along with a whole lot of customers, they were restocking. I spent a good part of the day doing laundry and found out how ventless dryers work. I want one. It was kinda nice relaxing and just doing domestic stuff like laundry and cooking.

The picture at the top is the view just off our balcony.

Stroll through Paree

Central Paris is a wonderful place to just walk. Just make sure you have a guidebook. We started off from our hotel in a new direction and first of all encountered a Japanese film crew setting up a scene on a busy avenue almost across from Napoleon’s Tomb. We stuck around to watch for a while as the film crew rushed around setting up the shot. There were cameras on a crane and also on the ground. The director was placidly sitting behind us looking uninterested.

As we walked toward the tomb the golden statues on top of Pont Alexandre III came into view to our right. I’d been wanting to see this bridge since we arrived so it was a pleasant surprise. We took photos then continued to walk along the Left Bank until we reached the Musee d’Orsay.

We turned at the museum and walked through the St. Germain area. This is a shopping area full of designer clothing, jewelry, and furniture stores. We walked past the Brasserie Lipp where Hemingway is said to have written much of A Farewell to Arms. It’s practically catty-cornered from the cathedral St. Germain-des-Pres which is the oldest church in Paris dating from the 11th century. A Christian church has stood at this sight since the fall of Rome. The original was destroyed by Vikings during the 885-886 siege. We stepped into the cool dark and listened to the chanters as we rested for a while.

After this respite we set out for Ile de la Cite in search of the bouquinistes along the Seine. They started as used book sellers in the mid 1500’s. The waiting list to become one of the 250 bouquinistes is 8 years. They each have 4 boxes attached to the stone wall along the river. They sell more than books but three of their four boxes must be books. They pay rent only on the stone their boxes rest on (less than 100 euro/yr.).

We browsed the bouquinistes without buying then caught the metro back to our hotel. We figure we walked about four miles.

My husband pointed out that I say “merci” a lot like Gomer Pyle said “golly.” MAYRsee. I just say messy now.

A couple of negatives I’ve noticed about Paris:
A lot of owners don’t clean up after their dogs.
Fromageries smell like restaurant dumpsters. The first one I encountered on Rue Cler, I smelled long before we got to it. I was looking all around for a dumpster or sewer grate. The lines from Sweeny Todd’s “Pirellis Miracle Elixer” (“Pardon me sir, what’s that awful stench. Are we standing near an open trench?”) kept running through my mind.

Louvre and St. Chappelle

We got to the Louvre about 30 minutes before it opened and entered straight from the Subway into the mall without having to walk outside. We had coffee and pastry then joined the line underneath the pyramid. It wasn't a long wait. I followed the Rick Steves audio tour that I'd downloaded and the very first think I saw was the Venus d'Milo. Talk about a great start. We were ahead of the pack so could take our time and get as close as we wanted. Unfortunately it didn't last but for the most part, with patience I was able to get as close to the art as I wanted. I saw five, count 'em five, Da Vinci's not counting the Mona Lisa. Winged Victory was awesome placed at the top of a grand staircase. The audio tour took about 2 hours and it only included the Denon wing. We checked out the Egyptian collection in the Sully wing next. We were too tired to tackle the Richelieu wing. Next time.

From there we went to a cafe and had lunch that the R.S. book suggested. It was a great place to sit and watch the street scene.

We then took the metro to St. Chappelle. It was amazing. The play of light through the stained glass was beautiful. Hard to believe the place was built in only 5 years back in the mid 1200's (Notre Dame took 200 years). King Louis IX built it to house the Crown of Thorns which he brought back from Constantinople during the French Crusades. The relic is no longer there. It now resides in the treasury at Notre Dame and only on display the first Friday of the month and during Easter. There are no large images of Christ here. It's all about the crown.

The pics at the top are Da Vinci's St. Anne, The Virgin and Child. Notice how St. Anne resembles Mona Lisa. The altar of St. Chappelle the platform at the top is where the Crown of Thorns resided. And, of course, Venus de Milo but maybe from a different angle than normally photographed.

The End of a Day in Paris

Yesterday we did Notre Dame and tried to tour St. Chappelle but it was closed for a concert. We walked over to the Louvre but we were too tired to go in so we just took in the ginormous mall where the pyramid is. We went back to our hotel and rested up for a while. We soon heard what sounded like a scene from Les Miserable coming from the Ave. de la Motte Picquet (2 blocks away). Looking out our window I could see flags. If we hadn't been so knackered, we would have walked down to check it out. It was a student protest march which seems to be a fairly regular occurence around here. Once we felt like we could move comfortably again, we went around the corner to Rue Cler, got a crepe and walked over to the pier just below the Eifel Tower to see about booking a dinner cruise on the Seine. We were told that the river was too high and the dinner cruise wouldn't be going by Paris but the other way. The only monument the other way was the Statue of Liberty. I wasn't about to spend 95 euro to see the freakin Statue of Liberty. We'll try again before we leave.

We decided to go up the Eifel Tower since we were right there. Each pier has a ticket office. We chose the line that seemed shortest. We chose poorly. It was the "stairs only" line. Somebody didn't believe me when I said repeatedly that I thought escalier meant stairs (the stick figure climbing stairs next to it helped). We got our tickets and proceeded to climb like a million stairs to the first level. I had to stop several times. I guess my pre-trip fitness routine, which consisted of slathering myself with Jergens skin firming lotion every day, fell a little short. When we finally reached the first level we bought lift tickets. The elevator up to the summit was scary but once there it was ... just absolutely ... cold ... and windy ... and crowded. I don't know how, but we always manage to be stuck in a crowd next to the ADHD kid. They have the cattle chute method of line control and this kid was the steer that somehow knows it's about to get castrated. Seriously, it was breathtaking up there.

We ate dinner at a cafe around the corner from the hotel. I spilled a glass of red wine on a velvet upholstered chair as I was trying to sqeeze between tables and not fall over the motorcycle helmet on the floor.

Today, despite being incredibly sore (My hips are bothering me more than anything. What's up with that? Nevermind, I don't want to know) we went to the Musee d'Orsay. Only the main floor was open so it didn't take long. The second floor with the Van Goghs, Monets, and other impressionists was closed.

We walked through the Toullerie to the Musee d'Orangerie and saw a lot of the artists we missed at the Orsay. From there we walked down the Champs Elysees to the Arc de Triomphe. the closer we got to the Arc, the more the area resembled Time Square. We went through a shopping arcade which is like a mall but is actually a covered passage with shops.

The first picture at the top is "Mademoiselle Chanel" by Marie Laurencin. The second is view from the first level of the Eifel Tower with the Sacre Coeur in the distance.

No time to write at the moment. Just wanted to attach the pic of the day. Well, actually yesterday. It's the side of Notre Dame. Pretty, huh.

City of Light

It's 1:00 a.m. here in Paris. I went to sleep around 10:00, had a bad dream (thanks a lot Ghost Hunters) and am now sitting in the dark listening to my husband's nighttime noises ... not for the squeamish. I am trying to be vaywy, vaywy quiet so as not to awaken him. I foresee tomorrow as being a day in which he is full of energy as I plod along next to him. I hope I am wrong and the beauty of the things I will see energize me.

We have a view of the upper third of the Eifel Tower from our room. When I got up a little while ago I looked out the window and the lights on it were all twinkly. I watched until they were turned off for the night. The upper third of the tower has a decidedly phallic look. It's kind of like a giant, illuminated dildo looming over the rooftops out our window.

Customs at DeGalle was a breeze. I stepped up to the agent said "Bonjour, monsieur" to the very young man whereupon he smiled, winked and said, "Merci." The bus ride to Opera metro station took about an hour. We walked, dragging our bags around the Paris Opera to the station. The wheels on mine got stuck in a grate when I was maneuvering around another tourist taking a photo. I've got a new bag that's bigger than the one I used to have which proved a problem on the stairs in the metro -- and there were a lot of stairs. I couldn't pick the bag up high enough to clear the steps. Dan had my old bag so we tried switching but that didn't work either as his bag was much heavier. He ended up giving me his backpack and carried both bags down and when we arrived at our stop for the hotel he practically ran up the stairs with both bags. It was more a case of momemtum than excitement. (Think of Charles Durning taking Claudia's bags upstairs in "Home for the Holidays.") He had to sit on top of one for a while when we got on the street.

We found the hotel easily about three blocks from the stop thanks to our Rick Steves tourist guide. We've now seen 3 other couples carrying the same book. Coincidentally, at both of the cafes we've been to we've been seated next to Americans which here means practically at the same table ... hey, wait a minute, I don't think that's a coincidence. The French are seating us at the equivalent of the childrens' table. Fine, whatever.

Our room is great, tiny, but great. It is one of the recently updated rooms and ultra modern. When we were allowed to check in at 2:00, we were told the water was off until 5:00. That messed up my plans to get a bath, change, and do some more sightseeing. I was so exhausted after walking around for two hours ... we walked up and down Rue Cler and over to the Eifel Tower and got lost coming back ... that I layed down and went to sleep until the water was turned back on at 6:00. While at dinner, my husband was lamenting the fact that we didn't stick to the plan and stay awake until bedtime. My response was a petulant, "I couldn't help it. There was no water." He looked at me like he does when he knows he's got to somehow figure out the connection between my response and his comment.

Want to hear my embarrassing story about the flight over? Of course you do. After dinner, I put on my earphones, donned my inflatable horse collar pillow, closed my eyes and tried to go to sleep. I soon realized I had gas. I'm talking bubbling going on from ass to sternum. It had to go somewhere and clench as I might, I became the human equivalent of a motorboat. I was mortified until I realized there was no odor -- know how that happens sometimes -- and miraculously, no sound. So I just relaxed and thought how lucky I was and relieved that I wouldn't have to endure painful bloating. I was just happy as a clam, tooting up a storm until I suddenly realized I had my earphones in. Dear God. I cracked open one eye just long enough to catch a glimpse of the guy across the aisle staring open-mouthed at me.

The Chil'un

I take my family for granted. Not my husband and children but my first family -- the people I started life with. My mother and father are gone now so it’s just my two brothers, my sister and me. I’ve lived my life hopefully learning and evolving, not really thinking about my siblings’ own journeys. These people have beautiful souls and sharp, insightful minds. There is artistry in all of us that we express in different ways -- through music, writing, an appreciation of the natural world and an ability to recognize the extraordinary in the mundane. We find humor in any circumstance. We inherited these traits from our parents but I’m just now figuring this out. My father was a romantic and my mother was actually quite artistic. Her life may not have been so tragic if she had not set such high standards for herself. Failing at realization, she retreated from us and the world.

We’re late middle-age now and at our best. Our treks have been different but we’ve arrived at this place where we recognize in each other our individual selves. My older brother recently had a heart attack and subsequent bypass surgery. When I asked him what the heart attack felt like, I arrogantly thought I knew the answer. “Was it a pressure in your chest? Did you have pain radiating to your jaw or arm?” Propped in the hospital bed he shook his head and tapped his chest just to the left of the incision peeking from the top of the hospital gown. “No, I didn’t have any of that.” Continuing to tap his chest over his heart he said, “It only hurt right here … a heartache.” There’s a poet in all of us.

And they'll say,
"Told you so.
We were the ones
who saw you first of all."
--James Blunt

The 'Butt Abides

So, I’ve got this cat. I know what you’re thinking, Jesus Christ, she’s reduced to blogging about her cat. What can I say? It’s been a slow winter.

Anyhoo, my husband just absolutely adores our cat. Anything Tiggerbutt does is just the cutest, smartest, most dog-like thing he’s ever seen. The ‘Butt knows this. He cultivates the man’s affection as meticulously as a backwoods Arkie tends to the “herb” patch. The cat contentedly snoozes in the spouse’s lap for hours on end. He will reach up to my standing husband begging to be scooped up and nuzzled – not unlike a toddler, minus the runny nose and zwieback. He will adorably pound on the glass door while my husband is showering – always from underneath the towel hanging on the door’s rack so that his ears are invisible making him all the more irresistible. Their’s is a warm, loving relationship.

I know that, unlike dogs, cats are capable of having different relationships with different people. Mine and the ‘Butt’s relationship is a bit more complicated. We play mind games with each other. He loves to awaken me by planting both front feet firmly on my sternum while shifting all his weight onto those two small paws. You know how on the hospital shows, docs will ball up their fist and rub an unconscious patient’s sternum to check for responsiveness? I now know why.

The cat also begs for me to pick him up in the same irresistible way that he begs my husband. Only with me it’s 50/50 how he’s going to react once I’ve been sucked into his little game. If I’m lucky he wallows around in my arms flopping from over the shoulder to perched on folded arms. If I’m not lucky, he flops over my shoulder then suddenly looks at me as if seeing me for the first time, wraps his front legs around my neck and goes for my throat. I’m ready for this, you see, and I use a blocking maneuver not unlike Curly’s when keeping Moe from poking him in the eyes. I pry the cat loose and drop him – which really gets his dander up. He lays his ears back, swishes his tail, crouches, and wiggles his ass*. During all this I’m backing up while he fakes me out, forcing me to hop from foot to foot yelling, “No! Don’t do it! Don’t you dare!” The yelling just pisses him off more and he leaps, wrapping around my leg, anchoring himself with claws and teeth. Only the rattling of a plastic bag can get him to let go.

The cat loves to play “fetch” with me. It goes something like this:

The cat jumps onto the couch where I’m sitting watching TV. He has a cat toy in his mouth.(Usually a ball with a bell or rattle in it)
Cat perches on sofa arm and drops said ball.
Cat stares at me with the flames from the fireplace reflecting in his eyes (whether we’ve got a fire going or not).
Cat continues unblinking stare and begins telepathy saying, “Thrrrrow eet. Thrrrrow eeeet,” (Rolling his “r’s” ominously like Stefano Dimera – nevermind) “Prreferrrably in that farrrr corrrnerrr wherrre it can’t get away and I can beat it senseless against two walls.”
I toss the ball into the corner whereupon the cat races madly after it and frantically bats it around until convinced it’s dead.
Cat brings the dead toy back to me for reanimation.
As he stares maniacally I pick the ball up and cradle it in my cupped hands.
Cat: “Dooo eet, dooooo eeeet.”
I dramatically blow into my hands.
Cat: “Yesss, yesss! Make it alive again!”
I throw the zombie-ball and the process repeats.

In the mornings, before getting out of bed and after ‘Butt is sure I’m awake (see above). He does the most adorable thing. He lays his face right on mine. Usually in the nose, mouth area. He was nuzzling me this way one morning when it suddenly dawned on me, “Wait a minute. Isn’t there an old wives’ tale about cats sucking the breath out of babies? Is this how they do it?” I removed the cat, placing him on my sleeping husband where the 'Butt immediately curled up on his stomach. I began worrying about what would happen should we ever have a grandbaby sleeping at our house. I envisioned all-night vigils at cribside. Doting parents come to pick their little angel up and spitting a cat hair out after giving their baby some sugar. The cat perched on top of the couch behind them. “Thrrrow eeet. Thrrrrrow eeeeet.”

*The difference between a dog wiggling his ass and a cat wiggling it’s ass is that, with a dog, ass wiggling is usually followed by piddling on the floor, especially if it’s a dachshund. A cat’s ass wiggling is usually followed by bloodletting.

Hibernation

I am cold. The sky has shed its color along with the trees and grass. I look out the window to see the chill shades of gray, lifeless tan and dormant black green. I am not a winter person, can you tell? Don’t get me wrong, I enjoy the change of seasons here in Arkansas. My perfect winter would last two weeks and be covered in snow. I would have plenty of firewood, hot cocoa and a sled and I would not have to go to work.

It’s been quite a while since my last blog. I blame it on the cold. All I’m inclined to do is snuggle up under an afghan and read or watch movies, oh … and eat. I’ve had an enormous appetite since Christmas. I’ve gone from two meals a day to a hearty three. They are all hot and heavy and my clothes are getting tight. So, as soon as I get home from work, I get out of my restrictive work clothes and don stretchy pants, tee shirt and hoodie.

I saw “There Will be Blood” yesterday. Daniel Day Lewis’ performance is hard to describe. We couldn’t figure out his voice. We knew we’d heard it before but it wasn’t until today that we realized it was John Huston. I wonder if that was intentional. Paul Dano was brilliant. His portrayal of a slimy evangelical prophet was anything but cliché’d. The way those two actors subtly displayed their characters’ recognition of themselves in each other was captivating. It gave a real basis for the animosity between them.

We saw “Juno” last week and both loved it. It’s been quite a while since I’ve heard such well-written dialogue. I almost hated to laugh because then I would miss the next line and they were all golden. And, the adult characters weren’t lame cliché’s -- something almost unheard of in movies that feature a teenage main character. Two weeks ago we saw “No Country for Old Men.” Javier Bardem was amazing, as was Josh Brolin. Tommy Lee Jones is always good in this sort of role.

I have to start working out again. We have a big trip planned in a couple of months and will be doing a lot of walking. Geez, how pitiful is that. I have to train to walk. I’m not taking a class this term, so I should have plenty of time for the gym.

There are huge building projects going on at the university medical center where I work. But then, there always are. I wonder if there will ever come a time when TPTB will say, “I think we have enough buildings now.” The largest project is a new hospital. Get this -- they fucking forgot to put any food services in. I kid you not. And, it’s too late now to fix it. I guess they can continue using the present kitchen and cafeteria but it’s about half a mile from the new patient rooms. These dumb asses are so frantic to throw up buildings on every available piece of grass, nobody noticed that a pretty vital part of the hospital was missing. Oh yeah, and they actually have the balls to send fund raising letters to their underpaid employees. I think it’s pretty much a no brainer that you can save the postage and not ask your staff of working poor to donate their money back to you. They obviously got geniuses working in fund raising too.

Winter is the time for comfort, for good food and warmth, for the touch of a friendly hand and for a talk beside the fire: it is the time for home. ~Edith Sitwell