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

Christmas '07

… from my point of view, was as close to perfect as I’ve ever experienced and it was because my holiday preparations were as far from “perfect” as imaginable -- even for me. I had my husband and children (the prodigals), brother and sister-in-law and a guest of my son’s who couldn’t get to his family’s for the holiday.

My daughter had a flight delay in NY that meant she didn’t arrive until a day later than planned. To say she was disappointed would be an understatement. She practically lives for coming back home and was devastated to lose a day. She doesn’t handle disappointment well (and she’s an actress -- whoa) and, when she called me ranting and sobbing from LaGuardia, I half expected to hear her get tasered by security. She was ready to strangle the Delta agent who she says was got up like Mimi from “Drew Carey” complete with reindeer antlers and lots of blue eye shadow. The poor, festive woman was trying to console her with, “Oh, don’t cry honey. We’ll get you there by Christmas Eve, Christmas day at the latest.” That sent Laura over the edge. “But I only have three days as it is! You ridiculous bitch!” Add to all that, she only had enough cash to get her to the airport (my daughter is brilliant but not exactly practical when it comes to money). She managed to get back to her apartment only by giving a cabbie a check for $60 at around midnight. She had a shuttle booked to pick her up again at 2:30 a.m. for her 6 a.m. flight and spent the 2 and a half hours scraping up change from around the apartment to pay for it. By noon, Christmas Eve, she was home again in her dearly loved Arkansas.

In between cooking, Dan, Laura and I went and saw “Sweeney Todd.” I loved it, every second of it. I got totally lost in it and when it was over had to remind myself where I was and that it was Christmas Eve. On the way home we stopped at the liquor store where my son works, and Laura had us wait outside while she surprised Chase. She slipped in unnoticed, as they were very busy, got a bottle of vermouth and walked up to the counter where Chase was. She set the bottle down and waited for Chase to look up. Dan and I were hanging around on the sidewalk peeking through the window and getting strange looks from departing customers. Chase finally glanced up and was totally surprised. We walked in as he came around to counter to hug her. He came home after work and spent the night. I continued cooking, but not too much, and listening to my family.

Christmas day started late as we were all up very late the night before. We opened gifts by playing Trivial Pursuit which was a fun way to stretch it out. You had to correctly answer a TP question to open a present which meant Dan’s gifts got opened first, mine last. Chase’s friend, John, arrived during the afternoon and I cooked. Christmas came for me when I was loading up the dishwasher (again) and beginning to resent everyone else for not helping. I stopped and looked over at the kitchen table -- at Laura, Chase, and John playing dominoes with the set I’d given Chase, laughing and ribbing each other, Dan in the recliner fiddling with the translator I’d given him and I felt such joy and gratitude to have them all. It didn’t matter what happened after that, how I screwed up (and I did) the day was perfect.

Even when we took Laura to the airport on the 27th, I wasn’t sad. Something told me she wasn’t leaving, even though the Delta website said her flights were on time. Lo and behold her flight out of LR was delayed making it impossible to make her connection in Atlanta. We happily rebooked her for the next morning and she got to have one more night to see friends she thought she wouldn’t. We left her at the airport this morning and she is in Atlanta now and experiencing more delays but she will probably get back to NY tonight.

The year that was:
http://youtube.com/watch?v=PuS-dD3sIzw

Organization is not conducive to creativity

Overall, I’m doing better on Christmas this year. I bought the fresh (appropriate size) wreath for my front door on Dec. 7th, my tree is up and decorated and some gifts have been purchased. I know that compared to a lot of folks, I’m way behind. If I am compared to me last year, however, I’m way ahead of the game. Last year, everything was such an ordeal – take, for example, my horrendous 2006 wreath:

December 18, 2006

Know what happens when you wait until Dec. 16th to buy your fresh Christmas wreath? You end up with one of the two remaining ginormous, dried-out wreaths from Lakewood Gardens. Even though they gave it to me for half price, it was still expensive. Installed on the front door, it touches the doorknob. You cannot close the door from the inside because it’s impossible the shove the branches back outside.

So what happens is:

Doorbell
Cursing
Open door
Me: “Well hello, (inconsiderate neighbor bearing gift) do come in. Could you wait here just a second?”
Run to open the kitchen door (the one with sleigh bells attached to the doorknob) and push button to raise garage door.
Zip past assh, er, neighbor to close front wreath from the outside.
Run around to garage scooping up pissed off cat that I forgot was in the garage and is starting to slink towards freedom.
Come in through kitchen door trying to protect face and throat from cat (effing sleigh bells).
Me: Dropping cat, “pant…pant…wheeze…egg nog?”
Asshole: “Nice wreath.”

Gosh, after reading that again, this Christmas seems pretty boring. Come to think of it, my family got a kick out of my incompetence last year. It was such a terrible year that by the time Christmas came around, we’d decided to just embrace the lunacy (but Erni wriggled free).

Disturbing Trend

Anybody else notice the proliferation of inane “greeters” stationed next to the entrances of businesses? It’s my theory that this all began with churches, specifically, elderly Sunday school classes. The logic’s the same for both church and the secular, really. They are hoping that by appearing welcoming, people will return – and bring money. Being as we've now entered the "hap, happiest time of the year," I expect that we shoppers will be forced to navigate an obstacle course of bell ringers, greeters, sample trolls, etc. when most of us just want to get our shit and go home.

We have a greeter here at the large medical center where I work. Apparently the prominently marked information desks located close to the entrances are not enough. We need a fat guy sitting outside on a stool, with a portable heater and an entourage of squirrels to make sure Cletus and Lurline know that this here university medical center is just happy as hell to practice on, er, treat them.

My neighborhood Kroger now has a greeter stationed by the door. I don’t understand; it's not like we have any choice -- we gotta buy food. Is it corporate management’s attempt at warmth? Do they honestly think customers will return because there’s an employee with vacant eyes grinning ear-to-ear next to the entrance? (Instead of, say, bagging groceries.) Well, not this customer. I come back hoping to see Mr. Snappy, the homeless guy that takes it upon himself to return all the carts from the parking lot. There’s a happy guy. He’s got a crack bounce to his step and he’s always snapping his fingers to a melody only he can hear.