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