Reading my Own Advice

In the interest of fairness here's a rebuttal to my "why can't he see it my way" rant of a few days ago.
When I signed up as a foster home for Collie Rescue I knew that there would be some inconveniences to our lives and I also knew that my husband would not want to do it, if given the choice. I went right ahead and did it anyway, without discussing it. My theory being that I would rather postpone the inevitable arguments, which I had no intention of listening to, so why bother?
There's Diplomacy in action for you; "a la George Bush"
After writing about what an unreasonable bully hubby was being and getting some comments, I wrote that the underlying problem in life is that we expect people to react as we would in a given situation, and then are shocked that they see things differently and are coming from a totally different point of view. Misunderstandings (and sometimes wars) ensue.
Something hubby said as we engaged in our Battle-Royal this weekend, festered in a corner of my mind. Did I really hear him say "You know I don't like dogs"? Maybe deep down I did know that, except I think it is closer to "You should know I'm a little afraid of dogs". Which served up an epiphany regarding several past situations.

I know hubby had a dog as a kid. He has often told of his English Setter which accompanied him around the hills and fields of his childhood. However, the dog lived outdoors and was not allowed in the house. It was a farming community.
When our daughter started campaigning for a dog she was nine. She had seen the French movie "Diva" about an Opera Singer and announced "when I get a dog, it will be a collie and I will name her Diva". It took three years of solid pestering against equally solid resistance from her Dad, who clearly expressed that he did not want a dog. I decided that a dog would be perfect for a twelfth birthday surprise and went ahead finding a puppy who would be available at the right time. Hubby was again not consulted. Then I set him up to have no recourse.
I asked him to meet me at the end of our block, on his way home. I pushed a cute, furry bundle into his arms and told him to drive the rest of the way home. I called our daughter from the car to come outside and see what her Papa had for her.
White picket fence, climbing roses, puppy kisses, daughter in floods of joyful tears. Sucker! No back-tracking possible there. Machiavelli's got nothing on me.
Over the years Diva has made friends with everyone she has met, whether two or four-footed. Hubby is no exception. She is an easy, gentle dog and she adores him. Unfortunately some of Diva's play-date buddies haven't been as well socialized. O.K. I admit that she has hung out with a couple of junk-yard rescuees who were always fine with me but hubby had to phone from outside the garden gate or he would be eaten alive upon entering his own home. I had them stay overnight a few times when their owners were hospitalized etc. I am seeing a bit of a pattern emerging here, that I could have noticed before.
One evening we were invited to some dog-owner friends' dinner party. They asked me to go early to show them my recipe for roast chicken. We all had a glass of wine, set the table and then hubby arrived. Max the dog was a pound-rescue, part German Shepherd and very protective of his space. His owners were always very careful and responsible about him. They held his collar as they answered the door. Next thing I see is my husband lunging into the house. It took a moment to see that he had a dog clamped onto his hand and was being dragged in, going with the flow, trying to avoid losing too big a chunk of flesh. Dinner was a little tense after that. That was one of those moments when it was better that I not translate what he was saying.
So last week, when hubby came home from his travels and forgetfully opened the door between house and garage, I shouldn't have laughed at how perturbed he was by an energetic cascade of unknown canines dancing all around him and barking with excitement.
No one likes to be afraid and few will admit that they are. I pride myself on my powers of observation and my interpersonal skills. I guess I pay more attention to clients and strangers than to family.
On Sunday, I took the time to introduce the dogs to hubby and we had a pleasant afternoon relaxing by the pool with Diva, Boomer and Darcy; although Boomer, at 85 lbs, doesn't leave much room on the chaise. What a couch potato!
The battle is over. Peace has been restored, until the next time that I steam-roller hubby into something.

Havoc, Manifesto, Wet Gun-Dog....?

I like perfume for it's own sake but also for the time-travel memories it can evoke.

In my Disco years when days were spent wearing muddy boots and playing with horses and the nights were a constant search for something else to ride, my perfume of choice was Havoc by Mary Quant, (makeup by Biba, of course).

Havoc was my signature smell, recognised and remembered amongst the sweaty dark and strobe lights. The Brut-splashed boys I dated all told me they loved it and it pleased me to say the name. Havoc!

After moving to France, (and growing up a little), the Man who was to be my one and only, said that my perfume reminded him of a diesel truck, in need of an engine tune-up, starting on a cold morning. Apparently he could get beyond that thought and liked me for other reasons. I moved on to lighter, more organic scents of mimosa, orange flower and Lilly-of-the-Valley.

A leap forward a few years and we are living in California. Mr. "Don't Spare My Feelings" has to travel to France a few times a year and each time he returns he brings perfume. I'm not complaining, but I understand how this goes. Mr. DSMF either arrives at his airport with time to shop (unusual) or reaches for the duty free catalog to shop on the plane. He has no clue what to choose; it's an excuse to engage in conversation with a charming flight attendant, or store assistant. "Which perfume should I buy for my wife, Mademoiselle?" "This is my favorite, Monsieur. Your wife will love it. It's all the rage!" Duty-Free is a good description for it. Duty-Dispensed-With would also be apt.

And so I found myself discovering new perfumes: For a while it was "Anais Anais" by Cacharel; Not too young, not too old and in fashion with many of the other women dropping kids off at the French-American school every day.

"Manifesto" by Isabella Rossellini was, and still is, a favorite. I like the slightly anarchistic implications of the name, as well as both the perfume and the squared-off shape of the bottle. The fact that "Manifesto" often draws compliments from the guys I work with in construction, who want to know the name so they can get some for their wives, has me suspicious that maybe it's another truck-related perfume.

I have one bottle that is designed to look as though it is falling over. The packaging designers of "Eau des Merveilles" by Hermes did not impress me with this gimmick, although I suspect that this is the reason Mr. DSMF chose it. However, I do like the perfume and it is currently first choice for the daily squirt.

Mr. DSMF was always an advocate of the "natural" aroma of human beings. Little by little he began using scented after-shave. Passing through the inevitable "Old Spice" phase, I know he was disappointed in his quest to find "Parsley and Garlic", although that might be available at the Gilroy Garlic Festival, a place we are never going.

When I visit England I find myself in the gift stores run by The National Trust and have successfully found natural honey-based products that smell great. "Parchment" was also well received, and it did have that Historic paper aura.

My best find of all time was a cologne for men called "Wet Gun Dog". Now I am no longer torn by the choice of who to hug first.

Mr. DSMF arrived home from this most recent trip smelling very attractively indeed. It is still very unusual for him to get involved in such things for himself. After a couple of days of surprisingly increased enjoyment of being in his proximity I wanted to know what he was using.
As soon as I saw the container of "1 Million" by Paco Rabanne I knew why he had bought it. Mr. DSMF likes his bling. This looks like a gold ingot. How could he resist? It is purely the luck of the draw that it smells appealing.

They can only do to us that which we allow them to do.

I can't stand bullies. I avoid confrontation whenever possible, except when there is bullying involved.

I was bullied at school. No one would believe that of me today as I present a self-assured social presence. In school I was not only painfully shy and horribly self-conscious, but I was the new kid at six different schools due to parental career-moves. Horses saved me, but that is a post for another day.

As I have gone through the post-school years of my life I have found that I have an exceptional radar for bullying. I have intervened a couple of times in deteriorating situations of spousal abuse and was glad to be knocked on my ass as it enabled me to file a legal complaint when the wife who had been lying in fetal position on the ground, to protect herself from her husband's blows,refused to admit to the police that anything was wrong.

I have also spoken up at horse shows whenever I have seen a rider unjustly blame his horse and inflict retribution outside the arena for a poor performance. Sometimes this was in my limited version of whatever the local language was and I have berated the indigenous that they leave such interventions to foreigners. I once had an employer who confessed he was ashamed that it was I, not he, who had spoken up. I admired him for that.

This said, I have a hard time still, speaking up for transgressions against myself. I am inclined to rationalize an other's bad behavior and prefer to let slide or wait out the storm. This misleads some people into thinking I am a pushover. I just prefer to back away from conflict until we reach my line in the sand.

Today was one of those days. Hubby is annoyed and put out that we have two extra dogs. It inconveniences him that he must use the front door key instead of the garage door opener. He is feeling neglected in his narcissistic little universe. Whaa, whaa, whaa!

It was made clear to him today that there is a distinct sandy line in front of him, despite his tantrums. The choice is his.

I am Spam. Spam I am. Spam, spam, spam, spam

I regressed yesterday. In the absence of the French Food Police, and out of sight of other, potentially-cringing, South Beach Success Story, family members, I made myself a toasted spam sandwich for lunch. My side salad was made with organic baby greens, balsamic vinegar and a boutique olive oil, so maybe it still qualifies as California Cuisine?

It reminded me of the Spam Fritters which my Mother used to make. A pure, greasy, crispy, salty, comfort-food memory. Sometimes she put a slice of pineapple on top and with a colorful dollop of ketchup on the side I was in culinary heaven.

Two New Fur-Children

Meet Darcy and Boomer, my new Foster-Dogs.
They are as sweet-natured as they look in the photo and will be prettied up by a groomer in a day or two to enhance their marketability and so to get them a great "Forever Home".
Fostering is always sudden. These two sibling collies were scooped up by animal services and taken to the pound when their owner was found dead last week. The owner was not elderly, she had diabetes, but had every expectation of out-living her six-year old Fur-Children. Another volunteer gave up her birthday Sunday to drive for four hours, round trip and get these guys out of dog-jail.
Life has been hectic at our house, creating separate areas so that my older collie-girl not be overwhelmed by this energetic pair and I can't have them falling in the pool and drowning when I'm not there either, so limited access to the back yard and doggie door.
I have been taking six dog-walks a day; three at top speed with my formula one dogs stretched ahead in racing tandem and three of the "slow, sniff and stop" variety with old Diva. The formula one team go into overdrive whenever a squirrel, or even a bird, moves in their field of vision. Big Boomer was eyeing a 747 today as it entered our airspace. Diva would hightail it after helicopters and planes back in the day, so I am used to this.
The first night was rough, with much lonely howling. The new nightly routine has me going down to the guest bedroom with my two charges and I lie and read a book for a half hour to keep them company. Last night I "lost" Boomer. He had crawled under the bed into the frou-frou cave created by the Ralph Loren dust-ruffle. He is huge, so he was on his side, happy and secure. They have both informed me that they would accept invitations to climb on the bed, but they have both respected that I did not want that.
I have some hopes of a good and rapid resolution for these two. Someone I know who had a collie before, has just retired from teaching and was waiting to get another dog. She might take them both, which is what we are trying to achieve. She is out of town this week but we have exchanged emails and she is interested. All our paws are crossed for this lady to fall in love at first sight with Darcy and Boomer. Their pictures are going up on the Collie Rescue web site too, so we keep their options open. I'll let you know what happens.

Oh, the Jet-Set

Hubby is back in "Jet-Setting Artist" mode. His plane tickets are confirmed. He will fly away next Monday, on the pretext, or out of necessity; depending on one's point of view, that he must leave himself plenty of time to prepare for his next Art Show which opens June 20th. in Mende, France.

I concede that it will be a great show; a combined exhibition of watercolours, by hubby, and photographs, by a fabulous landscape photographer J-F Salles; both of whom love the bucolic and unspoiled countryside that is Lozere.

But here's the rub. This is a region where hubby spent a few summers when he was a boy. This photo shows you his cohorts, whom he has rediscovered since we bought and renovated an old cow-barn in the region. These "Bad Boys" rampaged around together when they were all fourteen and fifteen. Not a milkmaid was spared their attentions, from what I have heard, and they are proud and feisty and looking to get into more scrapes I am sure; totally ignoring the fact that sixty years have gone by.

I shall stay here and run our "bread and butter" business, fielding international phone calls about

lost passports and missed planes, as Chaos follows its most faithful disciple to Europe.

My work time is much more efficient when I am alone and not bound to interrupt my train of thought because the Holy hour for eating has come around once again.

I shall arrange to treat myself to horse-riding mid-week, with no recriminations, for who needs to know but me and the horse? I'll hang out with friends, without having to translate for anyone and I will surely have more Blog-time!

Whatever the opposite of Jet-Set might be, it works for me!

Extract from Narrow Dog to Carcassonne, by Terry Darlington

On a canal boat food comes and gets you. The crab-apple and the curious pear themselves into your hands do reach; nuts tap you on the shoulder; ruined orchards beckon you in. Monica makes blackberry jelly. At a lock she gathered two pounds of aromatic fungus - for all their enterprise the southerners do not play mushroom roulette. Near Abingdon I flung a rope over a branch and Monica spread a blanket on the ground. We pulled in rhythm and hundreds of black plums fell on Jim. Then there is Monica's home-baked bread. You could throw one of her sandwiches through a corrugated iron sheet.

If you would let me make beer in the engine room we could live off the cut, I said. At least it might get you into the engine-room, said Monica. What we need is protein-what we need is rabbits. That whippet has got to be good for something. What about lamping, like the gypsies -you can borrow my torch. (My wind-up torch had recently attacked me, then exploded.)

So I set out into the dusk, gatherer turned hunter, by the light of my faithful hound Jim, the fastest dog in the world, and a kitchen torch with a half-mile throw. It seemed like a winning team to me.

The field was big, and there were dozens of rabbits grazing a yard from the hedges. I aimed the torch. They stopped chewing and sat transfixed, their eyes shining. Jim began to scream softly, like a fiend in hell watching a likely soul go over the wall. I cried havoc and let him slip. As he approached at forty miles an hour the rabbits stepped into the hedge, and when he had gone they stepped back out again.

After some time I put Jim on the lead and we considered our position. Then we saw some baby rabbits ten yards away, lolloping around. They were the size of chocolate Easter bunnies. My heart filled with lust, I realized the enormity of what I was going to do but still I did it. Jim rushed at the babies and knocked two of them over, then stood and looked at them as they hopped into the hedge.

Back at the boat Monica was waiting with a scissors. Jim went into his kennel, looking straight ahead. Where are my rabbits? asked Monica. Not much out there tonight, I said. You are a pair of losers, said Monica. I did not answer - I was too ashamed. I am ashamed still, and glad that Jim won't talk.

Unexpected Responses

A while back I made myself available, (as did many others), to help some French tourists after a horrific accident killed five and sent three dozen others to trauma centers all over the area. The fact that I was able to connect with some people in need and make a small difference was reward in and of itself. 

I was gratified to receive an email from one couple I had met this way, telling me they were back in France, albeit still hospitalized, but recovering slowly.

It is nice to hear the rest of the story but impressively gracious that they kept my card and made the effort to write a note in this situation.

A few days later I also received a very sincerely composed letter from the French Consul General of San Francisco, referring to being deeply touched by the moving gestures of solidarity towards our compatriots, etc.

I wasn't going to bore everyone with another French missive, but I've changed my mind. This is a lovely letter:

Madame,

Je tiens a vous remercier d'avoir repondu a l'appel diffuse par les differentes associations francaises de la Baie et pour l'aide et le soutien que vous avez apportes a certaines victimes du dramatique accident de bus survenu a Salinas le 28 avril dernier.

Tous nos compatriotes touches par ce terrible accident, les victimes et leurs familles, ont ete extremement sensibles a vos gestes de solidarite. Vous avez fait preuve d'une humanite et d'une attention a autrui remarquables, et je voulais vous dire, a titre personnel et en tant que Consul general, combien j'ai ete profondement touche de votre mobilisation. Tres cordialement, etc.

I subscribe to the concept of thank you notes. I always write a note to my hosts after a dinner or upon receiving a gift. As a child it was required and we were gently nagged and reminded, for up to six months sometimes, but we always wrote our notes. I am less patient than my Mother was. My daughter didn't have six months in which to perform. 

I don't think it does anyone any harm to make an effort to be polite. It is the small courtesies that oil the wheels of civilization. That said, I find these two responses unexpected and heartwarming.

Name that Colour.

I had to stop and take a picture today. For once, I saw my blue trees in a place where I could pull over safely. Not a very romantic location for such beautiful trees, but spirit-lifting eye-candy nonetheless.
So here you are, in the parking lot of a Target chain store; A good acre of asphalt bejewelled for a few fleeting days each year by several dozen Jacarandas in flower.
The individual flowers seem blue, but the overall effect is purple. What colour do you see?

One of my favourite things

My good humor has reinstated itself, with a little help from a husband who is back down to normal levels of grumpiness, bright blue Jacaranda trees popping into flower and pasture ornaments like Bambi here, who let me sit in my car and watch for a while in between client meetings. You can't see it, but her little soft cheeks were all bumped out like a hamster. She was enjoying her breakfast and didn't interrupt her snack because I was there.

They sent us the wrong weather

There must have been a mix up as we received the wrong weather yesterday. It doesn't rain here in June! About 9 o'clock last night, without warning, there was the sound of rain on the roof. 

Sufficiently novel for me to open the front door and look outside, to see if my ears were deceiving me. No, it was real rain, the straight up and down kind that is not too wild, just determinedly headed for the ground. There were a couple of flashes of lightening with well-spaced thunder. I was grateful that my, now-deaf dog, no longer fears what she can't hear. 

The Gibbous moon was crystal bright through some torn-cobweb clouds as the storm cell moved on, after twenty minutes or so.

There must be a whole new generation of furry and feathered creatures who were looking to their mothers for an explanation about wet stuff last night. We normally would have remained dry until October.

The moisture will produce green shoots in a day or two and the young fawns will have an unusual treat amongst the dry golden hills. 

This morning was wonderful. The world is newly washed and the loamy dampness in the air was reminiscent of England. 

The Legend Grows!

Call me a hopelessly romantic optimist. Despite discouraging results for twenty-seven years, I haven't given up on communicating with my husband one day. I think we had a bit of a break-through this weekend.
Mind what you ask for, you might get it!
After spending Sunday morning totally focused on getting a particular equine called "Nacho" to stop falling over his own feet every few strides and being chastised for my tendency to drop my hands too low, which is directly related to the "Wriggly-Worm" version of straight forward movement that I was getting, and generally feeling exhilarated and refreshed at getting some of the desired improvements; albeit with a face, turned beet-red from exertion. I was in that "New-Beginnings" frame of mind when I got home.
At lunch I decided to share with Spouse how special riding is for me, and the fact that, only when I am immersed in horse-stuff do I have a mind totally free and emptied of all worries of clients, work, life etc.
"I know exactly what you mean" was the surprising reply. First of all, he doesn't usually listen, and secondly, he usually turns the conversation immediately to whatever totally unrelated subject he really wanted to talk about, before my interruption.
"I know exactly what you mean" he said, " I get that same release from driving really fast, as if I was racing."
He continued, "I do it two or three times a week on the freeway, on the way home. It makes me feel much better!"
Arrgh! I now have something new to worry about. As it is, anytime it's close to hubby coming home, if I hear sirens I am disquieted. He does usually turn up intact but I already envision the destruction he leaves in his wake.
I hate being a passenger as he decides last minute to change lanes, proving that with enough velocity, the universal rules of fitting large objects into tight spaces do not apply. Turn signals aren't for him, unless used as a metronomic accompaniment to his signalling left whilst turning right. Stop signs are optional. Sometimes he'll stop at a green light, presumably to check on another hypothetical road-user of similar creed who might be crossing on red. It's very upsetting for those slamming on the brakes behind him.
Pedestrians have no right of way, especially the shorter ones, who are such a road hazard, as they can't be seen over the front of his SUV. Some have even had the audacity to knock on the front to announce their presence. I hate that too, don't you?